The air over the arena felt like it had turned to stone Zhu Zihao flicked his sword and several afterimages of steel spun out It was the Dharma sword art the Shaolin outer gate bragged about

  But to Leo it looked like a low frame animation choking on heavy lag In his sight the system pinned three red locks onto Zhu Zihao One flashed at the crotch

  One flashed at the eyes One flashed at the jaw They pulsed as three bright negative review nodes

  Zhu Zihao sneered and shot forward like lightning The sword lunged straight for Leos throat Leo showed no fancy opening and no formal stance

  He stepped a small half step to the left and forward His weight twisted in a way that looked wrong but landed perfectly The blade tip slid past him and cut nothing but air

  This was the Manhattan rush hour rule If your position is right by a hair even the fastest car cannot hit you In the instant they crossed Leo struck

  He ignored every clean rule of sect fighting He drove a vicious knee up into Zhu Zihao between the legs Zhu Zihao screamed and his sword art collapsed

  Leo did not pause He pressed two fingers together and stabbed for the eye socket with street fight precision A wave of shocked cries burst from the stands

  That filthy brawl move sounded like an insult inside this solemn ring Zhu Zihao clutched his face and stumbled back Leo followed like a shadow glued to his heels

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  He dropped his hips Power surged from his feet through his waist and into his right fist in one snap There was no inner force ripple and no mystical glow

  There was only weight and torque His fist smashed into Zhu Zihao jaw Bone cracked clear enough for everyone to hear

  Zhu Zihao dropped like a sack of flour thrown from a delivery truck He slammed the stone and passed out on the spot The arena fell into a dead silence

  On the high platform Abbot Kongwen lurched to his feet His old face shook with rage He pointed at Leo and his shout rolled like a bell

  He cursed Leo for daring to stain a holy tournament with demonic dirty tricks He called the methods vile and shameless He called Leo the shame of the Buddhist gate

  Leo stood there while curses poured down on him He reached into his robe without hurry All eyes locked onto his hand

  He pulled out a strange piece of plastic with a handle It was a red and white handheld megaphone A harsh electric hiss tore through Kongwen shouting

  Leo pressed the switch His cold voice ran through the speaker and gained a ripping metallic edge It covered the whole back mountain in an instant

  Leo told them to stop talking about Buddhist glory He said in his eyes this place could not even meet the hygiene of a street food cart The amplified sound made ears ache

  He pointed at the abbot above them all His eyes were colder than a knife He said their doctrine was five star praise but their behavior was zero score after sales

  He said this order would not be delivered He said he was giving them a bad review He said it would be the lowest in the whole arena and it would never be withdrawn

  The megaphone scream echoed through the valley It ripped the polite masks off the great monks and elders Warrior monks all around stood stunned and speechless

  They had never seen blasphemy this arrogant They had never heard words this strange in logic and yet this sharp in attack In that mans hand the strange tool gave off pressure more terrifying than inner strength

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