47: Chapter 47: The entire hall was deathly silent, then erupted in thunderous cheers.

The moment Li Meng's body slammed onto the red mat, the air in the stadium seemed to freeze into a solid block. The breathing of 159 million viewers vanished simultaneously; even the slightest cough was stifled in their throats. All that remained was the monotonous hum of the vents at the top of the Octagon, like a taut string.

The referee's hand, holding the countdown board, froze mid-air. The ticking of the stopwatch suddenly became incredibly clear, each sound hitting everyone's nerves like a heavy hammer—only when the hand swept past '5' did he snap awake, raspy counting squeezing out of his throat: "...5! 4!"

Chen Wu's 'Qi' field still enveloped Li Meng's body. The 'Mountain' character mark outlined by the blue-gold energy flow on the youth's back gradually faded, yet it left a breathing halo on the mat, pulsing gently with Li Meng's weak heartbeat. This eerie sight made the nearest referee instinctively take half a step back, as if this weren't a combat match but an ongoing mysterious ritual.

In the VIP box, Elder Zhou suddenly clutched his chest. It wasn't pain, but rather a violent excitement that left him breathless—the beads of blood seeping from the center of Li Meng's back were changing color. Dark green toxins were being forced to the edge of the blood beads by the blue-gold 'Qi' flow, like a scab about to fall off. The old man reached for his tablet with trembling hands, wanting to zoom in for a clearer look, only to find his fingers shaking so much he couldn't even hit the unlock button accurately.

The bullet chat of the global livestream experienced a vacuum at this moment. 159 million real-time comments suddenly ceased; the screen showed only the image of Li Meng lying on the ground and the online viewer count in the upper right corner that no one was paying attention to—160 million. Technical staff at a certain streaming platform thought the System had crashed and scrambled to check the servers, only to find that all data streams were transmitting normally; the viewers had simply collectively chosen silence.

"3! 2!" The referee's voice carried an imperceptible tremor. His finger holding the whistle hovered by his mouth, hesitant to drop it. In his twenty years of career, he had seen KOs, TKOs, and technical knockouts, but he had never seen a scene like this—the downed fighter let out no wails of pain, the victorious Martial Artist offered no celebration of victory, and even the smell of blood in the air carried a strange sense of purification.

Li Meng's right fingers suddenly moved. It wasn't a twitch, but a conscious curling, as if trying to grasp something. Chen Wu's 'Listening Energy' captured the images flashing through the youth's mind: a morning when he was eight years old, Elder Zhou holding his hand as they practiced Taiji in the courtyard, dew wetting their pant legs, and the pages of a Taiji Book rustling in the wind.

"Wake up." Chen Wu's voice passed through the 'Qi' field into the depths of Li Meng's consciousness, like a stone thrown into a deep pool. "Your Master is still waiting for you to finish that set of 'Cloud Hands'."

Just as the referee's countdown was about to reach '1', Li Meng's shoulder suddenly lifted slightly. This movement, no more than five centimeters, was like a match igniting the frozen air—the first thing to erupt wasn't a cheer, but a suppressed gasp from the front row of the audience closest to the Octagon.

"He moved!" A young man in a red T-shirt suddenly bolted from his seat, the glow stick in his hand creaking under his grip. The girl beside him was still covering her mouth and crying, but the moment she saw Li Meng Move, her tears turned into droplets of pleasant surprise, reflecting golden light as they rolled down her cheeks.

This exclamation was like a crack that instantly tore through the entire venue.

"He moved! He really moved!"

"It's not a KO! He can still get up!"

"162 million online! My god!"

The vacuum of the bullet chat was instantly filled as 160 million comments surged out like a bursting dam, making the servers emit an overburdened hum. Because the translation System of an overseas streaming platform couldn't keep up with the processing speed, it mistranslated the 'Mountain' mark as a 'Miracle,' which unexpectedly triggered even more frantic discussion—countless foreign viewers who knew nothing of martial arts began searching for 'Baji Fist Mountain-Leaning Strike,' causing the search volume for related terms to skyrocket by 5000% within three minutes.

Li Meng's body slowly rolled over. As he lay flat on the mat, the entire audience saw clearly: though the youth's eyes weren't yet open, the corners of his mouth curved up in a faint arc. The peace lock on his chest grew intensely hot, and a bead of crystalline sweat seeped from where the red string pressed into his skin, rolling down to land exactly in the center of the 'Mountain' mark.

"It's the peace lock!" Elder Zhou suddenly shouted, his voice hoarse yet exceptionally loud. "That's the peace lock I got for him!" The old man tremblingly raised his own wrist, which bore an identical red string, though the beads had been worn smooth by the years. "To keep him safe... it really kept him safe..."

Chen Wu's 'Qi' flow poured into Li Meng's body through the peace lock. When the blue-gold energy met the warm current of the red string, the youth suddenly began to cough. In the blood he coughed up, the dark green toxins had completely disappeared, leaving only bright red blood. This subtle change was captured and magnified by the livestream camera, and a medical expert at the commentary desk shouted excitedly: "The toxins are being neutralized! This is a medical miracle!"

Li Meng's eyes finally opened a crack. In his blurred vision, the first thing he saw wasn't the blinding lights, but the unfaded blue-gold mark on Chen Wu's shoulder, like a glowing medal. Then he moved his eyes and saw the tearful Elder Zhou in the VIP box, saw the fans outside the cage holding 'Go Mad Lion' signs while wiping away tears, and finally saw his own trembling fingers—the blood under his fingernails was turning a normal red.

"Mas... ter..." His voice was lighter than a mosquito's buzz, yet it was clearly transmitted by the ultra-sensitive microphones at the top of the Octagon.

Elder Zhou's response came fast and urgent. The old man struggled to stand from his wheelchair, not even bothering to pick up the Taiji Book as it slid from his lap, shouting with all his might: "Aye! Master is here!" This sob-filled response acted like a command, instantly igniting the entire stadium.

"Li Meng!"

"Li Meng!"

"Li Meng!"

The waves of shouts from fifty thousand spectators surged from all directions, converging into a golden torrent that struck the stadium's dome. Spectators who had originally held 'Chen Wu Must Win' light signs now turned them around, letting the warm light illuminate both Martial Artists' figures simultaneously. Students from a certain martial arts school suddenly stood up as one, performing a fist-and-palm salute toward the Octagon, the Baji Fist emblems on their school uniforms sparkling under the lights.

The global livestream's online count broke 165 million. Blessings in different countries and languages intertwined in the bullet chat:

 "This is the true Dao of martial arts!" (English)

 "The peace lock is so amazing! The mysterious power of the East!" (Japanese)

 "166 million online! I apologize for questioning Baji Fist just now!" (Korean)

 "Chen Wu didn't just win the match; he won people's hearts!" (French)

When the medical staff rushed into the Octagon with a stretcher, they were nearly knocked over by the tidal wave of cheers. Li Meng shook his head, refusing to lie on it. With Chen Wu's support, he used his still-mobile left arm to prop himself up on the mat, sitting up bit by bit—this simple action cost him all his strength, and the cold sweat seeping from his forehead formed a small stream over the 'Mountain' mark, but it caused the stadium's cheers to rise another eight degrees.

"He's going to stand up!" The commentator's voice carried a sob. "My god! He's going to stand up on his own!"

Li Meng's right hand grabbed Chen Wu's arm, using the leverage to pull his body up. When his feet finally touched the ground, his knees buckled, nearly causing him to fall again, but he was caught steadily by Chen Wu. The youth looked down at his trembling legs and suddenly smiled—it wasn't a smile of mockery or pain, but one of liberation. His left hand slowly traced a Taiji arc in front of his chest; though weak, it spoke more clearly of his current state of mind than any words could.

"Taiji... he hasn't forgotten..." Elder Zhou's tears dripped onto the tablet. On the screen, Li Meng was using every ounce of his strength to repeat the first Move he had learned at age eight. The old man suddenly said to Grandpa Wang beside him: "You were right... the Dao of martial arts isn't about fighting and killing... it's about remembrance... it's about caring..."

Grandpa Wang's bronze statue suddenly emitted a clear, ringing sound. The eight newly carved characters on the base, 'Hardness and softness combined, truly forming a mountain of support,' shot out eight golden beams of light, forming a massive Taiji diagram on the stadium's dome. Blue-gold 'Qi' flowed from the statue, pouring into Li Meng's body along the pillar of light, allowing the youth's trembling legs to gradually stabilize.

This scene plunged the stadium into a brief silence once more, followed by an even more fanatical eruption of cheers. Spectators waved their glow sticks, forming a flowing Taiji diagram in the stands that echoed the light and shadow on the dome. A famous director posted on social media: "This is more exciting than any script—violence and redemption, technology and tradition, hatred and forgiveness, all found their most perfect interpretation within this Octagon."

As Li Meng walked out of the Octagon supported by Chen Wu, the audience spontaneously parted to form a path. The glow sticks on both sides formed a golden arch, as if welcoming back a returning hero. Fans in red battle robes handed over their supporting items—not to Li Meng, but to Chen Wu. A little girl stood on her tiptoes and pressed a peace lock tied with a red string into Chen Wu's palm, saying in a milky voice, "Uncle, this is for you, to keep you safe."

Chen Wu leaned down to take the peace lock and tied it together with Li Meng's. The two red strings intertwined under the lights like two blood-connected rivers. "Thank you," his voice carried a sincere warmth. "When he's better, we'll teach you Taiji together."

As Zhang Tao was being escorted through the passage by the special forces, he suddenly stopped. It wasn't to struggle, but to gaze at the surrounded Li Meng, a complex mix of emotions flashing in his eyes—unwillingness, jealousy, but more so, a kind of liberation. As he was led out of the stadium, he suddenly shouted toward the sky: "Grey Shadow... will not let you off..." But this threat was quickly swallowed by the cheers, like a stone thrown into the ocean.

In the VIP box, Elder Zhou was helped into his seat by medical staff. The old man's blood pressure had returned to normal, yet he tightly gripped that Taiji Book. The remnant page recording the 'Mountain-Toppling Strike' was glowing, the ink forming a new line of annotation: "The endgame of the Martial Dao is not conquest, but the salvation of others."

In the final moments of the global livestream, the online count froze at 170 million. The camera slowly pulled back, taking in the entire stadium: the 'Mountain' mark in the center of the Octagon was still glowing, the golden human tide in the stands formed a flowing Taiji diagram, the light of the VIP box was like a warm star, and in the night sky outside the cage, a new star stood facing Grandpa Wang's bronze statue from afar.

"Today's match concludes here," the commentator's voice carried an unprecedented solemnity. "But I believe this is not the end, but a beginning—about the Martial Dao, about justice, and about the most precious light within human nature."

As Chen Wu helped Li Meng into the ambulance, the youth suddenly grabbed his hand. "Can I... still practice Taiji?" The question was exceptionally clear amidst the wailing sirens.

Chen Wu's 'Qi' passed through their clasped palms, carrying the ancient strength of the bronze statue and the softness of Taiji: "As long as you want to, it's never too late."

The ambulance lights pierced the night, stretching the two leaning figures very long. The cheers from the stadium still echoed from afar, like a never-ending hymn. Chen Wu looked up at the starry sky, and the newly appeared star happened to flicker once, as if responding to some ancient promise.

He knew the match in the Octagon was over, but the real battle had just begun. The shadow of Grey Shadow had not yet dispersed, and the threat of the Genetic Medicine still existed, but as long as the light of the Martial Dao did not fade, as long as there were still people willing to believe that a 'Mountain-Leaning Strike' could not only knock down an opponent but also awaken a Soul, justice would never be absent.

And this miracle witnessed by 170 million people would eventually turn into seeds, taking root and sprouting in the hearts of countless people, growing into a forest that resists the darkness. For the true mountainous roar is never a momentary cheer, but the eternal resonance triggered by justice and kindness in the depths of human hearts.