Above the Bluestone Arena, the dust slowly settled, and the violently scattered force subsided, leaving only fine cracks and scattered sword marks across the ground.
Supporting his aching, numb body, He Jiugang slowly rose from the cold stone surface of the arena.
Waves of intense pain still churned through his chest and abdomen. The thick taste of blood lingered in his throat, his meridians were drained and hollow, and his blood and qi fluctuated unsteadily.
The injuries from being sent flying into the railing by that earlier punch still throbbed. Every breath tugged at his damaged organs, bringing lingering waves of dull pain.
He lowered his head slightly, closed his eyes, and regulated his breathing for several breaths. Forcing down the chaotic blood and qi within him, he gradually smoothed out and steadied his disordered breathing before slowly raising his eyes to regard the young man standing ahead with a calm yet complicated gaze.
Yang Jing still stood quietly in the center of the arena, straight as a pine, deep as a still pool and imposing as a mountain. His robes remained neat, his breathing steady and long. He had not moved half a step, nor had he shown any intention of pressing his advantage.
At the end of their battle, He Jiugang had lost the ability to fight. His severely injured body had flown backward and crashed miserably to the ground, leaving him utterly at his opponent's mercy.
At that moment, his true qi had been exhausted, his body and mind spent, and he had possessed not the slightest strength to resist.
Had Yang Jing been ruthless and followed up his attack, he would not have needed much strength. A single additional punch would have cemented his crushing victory and inflicted such grievous injuries that He Jiugang would have