Quasi-Chosen One Qualification Achieved

An Yi's rage came out of nowhere, sudden and overwhelming.

The Dark Taoist had no idea what he'd done wrong in that split second.

Before he could even process it, An Yi charged at him, fists raining down like a storm—each strike a brutal blow.

When it came to hand-to-hand combat, there was no way the elderly Taoist could match An Yi, who had mastered enhanced combat skills.

In just one exchange, the Dark Taoist was knocked to the ground, battered by punches and kicks.

The sheer ferocity of it left everyone present stunned.

23, 24, 25…

An Yi kept his eyes locked on the rapidly dwindling timer while monitoring the system's task panel, which tallied his effective strikes. His fists became a blur.

What infuriated him was that nearly half of his earlier punches had been deemed ineffective due to insufficient force!

Frustrated, An Yi doubled down, increasing both speed and power behind his strikes.

Though the Dark Taoist had activated his Withered Wood Technique, hardening his body like tree bark, even that couldn’t withstand such savage punishment.

Soon, he crumbled under An Yi’s relentless assault.

And to make matters worse, An Yi wasn’t just brutal—he was precise, targeting the face with every hit!

The Dark Taoist’s face looked like a spilled paint palette—bruised purple and blue, nose gushing blood, several front teeth knocked loose.

"Stop! Stop! I surrender!"

An Yi didn’t hear him.

"Young friend, I yield! No more!"

Still, An Yi ignored him.

"Elder! I admit defeat! I—I have a treasure! The Yang family’s heirloom! It’s in my possession!"

The Dark Taoist abandoned all dignity, even addressing someone young enough to be his great-grandson as "Elder."

But An Yi, as if possessed, kept hammering his fists into the old man’s face.

He’d figured out the trick—earlier ineffective strikes were due to missing vital spots. Now, aiming for the face, every punch counted. It was exhilarating!

Only thirty seconds remained.

An Yi sped up.

98/100!

99/100!

100/100!

The final punch landed just as the timer hit sixty minutes.

Perfect timing!

An Yi’s heart leaped with triumph as the system’s chime echoed in his mind.

Ding! [Violent Beating] mission complete. +20 Evil Points. Reward: [Jade Beauty Elixir Recipe]!

Hearing the confirmation, An Yi finally relaxed.

His urgency hadn’t been about the system’s harsh penalties—he just really wanted those 20 Evil Points.

Nearby, Fang Jueming exchanged blows with Qian Xiu while analyzing An Yi’s relentless pummeling of the old man.

An Yi hadn’t used any special techniques—just raw, unrelenting punches—yet he’d reduced the Taoist to begging for mercy.

What was the lesson here?

Suddenly, Fang Jueming’s confusion cleared. A revelation struck him.

An Yi was teaching him!

True mastery of fist techniques wasn’t about rigid forms.

"No technique is the ultimate technique." When punches reached their peak, every strike became a killing blow!

Fang Jueming felt enlightened, his understanding deepening.

Earlier, against Qian Xiu, he’d been fixated on landing the fifth strike of his Flash Fist.

But Qian Xiu, seasoned as he was, kept disrupting his rhythm, never letting him complete the sequence.

Now, Fang Jueming adjusted. His stance shifted, his punches flowing freely—swift as the wind, powerful and unrestrained!

Qin Zhengwei, catching a glimpse, raised an eyebrow. "Old Wu, that’s—"

"That’s our Wu family’s Tyrant Fist!"

Wu Tong’s eyes gleamed with approval. "The boy finally understands!"

The Wu family, though a faded martial arts lineage, had once been renowned for their Tyrant Fist—a style famed for its overwhelming force, no less formidable than the Flash Fist.

Wu Tong’s own moniker, "Axe Fist," came from mastering this very art.

Then, Wu Shuangshuang’s delicate face lit up. "Dad! Dad! Did you see? Xiao Ming just unleashed fist energy!"

Wu Tong’s expression turned excited. It was true.

Fang Jueming’s strikes now carried an aura of energy, their lethality skyrocketing.

Had An Yi been watching, he’d have noticed Fang Jueming’s Destiny Value steadily rising—already at 95!

Wu Tong declared solemnly, "I knew I wasn’t wrong about him."

At the same time, he resolved inwardly:

Fang Jueming was a martial prodigy. He couldn’t let such talent go to waste under that brat An Yi.

Fang Jueming grew fiercer with each exchange, while Qian Xiu began to falter.

Song Yan had been swiftly overpowered by that black-suited bodyguard, left sprawled on the ground, condition unknown.

The Dark Taoist had lost an arm and been beaten into submission by that shameless brat, even calling him "Elder"—what a disgrace!

Damn it. What started as a three-on-three had turned into two losses already?

Even if he defeated this kid, what good would it do?

That suited bodyguard was watching. He wouldn’t let Qian Xiu walk away unscathed.

If he slipped up even slightly, he’d be finished. His skills were inferior to Song Yan’s to begin with.

Distracted and uneasy, Qian Xiu found himself retreating under Fang Jueming’s increasingly ferocious assault.

Meanwhile, the Dark Taoist lay groaning, face swollen and battered beyond recognition.

He couldn't understand why, despite being old and wrinkled—his appearance posing no threat to the younger generation—they still insisted on targeting his face.

Could it really be jealousy over his aged yet still dashing looks?!

Ugh!

Hand it over!

An Yi reached out toward the Dark Taoist.

The Dark Taoist looked puzzled. "Hand what over?"

"You don’t get it? Fine, let’s keep fighting then!"

An Yi rolled up his sleeves, ready to resume pounding the Dark Taoist’s face.

"Wait, wait!"

A pair of black batons slid out from the Dark Taoist’s sleeves.

An Yi stared in disbelief. What kind of magic sleeves did this old Taoist have? They could fit anything!

"These batons are the Yang family’s heirloom, with over a thousand years of history. They were once the weapon of a notorious demonic cultivator. Yang Heng offered them as payment for tonight’s job. Here, take them—I don’t want them anymore."

The Dark Taoist held out the batons with a serious expression.

He was genuinely terrified. He'd never met such a ruthless opponent, one who played dirtier than even the most unscrupulous practitioners.

An Yi examined the batons, frowning slightly. They were T-shaped batons, the kind he’d seen American SWAT teams use in movies—but he had no idea how to wield them.

"Useless!"

Still, they were the Yang family’s treasure. Maybe he could sell them for a good price!

Ding! System Notification: Would you like to gift the [Cloud-Splitting Batons] to the Chosen One, Lin Chen?

An Yi pondered the prompt.

"Why give them to him?!"

The selection screen clearly stated that gifting the T-batons to Lin Chen would grant +50 favor points.

Previously, he’d already earned 50 points by helping Lin Chen rescue Qin Yao.

Another 50 would max out the favor meter!

With max favor, how hard could it be to recruit this ex-military king?

Delighted by the realization, An Yi eagerly tapped Yes.

"Hey, poker face—you know how to use these?" An Yi asked casually.

Lin Chen was momentarily stunned but nodded. "I do."

"Here, they’re yours!"

An Yi tossed the batons to Lin Chen without hesitation.

Lin Chen caught the twin T-batons, staring at An Yi in disbelief. After a pause, he said earnestly, "Thank you."

Ding! Gained +50 favor from Lin Chen!

An Yi smirked in satisfaction.

Ding! Current favor level from Lin Chen: 0!

An Yi: "..."

After two rounds of +50, that should’ve been 100!

And now it’s back to zero?!

Just how much did this bastard hate him before?!