Bernard and the others couldn't contain their elation when they saw the Australian man collapse to the floor, unconscious.
Tracy had won!
None of them had expected her to take victory so easily. Jeff was a renowned master of acupuncture. His reputation echoed across continents, revered even by skeptics. Yet here he was—defeated.
It turned out Tracy really was an expert.
Ever since Jasper had been humiliatingly bested by Jeff years ago, the Traditional Medicine Association of the U.S. had carried the weight of that loss in their hearts. It festered—a silent, collective shame they'd long yearned to expunge.
Jeff hadn't just beaten Jasper. He'd humiliated him. After returning to Canada, he'd even held a press conference to boast about the match, walking through every detail of Jasper's defeat like a boxer reliving a knockout. That day had left a mark too deep for pride to erase.
Jeff had paraded that victory like a badge of honor. He recruited disciples from all over the world, luring in those infatuated with acupuncture and eager to follow a so-called undefeated master.
That very press conference had driven the Traditional Medicine Association of the U.S. into a frenzy of resentment.
But they'd been helpless.
They had lost. Nothing they could say would change the outcome. Silence became their only refuge.
Years passed.
And now Jeff had come to challenge them again—only to be effortlessly defeated by Tracy.
The bitter taste of resentment finally turned sweet in their mouths.
But they'd conveniently forgotten one thing…
Before this match, they had all rushed to distance themselves from Tracy. Eager to preserve their own names, they'd drawn a clear line between her and the Association.
Now, as they bathed in her victory, that hypocrisy hung over them like a shadow.
Meanwhile, Jeff scowled, still on his feet, eyes burning with unwillingness.
"I haven't finished the eleventh stab," he said coldly. "It's too early to declare victory."
Of course he wasn't ready to concede.
He gripped his final needle and mimicked the exact method he had used at the beginning. But this time, there was a subtle difference—one only a true expert would notice.
At the tip of the needle, a faint golden current shimmered to life.
Jeff was using vital energy to amplify his acupuncture.
This was the infamous technique of the Ghost Hand—a forbidden art that was both potent and self-destructive.
This golden stream bore a slight resemblance to the life energy of cultivators, but it was something else entirely. Derived from ancient American methods, the technique had traveled across the ocean to Canada. But Jeff and his ilk had never learned the complete system.
They possessed only fragments.
And because of that, each time Jeff used this technique, it tore at his insides, damaging him severely.
Still, in a desperate bid to turn the tables, Jeff pushed forward.
Buzz!
The needle vibrated as it pierced an acupoint on John's body. The golden current surged into his meridians, designed to disrupt his internal energy matrix.
Jeff was sure—this would change everything.
But…
As with the tenth stab, the expected reaction didn't come.
John stood still.
Unshaken.
He had sensed Jeff's underhanded move from the previous needle already. But John hadn't bothered to expose it.
In his eyes, Jeff's so-called advanced techniques were nothing more than feeble parlor tricks.
The golden current that entered his body?
Devoured instantly by his own life energy.
Effortlessly.
Jeff's eyes widened in disbelief as he cried out, "How… How is this possible?! Why aren't you reacting?!"
His voice cracked with panic.
Sure, it was already strange that John hadn't flinched at the tenth needle. But now, after he'd used the fortune needle, and infused it with vital energy, still no reaction?
No flinch.
No muscle twitch.
Not even a frown?
How?!
Didn't John realize what kind of psychological damage that kind of calm inflicted on his opponent?
Jeff was speechless.
He stared, stunned, his confidence unraveling like thread in a fire.
And then, John finally moved.
But it wasn't a wince or a grimace.
He smiled.
A faint, playful curl of the lips.
"Mr. Colter," John said, his voice laced with mockery. "Have you ever heard the word copycat?"
Jeff blinked. "What… what are you talking about?"
"I mean," John said coolly, "the technique you use was passed down from our country. You're just a student trying to challenge your teacher. And you didn't even finish your training. Isn't that a bit… shameless?"
The moment his words dropped, the golden acupuncture needle embedded in John's body shot out—zipping through the air and piercing Jeff's body in return.
But that wasn't the truly terrifying part.
Each of those needles hit precisely the same acupoints Jeff had just struck on John's body.
Not a millimeter off. Every depth was matched—exactly 0.5 inches deep.
The entire room gasped in unison.
What kind of supernatural acupuncture was this?!
"You… You're also a master of acupuncture!" Jeff cried, his pupils shrinking in horror.
In that instant, he realized the terrifying truth.
The young man standing before him wasn't some fluke or lucky bystander.
He was a monster in human skin.
Jeff had barely enough time to register the pain in his pierced meridians before his body seized. The backlash of using the Ghost Hand technique without success had already begun to tear him apart from within.
A mouthful of blood sprayed from his lips.
And just like his disciple…
He collapsed.
Dead silence.
The entire hall went still. Not even a breath.
The members of the Traditional Medicine Association of the U.S. stood frozen, their minds blank.
They had already been stunned by Tracy's miraculous display of acupuncture.
Now they were forced to witness another, even more devastatingly profound.
John's Theurgy.
They had dismissed him.
Ignored him.
Even looked down on him.
Now, they watched, jaws slack, as this unassuming young man effortlessly humiliated a so-called legendary master of their art.
Two titans of acupuncture—hidden in one small Feazer Medical Clinic?
What kind of place was this?
With necks stiff as stone, Bernard and the others slowly turned to look at Holbrook, hoping for an explanation—anything.
But Holbrook wasn't feeling generous.
He still bore a deep grudge toward the directors who had once dismissed both him and Tracy.
Instead of answering them, he turned to Jeff's disciples and snapped, "Your teacher's lost. Get out of here!"
Then, with no hesitation, he turned back into the clinic and came out wielding a broom, clearly intending to physically chase them off.
Truthfully, by the time Jeff hit the ground, his foreign disciples—with their rainbow of skin tones—had already scooped him and the other foreigner up and were halfway out the door.
They didn't need to be told twice.
They had no face left to show.
As Holbrook gave a few lazy swings of the broom after them, they scurried out the clinic and vanished from sight.
But Holbrook didn't put the broom down.
Instead, he turned toward Bernard and the other board members, sweeping furiously at the ground near their feet with a look of disgust.
"Get out of here too," he spat. "Bunch of bad luck."