Chapter 170: Papabear vs Ironfist

After scrolling for some time, Jelo came across another character that seemed quite interesting. The avatar’s name was Iron Fist.

Jelo began running countless thoughts through his mind.

Does this mean he has iron abilities?

Or is it just one of those names people use to describe how strong their punches are?

Either way, it wasn’t enough to scare him off.

Jelo checked Iron Fist’s record. It was just a normal record—nothing special, nothing that really stood out. That was a little surprising.

Since the fighter was C-Rank, C3 to be precise, Jelo decided to send him a match request.

Without wasting any time, Iron Fist accepted immediately.

In an instant, both of them were transported into the arena ring.

Jelo looked at his opponent and raised an eyebrow.

Iron Fist was just standing there in his underwear.

Jelo stared at him in disbelief.

What kind of person comes to a fight dressed like this? he wondered.

Iron Fist noticed the look.

“You’re admiring my confidence,” he said. “Even in my underwear… I will crush you.”

Jelo was surprised.

Not only was this guy dressed strangely, but he was also incredibly confident.

Iron Fist was C3 rank, which meant Jelo should theoretically be able to hold his own against him. But that didn’t guarantee victory.

Sometimes ranks didn’t truly show how strong someone really was.

Both fighters took their stances.

The fight was about to begin.

JELO VS IRON FIST

Neither of them spoke. The signal rang and they moved at the same instant.

Jelo didn’t rush. He angled left, creating a diagonal between them, and snapped his right arm forward. The Dragon Claw came out low and fast — a curved ridge of orange-white energy climbing toward Iron Fist’s lead leg. A test more than an attack. A question: Can you move?

Iron Fist could. He stepped right, efficient and precise. The claw clipped his thigh, shredded fabric, left a scorched line across skin. He looked at it for one second. Filed it. His eyes came back up cold.

He covered the distance in three strides and threw a wide hook that was designed to miss. The right that followed wasn’t. It caught Jelo on the forearm he’d raised in reflex and the impact was staggering — iron-weighted knuckles carrying a density that transmitted through the block, rattled through his shoulder, buzzed in his back teeth. He slid back four feet, shook his arm out once, fast.

It worked. That was the important thing.

He reassessed. So that’s what that feels like.

They circled.

Iron Fist came the second time with purpose. He’d decided the range game wasn’t where he wanted to be. He closed fast and swung heavy — ribs, chin, chest not fishing anymore, fully committed. Real combinations with real weight behind them.

Jelo took all three.

He’d brought Skilled Guard up between heartbeats — a shimmer across skin, a hardening that locked across his arms and chest. The rib shot hit like a compression wave, enormous and grinding. He felt it as pressure rather than pain, exhaled hard, stayed up. The chin shot snapped his head sideways. He brought it back. The chest shot pushed him two steps.

He didn’t fall.

Iron Fist felt the resistance and escalated. Grey crept across his forearms, his elbows, his chest — iron spreading slow and deliberate. His punches grew heavier with each exchange. He was also, visibly, growing slower. Not dramatically — just a half-second drag on his reset, a slight labor in his steps.

Jelo catalogued it. Filed it.

He absorbed two more body shots, each one compressing his guard further, then threw his own left hook — not a claw, just a fist — into Iron Fist’s jaw. His knuckles hit iron-plated cheekbone and screamed at him. Iron Fist’s head moved two inches. He blinked.

Then they both swung simultaneously.

Dragon Claw met iron fist dead-on.

The collision released a shockwave that cracked three floor tiles in a ring around them, sent dust spiraling up toward the lights, pushed both men back two steps at once. Both of them breathed. Neither went down.

Jelo felt his Skilled Guard thinning at the edges. Not gone — but wearing. He needed to change the shape of the fight before it ran out entirely.

Wing Burst cost him every time. He knew this. The physical effort of moving at that speed pulled from something finite in his legs and lungs. He didn’t know his exact number of clean bursts tonight. He knew it wasn’t unlimited.

He used one now.

The air where he’d been standing compressed with a crack and he was behind Iron Fist, feet hitting the ground slightly harder than intended. He planted and drove a Dragon Claw from six feet directly into Iron Fist’s exposed back.

Close range. Everything behind it.

Iron Fist roared — short, furious, more anger than pain. The energy raked across his shoulder blades and left three glowing grooves burned into iron-plated flesh, edges still red-hot at the lines. He spun swinging blind and the backswing was enormous and wild and Jelo ducked under most of it.

The iron elbow caught him across the jaw on the way back up.

Not even a clean hit. Incidental contact. It put Jelo on the ground anyway.

He landed on his side, rolled, got a knee under himself and pushed up. The world was white noise for two full seconds — the particular kind that told him something important had just happened to his head and his body was currently deciding how seriously to take it. He blinked it away. Spit blood. Checked his vision — still sharp, still feeding him data.

Still in this.

Iron Fist stood across from him, chest heaving, grooves in his back still smoking. He didn’t advance. He waited.

Jelo stood up.

Jelo went long. He kept distance and worked Dragon Claws in a steady rhythm — deliberate throws aimed at joints and angles the iron casing had to flex around. Knees. Elbows. The neck seam below the jaw where the iron couldn’t fully seal. Not trying to end it from range. Trying to accumulate damage in places that would matter later.

Iron Fist answered by going fully armored.

Grey consumed him from feet upward — shins, thighs, torso, arms, face — until only his eyes showed, dark and patient inside a mask of living iron. He lowered his head and walked forward through the Dragon Claws the way a man walks into wind.

First claw hit his chest. Scattered energy across iron plating. Left a black scorch mark. He kept walking.

Second claw caught his knee. He adjusted his stride. Kept walking.

Third. Shoulder. Kept walking.

Fourth. Throat seam. A flinch. Kept walking.

Jelo fired the fifth, sixth, seventh — his best-aimed ones, landing clean, every single one of them absorbed. Iron Fist didn’t break stride.

Seven direct Dragon Claws. Seven hits. Seven absorbed.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep