Imperial Capital, beside the Y9 parking bay at a military airport.
In the back seat of a military jeep, Zhang Yansheng sat shoulder to shoulder with his son, Zhang Pengcheng. The air inside the vehicle seemed frozen solid.
Uncle An, who was driving, gripped the steering wheel without moving an inch, his body like a dutiful stone statue.
After a long while, Zhang Pengcheng was the first to crack.
He opened his mouth, only to accidentally tug at the half of his face that had swollen high, making him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.
Zhang Yansheng looked at his son's swollen head, so badly puffed up it was almost unrecognizable, and at the arm hanging in a sling across his chest. The corner of his eye twitched uncontrollably.
But what could he do?
There was an unwritten rule in Hua Nation's martial arts world—at least among the major powers. As long as the younger generation's fights were not malicious assaults and no one died, the elders were not allowed to interfere at will.
After all, the path of prodigies was smooth enough to begin with. If they lost a spar against their peers and had to run home to fetch their parents, wouldn't that mean they had raised nothing but a bunch of good-for-nothings?
Of course, when it came to what counted as "maliciously injuring someone," there were plenty of ways to define it.
"Dad, tss—I'm telling you, Min Zimo and Su Mo, those two rotten bastards, definitely did it on purpose!" Zhang Pengcheng complained indistinctly.
"I was working out just fine in the gym last night. They came in and provoked me, saying that all I trained in the gym was dead strength, completely useless..."
Zhang Yansheng couldn't listen any longer and barked, "Shut up!"
Zhang