Fallen God Icefield.
Inside the Independent Space carved out by the Bone Spirit Cold Fire.
Dead silence reigned.
Whatever happened outside had nothing to do with this place.
Whatever happened in this world had nothing to do with the outside.
Looking at his slightly purpling palm and the damage caused by that strike, Yao Lao, wearing a Mask, was mildly surprised. Yet with the Mask covering his face, his expression could not be seen. Only the casual flick of his hand suggested how relaxed he was.
At least, that was how it looked.
Of course.
In reality, it was more or less the same.
Throughout the process, the greatest injury Yao Lao had suffered was merely subcutaneous bruising, as evidenced by his slightly purple palm.
Quite a few children who had been given a good spanking understood this.
After getting beaten.
Redness and swelling were only the most basic injuries.
Or rather, the baseline.
They were only natural.
If there was not even any redness or swelling, it was practically the same as not having been beaten at all. At the very least, there would be no marks left on the body—though that only applied to family discipline.
Purple marks and bruises.
That was what counted as truly getting beaten up.
It meant some capillaries had burst, or at the very least become congested with blood.
Of course.
On a child.
Under normal circumstances, such marks would fade in three to five days.
Though this method of education was not encouraged.
It could not be denied that pain did leave a deep impression.
What one gained from books was always shallow in the end.
To truly understand something, one had to experience it personally.
Practice was the only truth.
Geniuses capable of drawing inferences from one example were not everywhere.