Chapter Eight: Ancient Muay Thai, Deadly Combat Techniques!

Outside the Fulong Building.

Wen, the foreigner, pointed to the sixteenth floor while chewing on the fried stuffed delicacies he had bought after getting off the car. He said, “That guy Luo Rong is incredibly wealthy and arrogant. He’s rented out the entire sixteenth floor, and his office is at the very back. All the corridors around it are blocked off, so the only way in is to fight your way through from the outermost side.

“I’m telling you, buddy, there are only six of us. Is that going to be enough?”

Yang Sheng lifted his chin slightly, squinting his eyes. “Before, I told you all, life and death are predestined, and wealth is granted by fate.

“But where does that wealth come from? It’s not given by heaven—it’s earned with our lives!

“Some say if you’re lucky, flowers bloom and you live in prosperity; if you’re unlucky, your whole family suffers ruin.

“But if you don’t fight, how do you know what kind of fate you really have?

“We’ve come this far—are we really going to turn back now?”

With that, Yang Sheng strode straight toward the Fulong Building.

Wen hesitated for a moment, a smile curling at the corner of his mouth as he followed behind Yang Sheng.

The four others exchanged glances and quickly followed.

It was midnight, but many people were still working overtime in office buildings like Fulong, so a young receptionist sat dozing off while on duty.

Seeing the group enter, she quickly stood up and asked, “Gentlemen, which company are you visiting? Please register.”

Yang Sheng gave Wen a knowing look—Wen was the best choice for this situation.

Wen’s face immediately lit up with a radiant smile, his voice gentle as he said, “We’re here to see Brother Rong on the sixteenth floor… oh, I mean, Mr. Luo, the boss of Rongchang Financial Company.

“Miss, we have urgent business with Brother Rong. Could you please make an exception? Don’t worry, we’ll be quick.”

Wen’s face, strikingly reminiscent of a young Jet Li, was utterly disarming. Under his tender gaze, the receptionist’s heart nearly melted.

She’d also heard rumors that the boss on the sixteenth floor wasn’t a good man—strange people often came looking for him.

Some got angry when denied entry, giving all sorts of excuses when registering.

So she didn’t insist and blushed as she pointed inside. “Alright, you may go in. The two elevators at the very end both go to the sixteenth floor.”

Wen nodded, but as he turned, his smile vanished instantly, his change of expression astonishingly swift.

Yang Sheng watched this and thought silently, “This guy would make an excellent actor—his acting skills don’t even need training at a broadcast station.”

Of course, that was assuming he could restrain himself from killing the director.

The elevator slowly arrived on the sixteenth floor.

As the doors opened, the sign for Rongchang Financial Company came into view, along with two night-shift henchmen smoking outside.

Seeing Yang Sheng’s group, one of the henchmen frowned. “Who are you? Don’t you know the rules?

“Brother Rong is already asleep, and the company’s accountants have all left. Whether it’s borrowing or repaying money, come back tomorrow.”

While he spoke, Yang Sheng’s steps never faltered, still striding directly toward him.

The henchman sensed something was wrong, but before he could react, Yang Sheng slapped his hand firmly against his head like an iron hoop, then slammed him fiercely against the wall!

A loud bang echoed; blood splattered instantly. The henchman slid down the wall, lifeless.

Before the other henchman could scream, Wen’s military-style dagger plunged into his abdomen, twisted viciously.

Wen’s face still wore a radiant smile—yet it was filled with bloodthirsty madness!

The noise at the door alerted Luo Rong’s men.

Those still playing cards and drinking grabbed their weapons and pushed the door open, rushing out, while others were still asleep, unable to react.

“Charge!”

Every door along the corridor flung open as dozens of henchmen poured out.

A heavy fire axe swung toward Yang Sheng’s face. He stepped aside smoothly with a Ba Gua footwork move, dodging the blow.

At the same time, his dagger stabbed sharply under the attacker’s ribs, then was quickly withdrawn. His left hand pushed the man aside.

As the man hit the floor, blood gushed out.

Taking a big step forward, two sharp knives thrust simultaneously at Yang Sheng’s chest.

His spine tensed instantly, like a taut bow releasing an arrow!

Timing it perfectly, Yang Sheng slipped through the gap between the two blades. His right hand stabbed into the abdomen of the man on the right, while his left hand, like a coiling snake, wrapped around the left arm of the other, wrenching it viciously!

Instantly, the man’s arm snapped; he screamed and collapsed.

Behind them, a henchman holding a machete turned pale. That blow hadn’t even landed yet—why were the two men in front down already?

Before he could react, a sharp whip-like kick came at his face, sending him flying. Teeth and blood sprayed.

No time to stop.

After a few steps, there was no one standing near Yang Sheng.

Inspired, Wen and the others fought fiercely around him.

Though Wen held a military dagger, his style was pure Wing Chun’s Eight Slash Blade techniques:

Stab, point, peck, lift, shoulder, spread, reverse, slash.

The two daggers danced continuously in his hands, each strike drawing blood, truly embodying the saying from the Eight Slash Blade art: “No double shots for blades, no two strikes for sticks.”

Though Wen’s Wing Chun master was unreliable, the Eight Slash Blade was authentic.

This southern Chinese blade technique wasn’t suited for large-scale battles but excelled in one-on-one fights and narrow alley skirmishes.

Behind him, Leopard Head wildly swung his alloy baseball bat. Though unrefined, every strike was powerful and terrifying.

Beside him, Dilu calmly wielded his cleaver, covering for Leopard Head. Whenever someone tried to sneak past during a lapse, Dilu would slash them down.

The other two henchmen were also fired up, striking ruthlessly as if their lives depended on it.

Luo Rong’s gang numbered over a hundred, but in the narrow corridor, they couldn’t spread out.

With six men, Yang Sheng’s group blocked the entire hallway, never facing more than ten opponents at once.

Their momentum carried them all the way to Luo Rong’s office.

A panicked henchman flung open the door, shouting, “Brother Rong, trouble! Someone’s broken in!”

Luo Rong threw on a jacket, storming out of the adjoining bedroom.

“Which gang? How many people?”

The henchman shook his head. “Don’t know, only six.”

Luo Rong cursed, “Only six, and you’re this scared? Useless! Ah Hui!”

The side door opened. Nanshan Tiger wrapped white gauze around his hand, expressionless. “Got it, boss. I’ll handle it. Won’t disturb your sleep.”

Luo Rong sank into his office chair, opened a nearby safe, pulled out a stack of documents, and muttered, “I’m getting old. Being woken up like this, it’s hard to fall back asleep.

“Damn it!

“No matter which gang they belong to, kill them all!”

---

Yaohui nodded, drawing a strange dagger from his waist.

The handle resembled brass knuckles with upward spikes; the blade was a slender dagger, gleaming cold and sharp.

He reversed the grip, pushed past blocking henchmen, and approached Yang Sheng’s group.

“Brother Hui’s here! Everyone clear the way!”

Yang Sheng looked up and immediately felt a chilling aura wash over him.

Yaohui’s face was expressionless, unlike the noisy henchmen brandishing knives.

But his gaze on Yang Sheng was icy, as if staring at a corpse.

“Careful, buddy! This guy is Nanshan Tiger Yaohui, not some ordinary thug.

“Two years ago in Japan, he single-handedly wiped out over a hundred members of the Kawada gang, opening the a-goods channel for Luo Rong in Japan. The Japanese nearly called the cops.

“Rumor has it, ten years ago, Luo Rong spent a fortune sending him to Thailand to study ancient Muay Thai under the ‘Death Star’ Song Disuda.

“This guy’s not the Muay Thai master I trained under—ancient Muay Thai isn’t for the ring, it’s for killing!”

Before Wen finished, Yaohui’s footsteps thundered forward.

His right fist slammed down; the spikes on his brass knuckles flashed sharply, magnified before Yang Sheng’s eyes.

Yang Sheng instantly reversed his dagger grip, raising it to block. A sharp clang rang out as they collided, both feeling a tremendous force.

Next moment, Yaohui twisted his waist and unleashed a right leg whip, aiming a kick at Yang Sheng’s temple!

A cold wind swept in, but Yang Sheng advanced rather than retreating, moving into Yaohui’s embrace.

With a shift of his left arm, he deflected the kick’s power, then slammed his right fist holding the dagger into Yaohui’s right leg!

Advance, deflect, strike!

The punch was like a heavy hammer; if it landed, Yaohui’s leg would be crippled.

But Yaohui converted the kick into a knee strike, ramming it hard into Yang Sheng’s fist.

Yang Sheng’s punch hit steel—his arm tingled instantly.

Yaohui acted as if nothing happened, unleashing a furious barrage of fists and knees like a storm, forcing Yang Sheng back several steps.

The dagger’s instant-kill effect couldn’t match the brass knuckles in Yaohui’s hands.

That strange weapon suited Muay Thai perfectly.

After the punch, Yaohui followed up with reverse knife stabs, lifts, sweeps, and slashes—vicious and poisonous.

Compared to Ruan Feng, the Vietnamese fighter, Yaohui was clearly more formidable.

This was not kung fu, but ancient Muay Thai—a killing art.

Muay Thai is known as the art of eight limbs: fists, legs, elbows, knees—all used against the enemy with fierce speed and relentlessness, leaving no breathing room.

In recent years, Muay Thai, fused with Western boxing, gained worldwide recognition. Many triads in Hong Kong send their men to learn it, such as Wen’s boss, Uncle Wen.

But that style suits the ring. Yaohui practiced ancient Muay Thai.

This style, tracing back to the Sukhothai Kingdom of Siam, discarded all ring rules, pursuing ultimate lethality, even using teeth as weapons in some cases.

Yaohui’s braving of Yang Sheng’s advance strike wasn’t as effortless as it seemed.

Yang Sheng clearly felt Yaohui’s right leg was slower than his left, but Yaohui showed no sign of pain and fought on fiercely—his endurance perfectly suited for Muay Thai’s brutal demands.