(Sorry for the delay, guys)
The moment the commentator's call ended, Feng Jinhai sprang into motion by dropping low, his stance widened as his arms curved into the predatory claws of the Tiger Style.
Muscles tensed like coiled springs, he lunged forward with an aggressive burst, eyes locked on Bruce.
Bruce's response was calm and measured.
He slid one foot back and raised his hands into the Wing Chun guard position, his elbows tucked close to his ribs, forearms angled forward like a wall of steel and water at the same time.
His centerline was protected, his weight evenly balanced, an image straight out of an Ip Man movie.
Feng's first strike came like a hurricane swipe, his palm arcing downward in a claw-like blow aimed at Bruce's shoulder, but Bruce barely shifted, his lead hand moved with a subtle flick, redirecting the attack off its line, while his back foot made a quiet, precise adjustment on the ground.
Feng followed with a flurry of low sweeps, sharp hooks, and sudden pounces yet each time, Bruce's defenses absorbed, deflected, or let the attacks slip past as though they were chasing shadows.
The Tiger Style's power came from overwhelming ferocity, but against Bruce's compact, minimal Wing Chun movements, it was like trying to grab smoke.
A small turn of the wrist here, a soft palm parry there, and Bruce was already back in position, steady and unshaken.
Feng's eyes narrowed and his initial confidence faltered.
He had expected a desperate scramble, a clash of blows but instead, this middle schooler stood like an immovable pillar, calm under pressure.
'How strong is his physique…?' he thought, glancing at the oversized black T-shirt that hung loosely over Bruce's frame.
It hid everything like muscle definition or any sign of what lay beneath. Not even his posture betrayed the truth. The mystery only made Feng more cautious.
The crowd was far from united in their expectations
.
One side, mostly the casual onlookers, still believed the inevitable was only moments away.
A middle schooler in a ranking match? Against Feng Jinhai, no less? To them, Bruce was just delaying the beating.
Zhao Lifen, in particular, stood in that camp with her eyes practically glimmered with the anticipation of watching Bruce get tossed around, and she leaned forward in anticipation as though every miss from Feng was just a setup for the real hit to come.
Another part of the crowd was growing restless for an entirely different reason. They were surprised that the so-called newcomer was holding his ground against Feng Jinhai, a high school senior known for his aggressive Tiger Style.
They had expected quick domination, but instead, Feng's strikes were met with an impenetrable defense and Bruce's movements were precise, efficient and never overextending or flustered.
Then there was the last group. The smallest, yet the most attentive—the actual martial artists present.
They watched in a different way, not with cheers or jeers, but with narrowed eyes, dissecting every movement.
Among them was the middle school queen, Qin Yue, and the man beside her. Both recognized the style instantly.
Wing Chun, stripped down to its fundamentals and yet something was odd. Bruce was defending, redirecting, evading… but there was no sharp counter. No sudden retaliation to exploit the openings Feng left in his aggression.
Before the match, the experts had assumed Feng's advantage was obvious factors like age, strength, experience but Bruce's wall-like defense had blunted all three.
More puzzling was the fact that Bruce didn't capitalize when Feng overcommitted. They couldn't figure out why and especially the man standing next to Qin Yue.
His curiosity was evident in the slight lean forward, the way his eyes narrowed each time Bruce let an opportunity slip.
Only Bruce knew the reason. Jackie had only taught him defense up to this point.
His foundation was rock-solid—centerline guard, parries, redirection, but he hadn't learned how to strike.
Even when Bruce's eyes caught the perfect gaps in Feng's offense, his body didn't have the lower stance stability or precise foot positioning to deliver an effective counter.
It was like a dance and you couldn't skip from step one to step three just because you knew what came next. Without step two, the transition and the movement would collapse.
In fighting terms, an attack without proper footing was worse than no attack at all. It was a waste of energy and an opening for the opponent.
So Bruce stayed where he was strongest, letting Feng's offense crash against him like waves on stone.
Bruce's strategy was simple, but it was the kind of simplicity that demanded a strong foundation.
Let Feng burn himself out and when Feng is tired, Bruce could strike back and even if that counter is messed, it would cost him nothing as Feng will be tried and won't be able to exploit his openings that will be present during his attack, while for Feng, every miss meant wasted energy, every overreach chipped away at his stamina. Once exhaustion set in, those glaring holes in Feng's offense would widen, and his defense would crumble on its own.
The fight pressed on, the sound of fists cutting through the air and feet shuffling against the ground filling the space.
Feng's strikes came fast and heavy, each one backed by the aggressiveness of Tiger Style—low stances, forward surges, and clawing sweeps aimed to overwhelm yet every time, Bruce shifted just enough to deflect or redirect, his Wing Chun guard unwavering.
Minutes passed and the change was subtle at first—Feng's breath grew heavier, his shoulders lifted more with each inhale, the precision of his strikes began to falter.
Since the opening bell, he had refused to back down, pressing forward in relentless waves but nothing had cracked Bruce's composure.
The middle schooler stood like a quiet lake, his eyes locked on Feng's centerline, his guard never lowering and not a single unnecessary movement.
While Feng's muscles screamed for air, Bruce's movements still carried the same calm rhythm as at the start, the faintest glint in his eyes showing he was waiting… just waiting for the moment to turn the tide.
Feng's pace began to falter. The seamless flow of his Tiger Style strikes now carried gaps—small at first, then widening with each passing exchange.
Bruce recognized the pattern instantly. This is it. The moment he'd been waiting for had arrived.
Breathing heavily, but still unwilling to admit defeat, Feng charged once more, his footfalls heavier than before.
Bruce met the rush with his solid Wing Chun guard, redirecting the blow and then, for the first time in the fight, he stepped in and his fist shot up in a clean arc, slamming against Feng's chin.
The crowd froze. Zhao Lifen's mocking smirk vanished mid-breath.
Across the balcony, Qin Yue and the man beside her exchanged a look of sharp realization mirroring the expressions of the top-ranked martial artists in attendance.
Those in the elite top ten had seen enough to piece it together. Bruce didn't actually know how to attack!!!
His punch, though precise, carried no real power. His stance was still rooted in defense, feet positioned to absorb force rather than generate it.
Without the rotational drive from his hips or the forward commitment of his body, the strike lacked the explosive force a trained Wing Chun counter demanded.
Bruce could throw a normal punch of brute force, but that would require abandoning his defensive stance which he is familiar with and turning his body into the hit, which can't be guarded if Feng attacked immediately.
Feng absorbed the punch with little more than a jolt and his head snapping back, but his footing held steady.
It didn't hurt much physically, but in his mind, the fact that a middle schooler had dared to land a clean hit before the crowd struck deeper than any blow.
His pride screamed, drowning out reason, and his anger flared white-hot.
He didn't notice the lack of force and all he saw was that Bruce had landed a strike and to him, that was unacceptable
The fight reignited with an even fiercer tempo.
Feng lunged in like a wild beast unleashed, his Tiger Style no longer disciplined, but driven by raw aggression.
Each step pounded against the ground and each strike whipped through the air with reckless abandon.
Bruce, still riding the precision of his defense, seized every small opening that Feng's rage created.
A parry here, a redirect there. His arms moved almost on instinct, slipping through gaps and snapping quick strikes to the ribs, forearm, and shoulder.
One, two, three—his fists landed with clean precision, but the results were disappointing.
Feng barely flinched. His breath was ragged, yes, but the hits weren't slowing him the way Bruce hoped.
'Too light' Bruce thought, his eyes narrowing as he shifted his stance to block another heavy blow. 'I can see the gaps… I can touch him every time… but it's like throwing paper darts at a charging bull.'
Another opening and Bruce slipped inside Feng's guard, snapping a short punch to the side of his jaw.
Perfect angle, perfect timing… and yet Feng's head merely jerked before he came swinging back, his arms like battering rams.
Bruce's mind churned in the midst of the chaos.
'Jackie's drills… all defense. My structure's solid, my balance is unshakable—but my body doesn't know how to channel real force forward yet. If I overcommit without the stance work, my feet will tangle, my base will crumble, and I'll be wide open. Can't risk it.'
The strikes continued and tap to the ribs, a palm to the chest, a knuckle flick to the temple. They landed clumsily, but without the weight behind them, they were more irritants than damage dealers.
Feng, in his fury, seemed to only grow more determined and his face twisting into something almost feral.
From the outside, the crowd saw a relentless high schooler chasing down an unshakable middle schooler who refused to take a hit, but inside Bruce's mind, the truth was stark—'I can hold him off all day… but unless he burns himself out, I'm not stopping him with these hits.'
The fight continued in a blur of motion.
Feng Jinhai drove forward with another sweeping right, but Bruce's forearms came up like steel shutters, deflecting it and pivoting just enough to let the force pass harmlessly by.
Feng spun low, aiming a sweeping kick at Bruce's legs, but the younger boy stepped back with crisp footwork, his heel barely skimming the floor before returning to a solid stance.
They exchanged another flurry and Feng hammering in with palm strikes, hooks, and low kicks which Bruce answered with quick deflections, redirecting each strike with the efficiency of a revolving door.
Every now and then Bruce snapped out a jab or palm strike of his own, but they barely slowed Feng's momentum.
Feng Jinhai's thoughts were 'Damn it… not a single clean hit.'
Feng's lungs burned, and the taste of metal crept into his mouth. He could feel the sting of dozens of light impacts across his ribs and arms because of Bruce's counters but none of them were enough to hurt and yet, that was exactly what frustrated him the most.
'He's hit me so many times already… and I still can't land one solid shot on him? This brat's just standing there, defending like some unmovable wall. No… I'm not letting this middle schooler humiliate me in front of everyone.'
With a snarl, Feng threw away any thought of pacing himself. His entire body tensed as he launched forward, fists, elbows, and knees coming in a chaotic storm.
The crowd roared at the sudden burst of aggression, his attacks crashing against Bruce's defense in rapid succession.
But then… something unexpected happened.
As Feng lunged again, Bruce deflected his strike and stepped in closer than ever before. A sudden clumsy shot drove into his midsection—right under the sternum, above the navel.
'Hah… another light tap' Feng thought but halted because pain exploded.
It was sharp, deep, and suffocating, like a spear of ice stabbing through his gut. His breath vanished in an instant, his hands clutching his stomach as his knees buckled. His eyes watered involuntarily, and the roaring of the crowd faded to a dull hum in his ears.
Air rushed back into his lungs in a harsh gasp but then darkness claimed his consciousness.
Bruce stood over him, right hand still extended for a moment before he slowly pulled it back, staring at it with wide-eyed surprise. 'That…'
The referee's voice rang out, announcing his victory, and the crowd erupted into cheers but Bruce didn't bask in it.
Without a word, he grabbed his jacket, slipped into his shoes, and walked away.
As he made his way back toward the mansion, six pairs of eyes followed his every step—those of the top five ranked fighters, including the Queen's boyfriend, and the Queen herself.
They had all seen it in that final moment: a faint, unmistakable wisp of gold around Bruce's fist as it struck.
Chi!!!
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