Charles Bennett had no comment on this and simply continued teaching. However, because of this, William Foster managed to master a few killer moves in a very short time.

Take the move right in front of them, for example: with a single palm strike, he hit the big man's wrist, making it tremble and go slightly numb. Then his right fist turned into a sword-finger and jabbed directly at the meridian on the big man's right elbow.

Many people know that there are several acupoints at the elbow, and if one of these is struck, even lightly, the whole forearm can go limp and weak.

For martial artists skilled in finger techniques, it's not hard to cripple an arm with a single jab. Unfortunately, William Foster wasn't that skilled, nor had he cultivated any inner strength. So, although this jab was solid, at most it just made the big man's arm go numb, to the point where he could barely hold onto his broadsword.

But that wasn't the end. While the big man's arm was numb and he couldn't move, William Foster twisted his body, and with a swift motion, grabbed the big man's wrist with his right hand. His left hand now free, he formed a fist and smashed down hard.

"Ah~"

With a miserable scream, the big man's left fist, which he had just raised, could no longer be thrown. Instead, he clutched his right arm and howled in pain, his right arm now bent at a bizarre angle from the elbow—clearly crippled.

But William Foster wasn't about to let him off that easily. As the big man collapsed to the ground in pain, William Foster grabbed the broadsword that had fallen to the ground and, with a fierce chop, slashed a bloody gash across the man's neck.

The screams stopped abruptly. The big man's eyes bulged in disbelief, unable to comprehend how he had ended up defeated by such a young kid.

Though it sounds complicated, all of this happened in a flash—just two or three seconds. The group of bandits who had come with the big man were a couple of steps too slow, and could only watch in shock as their leader was dispatched as easily as a chicken. Stunned, they froze in their tracks.

They could stop, but William Foster could not. With a quick spin, he seized the moment when the nearest bandit was still in shock and hurled the broadsword at him.

It was fast and sudden. The bandit, still stunned, saw a flash of silver before a sharp pain exploded in his chest.

"Cough~"

He spat out a mouthful of blood, eyes wide with unwillingness, and collapsed.

In the blink of an eye, two of the seven bandits were down. The remaining five were frightened, but being desperadoes, seeing their own killed didn't make them want to retreat. Instead, one of them shouted, "Kill this brat and avenge Fourth Brother!"

He swung an iron rod and charged, determined to take out William Foster, the "trained fighter," first.

At this moment, the villagers snapped out of their daze. Seeing the usually unremarkable William Foster kill two bandits right off the bat, their spirits were roused.

Especially when James Brooks shouted, "Are you men really going to let a child outdo you?" and led the charge with a pitchfork. The villagers, emboldened, shouted and rushed forward together.

Sometimes, all people need is someone to take the lead. Once someone does, and with numbers on their side, they can really accomplish a lot. There were at least a dozen or twenty able-bodied villagers, and as long as they had the will, taking on five bandits was no problem.

Moreover, when William Foster saw the guy with the rod charging at him, he quickly pulled something from his waist, closed his eyes, and flung it at the group.

"Quicklime!"

His family had held a funeral a few days ago, and there was still some quicklime left at home. He had packed a handful before coming out, just for this moment.

As soon as the lime was thrown, several bandits were hit. Because of the distance, two of them didn't get much on their faces and weren't much affected.

But the three in front, especially the one with the rod, were in trouble. Not only their eyes, but their noses and mouths were filled with lime.

And that wasn't all. Henry Brooks, seeing this, didn't hesitate—he grabbed a kettle and splashed water on their faces, making things even more chaotic.

The bandits howled and rolled on the ground. When the villagers rushed up and saw the bandits unable to fight back, they were even more emboldened, grabbing whatever they could and laying into them.

For a moment, benches and hoes flew, pitchforks and shoe soles rained down, and the beating was brutal. Even the constables who rushed over couldn't help but grimace at the sight of the battered bandits—it was just too miserable!

It wasn't until the constables arrived that the villagers finally breathed a sigh of relief, feeling truly safe at last. The relentless beating of the bandits had been driven by their anxiety, as if stopping for even a moment would mean being killed by these villains.

Now that the constables were here, they felt that no matter how fierce these villains were, the law would deal with them. So they stopped, and cooperated with the constables, recounting the whole incident in detail.

At this point, William Foster was resting to the side. Although he had only made a few moves at the start, then thrown a knife and some lime, and afterwards just watched from the sidelines, he was still recovering from a serious illness. His body was weak, and those few seconds of life-and-death struggle had taken a heavy toll on his spirit, so he continued to rest there.