Blake Turner spat a mouthful of blood and staggered, terror flooding his face. He hauled himself upright with every ounce of strength he had left.
"Who the hell are you? How can you possibly be this strong?"
The man's protective qi alone had shaken him hard enough to rupture something inside. This wasn't a fighter. This was a monster.
But Cliff didn't answer the question. He simply raised one hand and settled into an opening stance that Blake knew better than his own reflection.
"Who I am doesn't matter," he said, his voice flat and unhurried. "But Eight Extremes Fist isn't supposed to be thrown the way you throw it."
The words had barely left his mouth before he was already there, right in Blake's face. He dropped his center, drove his hip forward, and stamped.
"Iron Mountain Lean!"
