Seeing Zhao Yunlong collapse to the ground, unable to get back up, Chen Nan squatted down as well, gasping for breath.
He felt that this victory had truly come by sheer luck. Moreover, he had not fought beautifully at all; he had won the match almost entirely by dodging and using clever force.
Not to mention that his opponent would be unconvinced by such a victory—even Chen Nan himself found it exhausting. But he had no other choice. His raw strength was far inferior to the others', so he could only win through such opportunistic tricks.
Zhao Yunlong had already been carried away, his heart filled with unwillingness.
Among their group, he seemed to be the only one who had faced Chen Nan twice and been carried away both times. Was his strength really that pathetic?
Clearly not. In the end, it came down to one sentence: he had strength, but nowhere to use it.
If he could truly clash head-on with Chen Nan, he dared guarantee that within three punches, he would cripple Chen Nan completely.
That was the gap in strength.
Watching Zhao Yunlong being carried away, Chen Nan made a vow: if they had another chance to fight in the future, he would definitely defeat him with real strength.
It was not that Chen Nan did not acknowledge victories won through tactics and skill. Rather, after several battles, he had discovered that such victories were truly exhausting, both mentally and physically.
More importantly, there were simply too many variables in this kind of battle.
Though he had planned everything out, even choosing the Mist Concealment Technique in the first place had been solely for the sake of dealing with this situation.
He had deliberately studied the Mist Concealment Technique, giving himself the ability to shape his own