Starting from Robinson Crusoe

Anger is a stronger catalyst than fear.

When Chen Zhou saw Paul slumped under the tree trunk, Tiger Second kicked away, Tiger First fallen and unable to stand, Tiger Third hanging onto the Black-robed Man’s leg, all calm thoughts in his mind were incinerated and his thinking consumed by fury.

At this moment, he had only one thought—

"Kill!"

...

Shuriken paved the way, dragging the spear in flight.

In Zawahiri’s eyes, Chen Zhou’s speed was far beyond his previous encounter, as if blinking resulted in a flash forward of several meters, just barely dodging the shuriken when the long spear was already near.

There wasn’t much time for Zawahiri to think; he instinctively fell back on the Cold Weapons technique to counter spears and sticks—

"Point the spear tip and point the root of the stick."

Using sharpness against sharpness, if the spear tip thrust was a solid strike, he could slide along the shaft to nullify the spear’s advantage and go directly for the vital spot.

Last time, during the exchange, on the tree, Zawahiri didn’t have the opportunity to use this move.

But now, using this move didn’t yield much advantage, since his weapon was a sheath and not a blade, thus lacking lethal capability; how could he speak of striking vitals?

Almost simultaneously with the advance of the sheath, just as he was about to move close to Chen Zhou’s side, Zawahiri suddenly realized something was wrong.

Compared to this monster, close-range grappling did not seem to be his forte.

...

Indeed, seeing the Black-robed Man not only avoid fleeing but approach him actively, Chen Zhou’s eyes initially revealed a hint of doubt before surging into a wave of ecstasy.

His grip on the spear shaft loosened slightly, the shaft sliding in his palm while he faced Zawahiri.

The momentum of the forward thrust was irresistible, especially with both moving toward each other.

Zawahiri only caught a fleeting blur before realizing what had occurred; his body rammed as if by an enraged bull, flying sideways, his tightly held sheath vanished out of sight.

"Cough!"

The darkness before his eyes hadn’t dissipated as Zawahiri coughed, propping his arm to hastily scramble from the ground.

Tiger Third still clung to his calf but released his grasp upon seeing Chen Zhou return, relinquishing his claws and no longer holding on.

The effectiveness of the Regeneration Capsule was at its last gasp. Waves of pain assaulted Zawahiri before he could rise; Chen Zhou had delivered a powerful kick to his abdomen.

Light Armor absorbed much of the damage, but could not defend against the terrifying force of Chen Zhou’s enraged state.

Zawahiri, the giant exceeding two meters in height, crashed like a broken sack, halted only when his back collided against a tree.

Under the capsule effect, the healed back showed new wounds, the breadth increased, the pain surpassing prior experiences.

The trunk was stained red with blood.

Now, even the air sucked into his lungs was fiery, scorching Zawahiri’s throat.

The mask always worn on his face was skewed, revealing a gaunt chin and several strands of sandy yellow beard.

With the mask shifted, obscuring Zawahiri’s eyes, all former cold composure, and recent desperate fury vanished, leaving only fear, profound fear.

Zawahiri didn’t want to die here; he had undergone a trial once, gifted the best start, his cunning and alertness surpassing all challengers, always believing himself to be chosen...

The scent of blood lingered in his nostrils as Zawahiri stubbornly extended one hand, attempting to pull the final smoke grenade.

Yet the arm stretched only halfway before Chen Zhou’s hands clamped onto it like iron grips.

"Don’t kill me, I beg you!"

Zawahiri uttered in broken Chinese, but received no response.

His arm controlled by Chen Zhou, gradually twisted towards his back.

Human joint structure doesn’t support such extensive twisting, but under Chen Zhou’s relentless pressure, Zawahiri’s arm never halted, steadily and slowly bending contrary to human anatomy.

Beneath the mask, Zawahiri’s face twisted, realizing he had no chance of survival left, cursing Chen Zhou wildly in Arabic.

But soon, he found himself rendered speechless—

Chen Zhou not only broke his joint but contorted the shoulder muscles so intensely that Zawahiri’s skin tore as his arm was wrenched from his shoulder.

The unimaginable pain nearly made Zawahiri faint, yet the agony pulled him back to consciousness repeatedly.

Blood loss made him increasingly pale, adrenaline unable to suppress the layering injuries, the kick to the abdomen manifesting.

His intestines seemed tangled in a mess; Zawahiri momentarily couldn’t discern which area hurt most, knowing only that he was trapped in agony.

...

As anger subsided with the Black-robed Man’s blurred mass of flesh, rational thought reclaimed mastery over Chen Zhou’s mind—

He had torn off both the Black-robed Man’s arms, twisted his leg joints, leaving only a muddle of blood and the barely surviving Black-robed Man.

Throwing the pair of limbs aside, Chen Zhou first rushed to Paul’s side.

Fortunately, Paul’s injuries weren’t severe, his face only slightly pale, one arm unable to lift, knee joint hurt, injuries affecting the bone but not life-threatening, at least some spark still evident in Paul’s eyes.

"Can you still talk?"

"Yes."

Paul pointed to his back with the other hand, indicating it was injured too.

"Feeling somewhat uncomfortable, but nothing major; a bit of rest will suffice.

You should check on Saw-toothed Tiger first."

"Alright."