Yang Jing's back tensed slightly, and a sense of gravity welled up within him.
Shen Lie was already the toughest opponent in the Seventh Arena. Now that he bore some inexplicable hostility toward Yang Jing, he would likely show no mercy if they met in the ring.
Yang Jing steadied himself and fixed his gaze on Shen Lie, not daring to let his guard slip for a moment.
Whatever the reason for that hostility, he had to stay fully alert from here on. One careless mistake, and he might not come away unscathed.
On the platform.
Shen Lie stood to one side, facing Liu Biao of Xingwu Hall with an indifferent expression, as though his opponent were beneath notice.
Liu Biao was a skilled fighter at Bright Strength Peak and came from a powerful lineage. Shen Lie's arrogance kindled his anger. With a low shout, he twisted and punched, his Fist Wind fierce as it shot straight toward Shen Lie's face.
Just as the fist was about to strike, Shen Lie moved.
His feet did not shift an inch. He merely lowered his right fist slightly, then drove it forward.
The punch looked utterly ordinary, yet it carried the crushing weight of a collapsing mountain-a killing move from Pashan Fist.
"Thud!"
Their fists collided with a muffled impact that made everyone's eardrums tremble.
The ferocity on Liu Biao's face froze, replaced by pain and disbelief.
His attack shattered like an egg striking an iron plate. As though struck by a heavy hammer, he flew backward, utterly unable to control his body.
He landed heavily at the platform's edge several yards away, spat out bloody froth, and could not get up again.
From the first move to the finish, only a single breath had passed.
The crowd below fell silent, then