Chapter Two: Southern Fists, Northern Kicks

Southern Fist and Northern Kick exchanged perplexed glances, but as their eyes shifted back to Ding Li, their confusion evaporated. Seeing Xiao Li, who moments ago had been beaten so badly he could barely walk, now being supported over by the others, it all became clear.

“Who are you? Here to stand up for them?” Northern Kick stepped forward, right leg poised on tiptoe, twisting back and forth on the ground—his signature stance, ready to lash out at any moment. He tilted his head slightly, his face once again wearing a sneer. In his eyes, Ding Li was just another laborer, perhaps tougher than the rest, but no real threat. On this wharf, while they might not rule unchecked, the two brothers combined were certainly unmatched.

“My name is Ding Li. I’m here to unload Boss Wang’s cargo!” Ding Li paid no heed to the contempt on the man’s face. He stood tall, calm and composed, meeting Northern Kick’s advance without flinching. His voice rang out: “And yes, you guessed right. I am here to stand up for them. Also, the medical fees, lost wages, compensation for psychological distress, and daily expenses will all be covered by you two!”

“What?!” Northern Kick was taken aback, glancing at Ding Li, who was clearly not joking, then at his old companion, Southern Fist. The two burst into wild laughter.

“Foolish mutt! Is this enough for you?” Southern Fist spat the insult, pulling out two copper coins and pinching them between his thumb and forefinger. With a sneer, he twisted his lips in disdain, and under his smiling gaze, the two gleaming coins were pressed together, bent into a new shape in an instant.

He caught Northern Kick’s eye, then suddenly tossed the copper lump into the air. At the same moment, Northern Kick moved: his right foot, which had been pivoting on the ground, shot up, and as the copper block descended, he kicked out fiercely.

The copper gleamed in the sunlight as it flew. Dogzi and the others, including Xiao Li with his injured eye, all stared wide-eyed. But to Ding Li, it was laughably slow. Unlike the others, he had seen high-tech firearms; compared to them, the speed of this copper block was nothing.

In a split second—before anyone’s jaw could fully drop—just as everyone was certain Ding Li would be struck, he remained unmoved in the sea breeze, only his right arm raised before his chest. No one had even caught his movement.

“That’s all you’ve got?” Ding Li frowned slightly. When he caught the copper block one-handed, he did feel some impact, but the pain was negligible. He smiled, and under the astonished gazes of Southern Fist and Northern Kick, he slowly opened his fist. Mimicking Southern Fist’s earlier move, he pressed the already bent copper block along its curve, folding it once more with effortless strength.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The resistance of folding it a second time was far more than double the first. Ignoring the stunned, almost fearful stares, Ding Li fixed his gaze on Southern Fist, his voice suddenly cold: “Twenty strings of copper coins! Then, you punch him three times, he kicks you three times—and then, the lot of you, get out!”

Madman! He must be insane!

Everyone stared in horror. Compensation was one thing, even if twenty strings was a hefty sum—but to have Southern Fist and Northern Kick trade blows, then simply leave? It was beyond belief.

“Brother Li!” Suddenly, a short, middle-aged man squeezed out of the crowd—it was Boss Wang, who’d just agreed on the wages. With a nervous, apologetic smile, he hurried over, tugging gently at Ding Li’s short robe and whispering, “I’ll cover the medical fees, let’s not make trouble. Next time, we’ll use your crew. Take this money, Brother Li—think of it as tea money for the men.”

With that, Boss Wang stuffed a fairly heavy money pouch into Ding Li’s belt, then patted him on the back before turning quickly to Southern Fist and Northern Kick, bowing and smiling obsequiously, “Gentlemen! Let’s just unload the cargo. It’s a small matter—let’s not argue, let’s not argue.”

Boss Wang pulled out another pouch and offered it to the pair, but this one was even heavier than the one given to Ding Li. Still, things weren’t so simple. He might think he’d paid enough, but who were Southern Fist and Northern Kick on this wharf? They weren’t short of money—what mattered most was face. Ding Li had just insulted them in front of dozens of people, including their own men. That kind of humiliation couldn’t be washed away with a few coins.

“Get lost! This has nothing to do with you!” Sure enough, before Boss Wang could get close, Northern Kick lashed out with a kick, sending him sprawling. He glared fiercely at Boss Wang and threatened coldly, “Stay out of this! Your cargo won’t be short. But meddle again, and you’ll find your goods never reach the shore. Hmph!”

“Bastard! Barking here on my turf—if I don’t teach you a lesson today, how will I keep my place on this wharf?” Northern Kick cursed, his legs whipping through the air, ready to strike. Behind him, Southern Fist clenched his fists, his knuckles and joints cracking menacingly.

“Don’t worry—you won’t be showing up here again,” Ding Li replied, utterly unfazed by their menace. In fact, he stepped forward, left hand casually tossing the money pouch Boss Wang had given him back over his shoulder. He called out, “Dogzi! Catch that—Boss Wang’s treat for tea.”

That was the last straw for Northern Kick. With a furious roar, he sprang forward, left foot bracing on the ground, right leg lashing out in a fierce whip kick aimed at Ding Li.

“Too slow!” Ding Li moved with effortless composure, his right leg flashing out. He intercepted Northern Kick’s shin, easily stopping the attack, then shifted his foot and drove it squarely into the man’s chest.

“Aaagh!”

Northern Kick cried out in panic, but Ding Li didn’t let him retreat. He darted forward, seizing Northern Kick’s instinctively raised wrist in a grip of iron. With a sudden surge of strength, Ding Li yanked him in close.

Northern Kick’s eyes widened in terror as he sensed imminent danger. But he was helpless; the grip on his wrist was unbreakable.

A sickening crack rang out. Northern Kick screamed as a sharp pain shot through his left wrist, which was suddenly detached from his arm. Dazed with agony, he felt as if his body was flying; scenes flickered before his eyes—Ding Li’s calm expression, Xiao Li’s bruised but defiant gaze, the crowd’s shocked faces, blue sky, white clouds, and the hulking ships along the shore.

With a thunderous crash, the world went dark. Ding Li had executed a perfect over-the-shoulder throw, smashing Northern Kick into the unyielding ground—he passed out instantly.

The sight sent Southern Fist into a rage. Consumed by anger over his friend’s broken wrist and defeat, he no longer cared whether Ding Li was a worthy opponent. In his heart, he preferred to believe that Northern Kick had simply underestimated his foe, not that Ding Li might be the best special forces soldier the Celestial Empire could produce.

Southern Fist charged in, swinging his massive fists with abandon, each blow as large as a basin, launching a relentless assault. The wind from his strikes howled, creating a near-impenetrable barrage. Years of harsh training had made his fists capable of shattering crates—one blow could break several bones in an ordinary man. Even Ding Li was cautious, knowing better than to take a punch head-on.

Big fists, hard fists, and powerful strikes—these alone don’t always decide a fight. Especially now, Ding Li had no intention of engaging directly. However violent the wind, it couldn’t hurt him at a distance. In such a contest, endurance became decisive. After several minutes of fruitless attacks, Southern Fist’s onslaught waned, his punches losing their former ferocity, his aura diminished.

“Too slow—even slower than the last one!” To Ding Li, trained as a special forces soldier, dodging and defending took no effort at all. Sensing the weakening blows, he voiced his contempt, then recalled a maxim from the art of war: “Cao Gui’s treatise on battle—strike with full force first, then wane, then exhaust.”

As if spurred by Ding Li’s words, a cold gleam flashed in his deep-set eyes. This time, after sidestepping another punch, instead of retreating, he lunged forward, driving his solid chest into Southern Fist’s weary frame.

With a dull thud, Southern Fist staggered, unable to regain his footing. As he tried to back away and catch his breath, his outstretched arms were seized by Ding Li’s iron grip and, with a tremendous heave, he was flung aside—his massive body hurled through the air like a severed kite, crashing into a stack of crates, sending splinters and dust flying. The air filled with his pained groans, the gasps and exclamations of the crowd.

“Who the hell dares make trouble on my turf? If you’re tired of living, just say so. Beat you dead, stuff you in a sack, toss you on a ship and feed you to the fish!”

As all eyes turned to the source of this thunderous voice, a figure emerged—a man whose face was covered in unsightly sores. But it was not his appearance that commanded attention; it was his name. This was Fifth Mangy, the infamous Fifth Brother, his face pocked with sores, known throughout the docks.