Chapter Six: Those Who Insult China, No Matter How Powerful, Must Be Punished!

The werewolf sensed the murderous intent brimming in Zhou Yu’s eyes and a flicker of terror flashed through his heart. Instinctively, he tried to withdraw his right claw, but Zhou Yu held it fast, making escape impossible.

Alarmed, the werewolf lashed out with his left claw, striking with such ferocity that his steel talons seemed to tear the air itself, producing a sharp, hissing sound as they slashed through space in a gleaming arc of cold light.

Zhou Yu stared steadily into the werewolf’s blood-red eyes, raising his right hand to catch the right claw. The immense force behind the steel talons bent Zhou Yu’s arm and slammed into his shoulder, cracking the stone slabs beneath his feet. Zhou Yu felt his chest surge with blood, a wave of pain radiating from his right hand.

According to the rankings defined by the online encyclopedia, this werewolf possessed at least D-level strength, while Zhou Yu was only F-level. Zhou Yu could track the trajectory of the werewolf’s claws, but the disparity in strength was enormous.

“You’re too weak, Chinese,” the werewolf sneered. “You couldn’t withstand even a single strike. You’re the weakest here—trash! Die!” Though surprised Zhou Yu had managed to block two attacks in succession, the werewolf noticed Zhou Yu’s lack of power. Speed meant nothing when brute force could crush this Chinese with ease.

The werewolf tried to pull back his left claw, but despite two attempts, he couldn’t break free. Zhou Yu’s right hand gripped it tightly.

“Courting death!” the werewolf roared, lifting Zhou Yu and preparing to hurl him violently to the ground.

Zhou Yu’s eyes gleamed—this was the moment he’d been waiting for. Loosening his grip on both claws, he twisted his waist and lashed his leg fiercely across the werewolf’s face with a resounding slap.

The level gap was vast, but physical differences weren’t. Even an A-level powerhouse had a vulnerable body, unless protected by magical artifacts or secret arts; their advantage lay only in strength. Of course, S-level was a different matter—that was already the realm of the divine.

The werewolf was struck by Zhou Yu’s whip-like kick, his three-meter-tall form toppling to one side. Zhou Yu landed and tried to follow up, but the werewolf’s speed—bolstered by his strength—was formidable. He spun aside, dodged Zhou Yu’s attack, and then slammed his shoulder into Zhou Yu.

Zhou Yu caught the path of the werewolf’s attack and barely managed to shield his chest with both arms before impact.

With a thunderous crash, Zhou Yu was sent flying, smashed deep into the ground.

“Trash is trash! Inferior race! Your women are like bitches, your men like pigs!” The werewolf glanced at Zhou Yu, embedded in the shattered stone, spat contemptuously, and turned to face the black man.

“You didn’t help him?” the old man asked Liu Yueming in surprise.

Liu Yueming shot him a cold glance. “I thought you’d step in. Don’t worry, that guy isn’t finished yet. Otherwise, those military rations would’ve been wasted.”

Zhou Yu lay embedded in the stone slab, racked with pain, feeling as if every bone in his body had been pulverized, especially his arms. His mind remained clear, but his body would not move. He could only endure the agony.

Was this the difference in levels? Zhou Yu recalled the words the Medicine King had spoken before leaving: his cells possessed extreme vitality, his body held vast capacity, making upgrades nearly impossible; his meridians varied in thickness, forcing energy through could shatter them.

Yet the Medicine King had shown him a path forward. Difficulty in upgrading didn’t mean Zhou Yu lacked internal power; rather, his body was simply too capacious. With the old man’s decade of cultivated strength, dozens of demon wolf pills, and a demon general’s giant bear pill, Zhou Yu’s internal energy surpassed any ordinary F-level, even exceeding some D-levels. But this energy was dispersed throughout his body, and the uneven meridians prevented smooth circulation.

After examining him, the Medicine King explained that Zhou Yu’s arm meridians were extremely thick, like rivers, but those at his shoulders were very thin, preventing energy from flowing to his arms.

Now, Zhou Yu felt his arms had been destroyed. Pain awakened a wildness within him. If they were ruined, what was there to fear?

He frantically summoned all the energy scattered throughout his body. The force devoured by his cells was squeezed out, converging into a raging flood, surging through his body. Where the meridians were broad as rivers, the torrent accelerated; where they were thin as streams, it crashed through, shattering them mercilessly.

Wherever energy flowed, damaged cells absorbed it voraciously, then divided and absorbed again. Zhou Yu’s broken bones crackled and snapped, reassembling themselves, reconnecting automatically.

The agony of ruptured meridians was unimaginable. Zhou Yu could no longer bear it and cried out, his pain echoing as energy and blood seeped from his pores. The stone slabs around him were hurled aside by the force of his scream.

Zhou Yu stood up! Enduring the pain, he raised his right fist, stamped the ground, and shot forward in a blood-red blaze—the light was a mist of blood, streaming from his pores.

The werewolf reacted, trying to block, but Zhou Yu’s fist slipped past his guard, striking his chest with unyielding ferocity. Blood burst forth—Zhou Yu’s punch shattered the werewolf’s heart, piercing straight through his body.

The werewolf stared in disbelief at his ruined chest, blood trickling from his mouth as he looked at the man shrouded in blood mist, expressionless and godlike. He could not help but ask, “Who are you?”

Zhou Yu gasped for breath, his pain intensifying with each movement, his clenched teeth grinding and cracking.

“I am Chinese!” Zhou Yu lifted his head, bloodshot eyes filled with pride and determination. Any who insult my homeland, no matter how far, must be punished! No matter how strong, must be slain!

With a crash, the werewolf fell to the ground.

Zhou Yu remained frozen in his striking posture, unable to move—not from unwillingness, but because every motion brought pain that nearly shattered his mind.

Around him, a dozen crossers who had been fighting stopped and stared. The werewolf’s strength was unquestioned, yet he had been killed in a single blow by this man!

Several Japanese exchanged glances. Zhou Yu had slain the werewolf—he was now their enemy. In their eyes, Chinese were less than dogs or pigs.

With a sharp sound, a Japanese threw a shuriken at Zhou Yu, and the others attacked simultaneously.

“What happened just now? Did he level up?” Liu Yueming asked the old man.

The old man shook his head. “He’s using that reckless fighting style again. He’s a madman.”

Liu Yueming gripped the sword in her arms. “I don’t know how he managed to rise, but I can sense trouble brewing for him—big trouble.”

High above, the golden dragon turned and opened its jaws, unleashing a breath of fire toward Zhou Yu.

Five shurikens spun through the short distance, whirling toward Zhou Yu, as four Japanese converged from all directions, forming an encirclement.