The backflow of air swept through in a fierce gust, stirring up the dust and smoke on the battlefield and carrying Chen Chuan's words in every direction.
Rosad, not far away, and the many administrators of the White Rock Long Hall all heard him. They fell silent.
Although those words were directed at Cawington, they sounded inexplicably grating and uncomfortable to their ears. Yet the astonishing crater in the ground and the mangled flesh scattered across it left no doubt that the question was entirely justified.
Meanwhile, several kilometers away, at the temporary site to which the Lockdown Hall's visitors had been relocated, the Old Emperor Kapa stood by a window with a stemmed glass in hand. His eyes were fixed on the battlefield, the crimson drink swirling in his glass. When he heard those words, interest and a certain appreciation appeared on his face.
As a Throne Fighter, he could naturally tell that Chen Chuan was still a Mystic Hall Fighter.
Yet what had he just witnessed?
A Throne Fighter had been pinned down and beaten right from the outset. Although the man had not fully recovered his strength and had yet to unleash all his power, a Throne Fighter was still a Throne Fighter. In Kapa's era, such a thing would have been utterly unimaginable.
"Interesting." He raised his glass and took an elegant sip.
Chen Chuan gazed down at his feet. Cawington's performance was indeed mediocre. His strength and speed did not even match those of the opponent Chen Chuan had faced that day.
This was not merely because captivity had weakened him. There was something deeply discordant about him, as though his mind and body had been forcibly pieced together. According to Rosad, part of his power had been obtained from that entity, so this was