The Bald Strong Man's internal cultivation had already reached the Postnatal Great Perfection Stage. He also cultivated the Minor Azure Yuan Dharma Body Art, and though his body-tempering skill was rather lacking, his arm strength was astonishing. With his flesh alone, he possessed the power to lift a cauldron.
That was why he could wield this broadsword weighing over a hundred jin as though it were an embroidery needle—swift without losing its lightness, ingenious and ever-changing. This was precisely the realm of lifting heavy things as lightly as feathers.
This savage smash had drawn upon every bit of his inner force and his own blood and qi, yet in the palm of that pretty boy's hand, it could not stir up the slightest ripple. It was completely and utterly suppressed.
The shock it brought came from the depths of his heart. The gap between him and this pretty boy was that between an ant and a true dragon. How had he ever dared to attack him?
Regret gnawed at his heart like venomous snakes, yet he had no choice but to admit that he had brought this upon himself.
His usual overbearing arrogance and conceit had greatly dulled his instincts. He had clearly known that this young man was of extraordinary status and had ample confidence, that he was not someone to provoke, yet he had stubbornly and arrogantly chosen to oppose him.
What was more, he had already known that the other party had slaughtered dozens of his subordinates with a single move, that he was no match at all—yet he had still attacked him as if he had lost his mind. Was that not seeking death?
But there was no medicine for regret in this world. He had to pay the price for what he had done.
Still,