Round 18: Fierce Battle

The robbers surrounding him, brandishing their weapons, immediately collapsed.
Alexander seemed to have taken a heavy punch; the muscles on his face twitched and twisted. Though he continued his attacks, it was out of inertia alone—the murderous intent and force in those strikes were completely overwhelmed and scattered by a tidal wave of fear.
Forty-seven sensed the sudden danger and, as if pulled by some force, explosive pure evil surged within him. Alexander merely staggered past him. Fortunately, he hadn’t been completely subdued. He managed to turn around toward Forty-seven, whose deathly hands were already reaching out. If caught, Alexander’s neck would surely snap, and his head might even be torn off. Alexander raised his crutch, seemingly trying to form a defensive stance, but that feeble movement seemed useless—he was merely pointing the tip of the crutch at Forty-seven.
But Forty-seven saw it differently. He pulled his hands in front of him, and his black giant wings instinctively unfurled. At the same time, the upper half of Alexander’s crutch flew out like arrows shot from a crossbow—one aimed at Forty-seven’s face, the other at his chest and abdomen.
Forty-seven blocked both attacks with his hands. In effect, he caught those two arrows with his hands. Though powerful, they didn’t cause serious damage to his hands—had they not exploded immediately afterward.
Forty-seven clenched his hands tightly to prevent the explosion’s force and flying debris from causing further destruction. The cost was that his hands were almost distorted beyond recognition.
The explosion pushed Forty-seven backward, while Alexander had already rolled back into the crowd of robbers, so terrified he almost wet himself.
“Hahaha! Even being buried won’t kill you. Well done, Alexander. You truly live up to being Whitebeard’s second-in-command. Come to me, and I’ll revoke your punishment.” It was still that thunderous voice.
Roy immediately went over to help Alexander up, with a respectful and humble attitude. It turned out that the so-called leader of this band of thieves was actually Whitebeard’s second-in-command. Clearly, everything he had said before was a lie. Was it just a coincidence, or had he planned this all along to act as his guide?
Alexander’s face was filled with arrogance and joy. He broke free from Roy’s grasp and strode confidently toward the highest position in this band of thieves.
Forty-seven lowered his head to look at his hands. Sharp fragments were deeply embedded in his cracked armor, and his fingers were twisted like twists of string—yet they were still connected to his palms. It was truly a miracle.
Jason’s vision improved slightly, allowing him to clearly see Forty-seven’s damaged hands. His expression changed—he clearly hadn’t expected Forty-seven to suffer such severe injuries in just one encounter.
“You’re done for, you metal bastard.”
Hoffman stood behind the robbers, casually draped in a robe. He was the one who had shouted earlier.

In his right hand, he held a massive battle hammer, while his left arm was wrapped around a large, thick shield—an oval shield shaped like a giant bug, with blade-like limbs extending from its edges. Layers of huge triangular armor covered it, and at the front, near his hand, was a gaping, terrifying beast’s mouth, of some unknown species. Both weapons were quite large—even for him. Hoffman’s chin was covered in bloodstains, the result of shaving off his beard, or perhaps its aftermath. Roy and Alexander stood humbly on either side of him, showing no sign of dissatisfaction or daring to show it—even though they might be demoted again in the next moment. “Hand over the doubt bombs in your hands. Tell me who sold them to you, and lead me to him,” Si Qishi repeated his earlier demand expressionlessly, as if those tattered hands didn’t belong to him at all. “And Alexander, hand over your little toy. I might consider just breaking your arm.” “Hahahahahaha!” Hoffman burst into laughter, shaking the entire place. His body swelled with each laugh. By the time the laughter stopped, his last robe had wrapped around him, turning into a half-coat. Hoffman swung his pointed battle hammer—now the right size for him, but still far too large for others—“Are you testing my patience? Or trying to prove how strong you are? Then go ahead! Kill them!” He couldn’t tolerate anyone on his territory being as strong as him, or even stronger—that was the unforgivable thing for him. At Hoffman’s command, the bandits rushed forward. But after a moment, Hoffman roared and issued another order: “All back!” Covered in pieces of flesh and blood, Si Qishi stood proudly in the center. The first bandit swung his knife at him, but Si Qishi met it with a knee strike, collapsing the bandit’s chest. Then, stepping on him, he performed a backflip, using both hands to strike two more bandits in the head, twisting inside their skulls. When he pulled them out, the red and white were indistinguishable, and their wounds began to heal as if some miracle medicine had been applied. He then used his legs to kick the other two bandits, sending them flying with blood spraying everywhere. Even the toughest bandits seemed utterly helpless in the face of this iron man. After all, these were professional scoundrels who had fought side by side with him through thick and thin, each a capable outlaw. Though their deaths wouldn’t be a great loss, it still felt like a waste to Hoffman when he had to handle everything himself. Only such people deserved to be crushed. Hoffman swung his massive hammer, the wind pressure from it blowing off many people’s hats. With steps as heavy as those of a pile driver, he strode into the arena. The closer he got, the more he realized the enormity of this monster. Compared to him, Si Qishi looked like a thin boy. Hoffman looked down at Si Qishi with arrogant disdain. Si Qishi raised his head, the red eerie light illuminating the giant before him. At the same time, he kicked up a cloud of sand, taking the initiative first.

The sand projectile hit Hoffman’s face squarely. Forty-seven’s next strike was also to the face. Then came the neck, collarbone, elbow, abdomen, hips, and knees, but all were blocked by the strange shield on his left hand—except for that first, unexpected sand pellet.

The battle hammer swung violently in the fierce wind, but seemed somewhat aimless. Forty-seven easily stepped back, seeing Hoffman’s face covered in sand and blood behind the giant bug. The amount of sand embedded in his skin would keep him busy in front of a mirror for a while.

Hoffman exhaled forcefully through his wide mouth. He didn’t reach out to wipe the blood from his face. Veins of blood stretched from the top of his head to the back of his skull, merging with those on his neck. He was likely furious and eager to pounce on Forty-seven and crush him into dust.

His steps were unsteady, his eyes dull, and blood still hung from the corners of his mouth, yet he laughed carefreely. “This metal-headed guy isn’t that great after all.”

He had initially been confident enough to withstand all of Forty-seven’s attacks, but just one strike changed his mind. Though his size augmentation gave his body rock-solid physical defense, it couldn’t block a mere sand pellet thrown casually by Forty-seven. He might have been confident he could stay standing after taking all of Forty-seven’s attacks, but whether he could still fight back was another matter.

But that block had severely damaged his pride, as if he had been forced to take a half-step back in a fistfight.

A guttural growl came from Hoffman’s throat. His massive body crouched down, the shield covering almost his entire body. Then came a professional-style charge like that of an American football player, his right-hand battle hammer ready to smash Forty-seven into thin metal slices the moment he made contact with the shield.

Forty-seven tried to draw his serrated greatsword, but the result wasn’t satisfactory. He still couldn’t use his hands—the twisted, cracked palms couldn’t handle the heavy sword properly. Hoffman’s advance forced him to abandon the absurd idea of tying the sword to his wrist.

Being unable to use his hands was a serious problem for Forty-seven. Although his jumping ability was decent, he lacked agile movement. Fighting this giant monster solely with brute force surely wasn’t a wise decision. Forty-seven scanned the muscular fist gripping the battle hammer behind the large shield.

Forty-seven jumped up and kicked both feet against the giant bug’s shield like a professional wrestler. With the momentum and strength of his legs, he successfully dodged Hoffman’s thunderous hammer strike. The loud noise shocked everyone present. A huge crater appeared on the ground as the dust settled, spreading in waves like ripples toward the terrified onlookers whose feet had gone numb.

He had never imagined that size augmentation could have such destructive power. Josen had fought many opponents who possessed this ability. Those guys were so weak that he had thought size augmentation was just a bluff. With the same skill, the difference in strength was simply astronomical.

Spewing a gust of foul wind, Hoffman searched the crowd for the whereabouts of 47. The furious strike earlier had consumed all his mental energy, and the resulting storm of dust made it impossible for him to see where 47 had gone. But he was sure 47 hadn’t escaped—even if he tried, with patience, he would be found.

A commotion arose from the crowd on the left, followed by screams and splashes of blood. The human wall was broken apart, and 47 rushed back, fighting through everything in his path. He had flown such a long distance from that jump, showing just how fierce the earlier collision had been.

This time, 47 didn’t hesitate. He launched his iron legs at Hoffman repeatedly, but his lack of skill in using his legs made his movements somewhat clumsy. No matter which angle he attacked from, Hoffman could easily defend himself by simply crouching in place and rotating.