Master Hong stepped off the raised stage, his heavy steel-toed boots thudding against the carpeted floor.
The air around him warped slightly from the suffocating heat of his venomous internal qi.
Every step he took carried the crushing weight of an Early Rank-3 Martial Grandmaster.
Guests sitting at nearby tables scrambled backward in terror, knocking over silver cutlery, porcelain soup bowls, and crystal flutes.
“That’s Iron-Palm Hong!” an elderly martial gym director stammered, his face turning pale as ash. “He killed twelve martial masters in the southern border rings! His Iron Sand Palms can melt solid copper coins! Even the municipal martial bureau gives him a wide berth!”
Elder Zhao and Elder Qian backed away from the stage stairs, signaling their private security to stay clear.
“Don’t get in his way,” Elder Zhao warned under his breath. “Hong is a mad dog on Patriarch Ouyang’s private payroll. He answers to nobody.”
Master Hong grinned, exposing gray, tobacco-stained teeth.
