Chapter Forty-Three: The Young Crocodile

Kou Li had always believed in striking first to gain the upper hand. He couldn’t trust that after crippling more than a dozen of Lu Zhixiong’s men, the man would simply let bygones be bygones. So, he had been biding his time, waiting for the most opportune moment.

Lu Zhixiong was not only the leader of Guangcheng's Dragon Gate but also the sixth senior brother of the Burning Body Martial Hall, and the supplier of deep-sea shark bones. Any one of these roles was hard to replace, so Kou Li had waited.

Now, at last, the chance had come.

Before Kou Li, aside from the bloody handprint, there was a narrow path trampled into the undergrowth, the footprints shallow and deep, as if left in frantic haste.

His ears twitched. His keen hearing told him that people were approaching—more than one.

A few roughly dressed men emerged from the hollow of a tree, wielding ghost-headed sabers and water-splitting daggers, charging straight at him. But before them, the figure had vanished.

“What’s going on? Did the lookout see ghosts? No one’s here!”

“Wait, look at the footprints—”

One man suddenly cried out, then his vision went black and a sharp pain pierced his neck—the intruder was hanging in the tree, limbs gripping like claws!

Kou Li’s figure rose and fell, each vertebra snapping crisply. With a swift movement, he dropped from above, pouncing nearly twenty feet away like a tiger bursting from its cave, shattering a man’s chest with a blow. He ducked beneath a blade, spun, and with a “Mountain Sits, Single Whip,” his arm cracked through the air like a whip.

The man to his right had his neck snapped instantly.

Kou Li dodged two arrow shadows, and by the time the arrows thudded into a tree trunk, he was already behind the archers. With the “Tiger Leaps, Twin Throat Strike,” he didn’t even need to draw power from his core—both archers’ throats were torn open, blood spraying everywhere.

Shaking blood from his hands, Kou Li felt not the slightest fatigue; on the contrary, he felt perfectly warmed up.

“Indeed, technique and training complement each other—once the body is honed, the fighting style elevates naturally.” His eyes gleamed as he slipped into the forest like a tiger, disappearing.

Two miles away, a figure was running swiftly. As the ship’s lookout, his vision was sharp, and he had clearly seen the intruder’s deadly efficiency.

A true expert!

“Boss Jiao! Boss Jiao! We’ve got trouble—four brothers are dead! It might be that kid’s accomplice!”

Boss Jiao was a burly, bearded man clad in iron armor, a metal spike jutting from the top of his helmet.

“You managed to lose him?”

“Of course, we’re two miles away, he—” The lookout’s words ended in terror, staring at the short blade buried in his chest, utterly bewildered.

“Break the rules, pay the price—that’s how it is.” In his dying glance, the lookout saw, three paces behind him, the very killer.

“Friend, on this path, at least state your business,” Boss Jiao laughed heartily.

Kou Li’s eyes narrowed. These men stank of sweat and brine—a scent he knew only from seasoned fishermen. Pirates!

“Killing pirates—what more reason could I need?” Kou Li replied, body lengthening explosively as he launched forward like a pouncing tiger. “Trying to stall for time? It won’t go as you wish!”

“Hah! I can kill you myself!” the armored figure bellowed, fists striking like thunder.

Kou Li blocked and instantly knew his foe was a master—no ordinary man could wield such skill.

With a tiger’s twist, Kou Li circled behind, aiming a palm at the gap in the man’s armor. But his opponent dropped his weight, swinging an elbow back, attacking relentlessly. Kou Li ducked, dodging thanks to days spent training on the plum blossom stakes. The instant the man turned, Kou Li skipped past his elbow, spun his shoulder, and crashed into him, toppling him to the ground.

Just as he was about to strike again, a clump of mud flew at his head—the man, though fallen, kept his guard, flinging mud viciously.

Kou Li dodged, legs snapping like scissors, launching himself away.

“So, this is the Vagabond Fist.” Kou Li was no novice; Luo Yanzong had taught him the myriad styles of the land. The Vagabond Fist, forged during the Jin invasion and the Song dynasty’s retreat south, was created by desperate refugees and defeated soldiers for survival—every move brutal, every strike meant to kill.

Without pause, Kou Li attacked again, toes gripping the earth, circling his opponent, seeking any opening to pounce.

In mere seconds, the two had exchanged a dozen blows. Boss Jiao could only roll and scramble, but never lost his form. Though Kou Li had the upper hand, the man’s armored vital points were well protected—victory eluded him.

Once more, Kou Li’s tiger fist slammed against the armor with a dull thud. The man countered, grabbing and throwing—Kou Li, nearly two hundred pounds, was hurled away.

In the past, such a blow would have left his bones broken and his stance shattered, blood surging. But now, Kou Li’s legs snapped into the ground mid-air, dissipating the force. He landed, hands pressing the earth, and in a heartbeat pounced again, not giving his foe a moment to breathe.

“Hanji Step!” Boss Jiao’s face grew grave after launching a punch.

Hanji Step—like a chicken’s gait, the lower leg moves but the thigh does not, like a chicken treading snow or a horse crossing mud. It’s all about hooking, gripping, and snapping power. The rain had soaked the forest, making it slippery, but Kou Li’s feet remained dry and sure. Even if Boss Jiao knew the technique, he couldn’t use it encased in iron.

“So what? However good your boxing, are you better than the five hundred monks of Arhat Monastery?”

“You can’t punch through my armor, and my brothers will be here soon. You’re dead!”

The more Boss Jiao fought, the wilder he became, forsaking defense for relentless attack—like a starving vagabond, driven to madness, whose fists carried the desperation of those forced to eat even women and children.

But Kou Li was undaunted, waist firm and arms heavy, back braced and head high, channeling energy from his core, his technique pure steel—force meeting force.

The forest echoed with the thunder of their blows, drum-like and ceaseless, but footsteps sounded in the distance.

Seeing Boss Jiao grin wide, Kou Li’s eyes flashed. Suddenly, his stance shrank, his momentum shifting from ferocious assault to sly cunning—a wildcat twisting and darting.

The shift in style caught his opponent off guard—a moment’s hesitation, and the mud caked inside his armor slowed him just enough.

“It’s heavy, isn’t it?” Kou Li’s voice was cold as frost.

With the final “Tiger Rides, Grabs Fur,” his toes grounded, body twisted, knees crashing into the inner leg, toppling his foe. He stepped forward, pulled the arm, twisted it, and in a blur of motion, slipped behind, driving his knee into the man’s spine, pressing with his full weight, forcing him to kneel—like a true tiger subdued, Kou Li’s presence surged to its peak.

From man to tiger, gnashing and bloodthirsty; from tiger back to man, spirit and intellect—this final move embodied the essence of the style: subduing the tiger, conquering the beast, capturing demons and monsters.

“So that’s—” Terror and realization filled Boss Jiao’s eyes.

With a crack, his neck was snapped.

In boxing, five parts are strength, three the terrain, two the will. He thought his armor was his advantage, not realizing it was his prison.

Kou Li had forced him to fight on the ground for a reason.

This was the first time Kou Li had truly slain a fighting master using only boxing.

There were still a few lackeys left, and he intended to deal with them as well.

Much later, when Croc awoke in a daze, he saw a blurry figure toying with a powerful crossbow.

“This is a military weapon, isn’t it? It really is. How come everyone has one these days? Oh, you’re awake,” Kou Li said without turning, aiming the crossbow. With a “thud,” the bolt sank half an inch into a tree trunk—no wonder Boss Jiao was so confident.

“You’re... you’re that man, aren’t you?” Croc ventured, uncertain—Kou Li had been a disheveled mess before, barely recognizable.

“The boxer who escaped the gambling ship—how many others are there, including you?”

At these words, Croc had no more doubts. “There should be seven or eight. Two are in touch with me.”

“And who is he?” Kou Li nodded toward Boss Jiao’s corpse.

“The captain of the Hammerhead Shark, one of Zhu Baozai’s ten main warships.”

“Zhu Baozai—the infamous pirate lord of the southeast coast,” Kou Li mused. Zhu Baozai’s power in those waters was second only to the Water Dragon Gang, with hundreds of warships, tens of thousands of followers, having repelled government forces time and again. Several imperial generals had died at his hands.

He may have lost some power during the recent coastal purges, but he remained a dominant pirate overlord. Croc’s entanglement with him explained the powerful crossbow—after all, anyone who could repeatedly defeat government troops would surely carry their weapons.