Chapter Fifty-Seven: Dragon Claw Technique

As a modern individual, his skin was already far superior to that of people living over 2,500 years ago. His primary life gene had further transformed him, and at a height of 1.8 meters, the length of his exposed legs was astonishing. His skin was as pale and smooth as cream, while his thighs and calves displayed full, sleek, and rounded curves where the muscles swelled—arcs of exquisite beauty. Even though he was male, even in the real world, anyone who saw such a pair of legs would be compelled to praise from the bottom of their heart: “What legs!” Some might even lick their lips and offer a heartfelt compliment: “Beautiful legs!”

Expressionless, he took off his trousers, then slipped off his shirt as well. Now, his body was nearly bare, clad only in underwear and shoes—and, of course, his hair ornaments.

You felt a surge of powerful emotions:
Shock +1, +1, +1…
In an instant, Yan Luo absorbed eleven points of shock—the scribe and ten muscle-bound men, each contributing one.

The impact of Yan Luo’s physique had already been displayed in Athens. His figure was tall and slender, yet without appearing frail; he possessed a considerable degree of muscle, but these muscles never seemed excessive. Gymnasts in the surface world, under high-intensity training, sometimes develop overgrown muscles, and those who train purely for muscle mass often end up looking awkward or artificial. Yan Luo’s foundation was already excellent, and on top of that, the bioengineering of the primary life gene had further refined his form.

Here, among the Arcadians and Mycenaeans—the ten athletes—their builds were akin to modern Western muscle men, though their heights couldn’t compare to modern standards; after all, without genetic enhancements, improvement takes generations. Most of these athletes stood about 1.7 meters tall, the tallest at 1.75—short and stocky. Their skin was sun-baked brown, many bore scars, and their hands were broad, fingers callused and rough.

If these men were rough clay jars, then Yan Luo was fine white porcelain—the contrast only heightened the visual impact. The elderly scribe even gasped, “A demigod hero like Achilles—perhaps no more than this…”

“No,” Yan Luo spoke. Raising his arms, he struck a few poses to display his muscles and physique, continuing, “Achilles may have been stronger, but he could never have matched my beauty.”

It was not boasting—devoid of emotion and under the restraint of a sage’s composure, he was simply stating what he believed to be fact.

Yan Luo’s words were certainly arrogant. But the scribe could find no counterargument. Having received athletes from all the city-states at every Olympiad, he’d seen many impressive bodies, but never one quite so striking—yes, in ancient Greece, physical vigor was the standard of beauty. At the Olympics, athletes would anoint themselves with olive oil to darken their skin. Yet weren’t marble statues white? The Greek ideal of “strength” and “beauty” reached its historical zenith in this era of the West, and Yan Luo’s physique was the epitome of both.

“Hmph.”

Beside him, one of the ten naked men snorted in disdain.

Yan Luo turned to look at him. The man, confronted by Yan Luo’s calm, utterly unclouded gaze, felt his confidence evaporate and could not speak another word.

Yan Luo walked to the front of the wooden table, bent down, and hefted it onto his shoulder in one motion.

Now he understood why, to test an athlete’s fitness, they were made to carry a table and run a lap around the temple. The table weighed at least thirty kilograms, about the same as his dragon-staff. Without proper nutrition and muscle, an ordinary citizen or slave would find it difficult to lift, let alone carry it around the temple.

Of course, Yan Luo could do it—and with ease. His strength, speed, flexibility, and coordination, already at a peak due to genetic modifications, put him on par with the world’s elite athletes—here, he was unrivaled! Two and a half millennia ago, people were certainly not as well-nourished, nor did they benefit from scientific training.

Moreover, since entering this world more than ten days ago, he had trained diligently with the dragon-staff, further improving his strength.

Clunk!

After completing a lap with the table, Yan Luo set it down on the ground. “I’ve passed, haven’t I?”

“Of course!” The old scribe, suppressing his astonishment, replied, “Tomorrow is the opening ceremony. All athletes except those in the chariot race must participate, or it will be considered forfeiture. Don’t forget.”

“Understood.” Yan Luo was about to put his clothes back on when the first warrior of Arcadia, Cornelius, blocked his way.

“Someone like you could never win the Olympics, yet you dare sign up for every event,” Cornelius said, pressing so close his chest almost touched Yan Luo’s. With a scornful curl of his thick lip and a slight tilt of his nose, he stared Yan Luo down in challenge. “Look at your skin—it’s as pale as a woman’s.”

“Is that so?” Yan Luo replied evenly. “Look over there…” He raised his hand and pointed.

Cornelius turned—and faltered. There stood Hermes—a marble statue, its whiteness rivaling Yan Luo’s own.

“Are you insulting the gods, saying their skin is like a woman’s?” Yan Luo asked.

“Of course not!” The muscular youth stepped back awkwardly; to insult the gods in this era was a grave crime. He changed the subject. “But your muscles—are they a match for mine?”

Arcadia’s champion was the most muscular of the ten—reminiscent of those in the surface world who, in pursuit of bodybuilding glory, resorted to steroids and became superhuman in size. Of course, he wasn’t quite as exaggerated, but every bit of his bulk was hard-earned.

Cornelius flexed, his muscles swelling with the effort, especially his chest, which seemed to inflate like a balloon. His greatest pride was his pectorals—when flexed, they rivaled some women’s.

In today’s world, they might even be called a C-cup…

“Look at the size of my chest!” he boasted.

“What’s the use of size?” Yan Luo replied flatly. “Big, but it ought to be hard as well.”

Cornelius’ eyes widened. He gathered his strength, and his already bulging chest stretched outward to the sides, hardening like iron.

“It should also be able to bounce,” Yan Luo continued.

The muscleman promptly contracted and released, making his pectorals bounce up and down.

“And it should make a sound when it jumps.” Yan Luo watched the rippling chest.

Cornelius’ expression stiffened, but a moment later he regained his confidence. With a sneer, he rubbed his chest, producing oily, squeaking sounds as flesh and skin slid together.

“Well?” the youth asked, chin raised in pride as he puffed up his chest again, swelling it to a C-cup size.

You sensed powerful emotions:
Pride +3

Yan Luo stood silently for a few seconds. Suddenly, he lifted both hands and placed them on the muscleman’s pectorals.

“What are you doing?” Cornelius was bewildered.

“Are you familiar with the technique known as the Dragon Claw Breast Grab?” Yan Luo asked.

Suddenly, he curled his five fingers into claws, digging his nails deep into the flesh. Then, with his right hand turning clockwise and his left counterclockwise, he twisted with all the strength of his “primary life” body—gripping the full, C-cup-sized pectorals and wringing them like steel cables, twisting them 180 degrees as if winding hemp.

“Aaaahhh—!”

A piercing, pig-like scream rang out…