Jiangdong District, Global Elite Fighting Club.
After entering March, the cold and warm airflows alternated in East City, and the average temperature rose significantly.
Today was even more unusual, directly soaring to nearly 30°C.
The central air conditioning was long turned off, but the heat in the training hall did not decrease in the slightest.
The ventilation fans roared, and the air was mixed with the smell of sweat, disinfectant, and leather, stifling like a steamer.
All around, the sounds of equipment collision, studentsâ shouts, and instructorsâ guidance formed a cacophonous scene.
The sandbag area was particularly lively, with a row of black sandbags arranged from 50KG to 400KG.
A dozen sturdy young lads in boxing shorts, bare-chested, were practicing their punching and leg techniques here.
Some were panting heavily, using the "hey", "ha" breathing techniques to drive their punching rhythm.
Others brought portable music players, letting deafening rock music drown out the sounds of hits.
Sweat made everyoneâs clothes stick to their bodies, an early experience of the summer workout passion.
Among them, one bald-headed student was practicing with particular vigor and investment.
His hands were wrapped in bandages, throwing punches quickly and accurately, each hit making the sandbag sway and tremble violently.
Bang!
A jab with the front hand feinted, followed by a solid straight punch landing on the sandbagâs center line with the back hand.
Without waiting for the sandbag to rebound, he twisted his waist, and his right leg lashed out like a steel whip, immediately following up with a fierce sidekick.
Bang!
The entire sandbag instantly swung up nearly as high as a person, and the howling gust of wind made the nearby students instinctively turn their heads to avoid it.
Looking sideways, one could see that this powerful kick almost made the 400-kilogram sandbag parallel to the ground.
Squeakâ
The iron chain and rack emitted a teeth-grinding screeching sound.
Then it swung back with astonishing speed, carrying an impact strong enough to knock a person away, slamming towards the trainer.
Even more astonishing, the bald man didnât take a single step back from the sandbag dropping like a battering ram.
Instead, he lowered his center of gravity, stretched out both fists forward, assuming the classic boxing guard stance.
Bang, bang, bangâ
Three quick consecutive straight punches exploded like thunder, each one accurately hitting the sandbagâs center line, forcibly halting the beastâs momentum.
Then he slightly pivoted his body, and with a "bang," a massively powerful swing punch shot out like a cannonball.
The 400-kilogram heavy bag was struck high up by this blow, swinging with an arc almost equal to the one achieved with his leg technique earlier.
He stood there steadily as if an immovable wall of bronze and iron.
His steps lightly changed rhythm, with punch shadows falling like a sudden storm.
Sharp straight punches, crafty hook punches, vicious swing punches...
Having abandoned leg techniques, he fully displayed his boxing skills at this moment, with each move as perfectly standard as from a textbook.
And the gigantic mass hanging in mid-air seemed like a weightless toy under his fists, helplessly swaying back and forth.
Every heavy hit made the sandbag emit a pained grunt, the iron rack constantly creaking and moaning, as if begging for mercy.
The onlooking students couldnât help but swallow, their Adamâs apples bobbing up and down.
What was this if not hammering a sandbag? It was as if treating this 400-kilogram behemoth as a mortal enemy.
Itâs hard to imagine if a real person faced this bald guy, would their entire skeleton be dismantled into components?
"Who is he? His technique is really good, he must have competed in amateur matches before?"
A student who looked like a high schooler was watching, stunned, involuntarily stopping his actions and asking his resting partner in a lowered voice.
"Amateur?!"
The companion snorted, with a towel draped over his sweaty neck, pointing out:
"Dude, are you dreaming? With his strength and technique, he could qualify to fight for the heavyweight boxing champion belt."
The young student, upon hearing this, smacked his lips:
"With such skills, why isnât he going professional? Could it be a famous fighter in disguise, coming here to play dumb?"
Saying this, he unconsciously rubbed his slightly sore wrist, muttering with envy:
"This guyâs wrist must be made of iron..."
A few professional boxers who had just finished training also gathered around, sipping mineral water and joining the discussion.
"Looking at that bald head, he might be a martial monk from Shanglin Temple."
"I guess so, perhaps the regulations of monks donât allow them to leave the order to fight professionally."
"No way, how could a monk have such a killing aura?"
Everyone murmured in hushed voices, pointing and gesturing.
"My god, are you guys stupid? Thatâs Fang Cheng!"
A nearby older student couldnât hold back, suddenly interrupting.
"Huh, Fang Cheng?!"
The crowd exclaimed in unison upon hearing this, eyes widening suddenly,
water bottles in their hands falling one after another onto the rubber floor with a "pata, pata" sound.
In the corner, a new student awkwardly adjusting his gloves looked up in confusion:
"Fang Cheng? Whoâs Fang Cheng?"
Several nosy students then introduced in a chorus of voices.
This man is the clubâs collectively recognized gold-certified sparring partner, an indestructible endurance king who once beat arrogant fighters who came to challenge into not daring to step into the arena again.
At this moment, everyone focused their gaze.
The imposing figure with a bald head glistened under the hallâs overhead lights.
If not carefully identified, it was indeed difficult to associate this man, radiating murderous intent, with the Fang Cheng of their memories.
No wonder they didnât recognize him at first.