Shui Wuchang was not surprised at all. At the moment he threw out the brush, he had already taken the steel pitchfork in hand.
With a flick of the wrist, buzz buzz buzz!
The steel pitchfork spiraled up into the sky.
The strike descending from the beam had to change its course at this point, the hand circling and grasping, tightly holding onto the pitchfork's shaft.
Shui Wuchang sneered coldly:
"Bold!"
His move was quite extraordinary; to grab recklessly would likely crush all the skin and flesh in the opponent's palm.
Yet, unexpectedly, after the two words fell, the steel pitchfork abruptly stopped spinning.
It was firmly grasped in the opponent's palm.
"What?"
Shui Wuchang was shocked. What great strength!?
Immediately, his footsteps sank, with a crunching sound, the chair behind him shattered, and the ground's tiles cracked, as he fiercely lifted the pitchfork: "Let go!"
The man complied, and after letting go, he turned back and threw a massive punch.
