His hand was soft and pliant, like the paw pad of a tiger cat—seemingly gentle, yet actually capable of splitting stone.

　　Buzz...

　　The palm landed, striking squarely on Ethan Thompson's back.

　　However, Ethan Thompson's back did not emit the expected sound of breaking bones. Instead, his whole body trembled, producing the ancient bell sound of a temple.

　　It was as if his body was a great bell; any attack upon it would only cause a resonant chime, thought-provoking and profound.

　　Ethan Thompson was uninjured.

　　"My Douluo Cotton Palm is designed to break through iron shirt-type hard qigong. How could you possibly withstand it?" Henry Ford retreated three steps, his face full of disbelief.

　　In his eyes, Ethan Thompson was simply a monster.

　　"Douluo Cotton Palm is a Buddhist martial art. According to the Shurangama Sutra, the Buddha's hand is the Douluo Cotton Palm. This palm is similar to the soft palm in martial arts, but superior. Once mastered, it is as soft as cotton, as hard as iron." Ethan Thompson did not turn around: "Unfortunately, although you have reached the level of combining hardness and softness, you do not understand that the true meaning of Douluo Cotton Palm is wisdom and concentration. In the end, martial arts must merge with the primordial spirit, uniting body and mind, breaking through limits with wisdom and focus, not by pursuing lethality. That is why you cannot harm me."

　　"I have learned something." Henry Ford withdrew his hand, standing in a neutral stance, a stake posture from boxing called "Dragon-Subduing Stake." "But just because your hard qigong is formidable doesn't mean your actual combat ability is strong. What I just used wasn't my true skill."

　　"Then go ahead."

　　Ethan Thompson turned around, not assuming any particular stance or posture, standing casually—yet every movement was a stake.

　　Swish!

　　Henry Ford moved his feet—"White Crane Treading Sand"—his body light, his fist like a crane's beak, opening and closing wide, his energy as sharp as a needle.

　　This speed was beyond the reach of even the most rigorously trained special forces soldiers.

　　With just this one move, Henry Ford already displayed the demeanor of a martial arts master.

　　In a flash, the crane beak reached Ethan Thompson's temple. The sharpness of the crane beak was a kind of penetrating, needle-like force. If it struck, with one peck and one pinch, it could tear away a large chunk of flesh.

　　At this moment, Ethan Thompson moved. His palm hooked upward, slicing through the air like a snake, like a dragon rising, like a tiger pouncing, like an eagle's talon.

　　Crack!

　　Without the slightest suspense, his palm had already seized Henry Ford's crane beak.

　　Henry Ford suddenly kicked with both feet, seeking life in the face of death—a killing move, "Rabbit Kicks Eagle." With the strength of his legs, he could snap a tree in two.

　　But when his kick landed on Ethan Thompson's chest, it only produced a series of deep, hollow thuds. Ethan Thompson was like an indestructible iron golem.

　　The crane beak was caught, the killing move failed. Henry Ford's attack was thwarted, his momentum faltering.

　　Ethan Thompson's eyes flashed. He moved his body, advancing an inch, his form like a mountain, pressing in slightly.

　　Bang!

　　Henry Ford was sent flying through the air, landing on the ground, then flipping up in a carp-spring. Yet his expression was indescribably dejected.

　　He knew that Ethan Thompson had held back just now. Otherwise, with that one press, his internal organs would have ruptured—it would not have been as simple as being knocked away.

　　"To send a man flying a yard with just an inch of movement—you are truly a martial arts master. I never imagined someone like you existed in the martial arts world." Henry Ford composed himself. "I am Grace Fisher's boyfriend. I came to talk to you this time. I always thought you were a spoiled rich kid, but I didn't expect you to be so deeply hidden. Still, I won't give up my girlfriend to you."

　　"Grace Fisher is the one I'm supposed to meet for a blind date today, right?" Ethan Thompson's tone remained calm, as if nothing could move him. "Wealth is like floating clouds to me, romance like dust. Human strength is limited, but the martial path is infinite. To pursue the infinite martial path with limited energy is already like rowing against the current—wasting energy on love and romance is simply suicide. That's why you will never reach the pinnacle of martial arts."

　　"So what? No matter how good your martial arts are, can you beat a gun? No matter how good your martial arts are, in a hundred years you'll still be a pile of dust. People live in this world, and practicing martial arts is just a way to enrich life, to make it better. To lose sight of what's important and treat martial arts as everything is a mistaken way to live." Henry Ford said coldly.

　　"Yes, you're right. No matter how great your martial arts, in a hundred years you'll still be a handful of ashes." Ethan Thompson looked at the sky. "There are no miracles in this world, nor will there ever be. It's a pity, such a pity, but even so, nothing can shake my will and determination..."

　　He waved his hand. "Go."

　　"Someday, I will defeat you." Henry Ford got in the car, stepped on the gas, and sped away.

　　The grand compound with red walls and yellow tiles was heavily guarded, soldiers on duty with guns, deep trees representing military might and power. This was Ethan Thompson's home, where he had grown up, though he rarely returned and had little impression of the place.

　　He never showed his martial arts in front of his family. In fact, there was nothing worth showing off—even the greatest martial arts, in his family's eyes, were just a distraction from proper work. For soldiers, no matter how good your martial arts are, can you beat a gun?