"Arrogant enough!"
Miao Yang had his temper stirred. His toes stomped hard on the ground, and this time he completely abandoned probing, truly treating Cheng Ye as an opponent of the same level.
His left arm lashed out like an iron whip, knocking aside Cheng Ye's right fist, while his right fist shot forward even faster, aiming straight at Cheng Ye's face, the fistwind tearing the air with a sharp whistle.
But halfway through the punch, Cheng Ye's left hand had already risen like an iron clamp, firmly bracing against his wrist.
The instant their arms crossed, Miao Yang only felt a tremendous force transmit from the other man's arm, jolting his blood and qi to a halt and sending his body drifting half a step backward out of his control.
He stamped his feet in quick succession and, using the backward momentum, spun his body, his elbow thrusting toward Cheng Ye's ribs like an awl.
This was what you called close-range short strikes.
