"We don't want it, we require it," Zhao corrected haughtily, reaching a hand out toward the bento box. "Give it here, cook."
SMACK!
Ji'an didn't even draw her spatula.
She simply flicked her wrist.
The movement was so fast, so entirely devoid of telegraphed Qi, that Zhao didn't even have time to blink. The back of Ji'an's hand connected with Zhao's outstretched wrist.
The newly compressed, hyper-dense kinetic energy of the Dao of the Iron Wok transferred flawlessly.
It sounded like a firecracker going off.
Zhao shrieked, a high-pitched, agonizing wail tearing from his throat. His entire body was lifted off the wooden planks of the bridge by the sheer, absurd physical force of the backhand.
He spun through the air a full three hundred and sixty degrees before crashing violently onto his back, skidding ten feet across the wooden planks, clutching his rapidly swelling, deeply bruised wrist.
The four cronies froze in absolute horror.
