On a stretch of snow pocked with craters from blasting force, Ji Rulin—the burly man with a fierce temperament and wild air—was utterly unlike his usual self. His eyes were blank, his mouth slightly open. As he panted and touched his chest, he felt both loss and lingering terror.
Too fast. It had been far too fast. So fast that, despite spending all night thinking it over yesterday and simulating all kinds of battle scenarios again before the fight, he had never expected victory and defeat to be decided so swiftly.
In truth, when Meng Zhao had defeated the experts put forth by those clan elders yesterday, Ji Rulin had seen him strike. He had indeed been clean and decisive, never needing more than one move. He had looked formidable.
But only formidable. He had not given Ji Rulin an invincible impression. He had merely seemed like an exceptionally accomplished technical fighter, with martial prowess like Butcher Dissecting Ox—skill triumphing over strength.
That was why he had been brimming with confidence, believing that the sheer might of the Raging Tide Furious Whale Art could completely offset his opponent's technical advantage. He had thought he could win through force and momentum, or, at worst, exchange dozens or even a hundred moves before narrowly losing.
Yet the course of events had completely exceeded his expectations.
He could not tell what technique Meng Zhao had used. Perhaps it had been a palm art, perhaps a fist art, or perhaps merely a blast of true qi. Yet it carried an incomparably tyrannical, boundlessly powerful Martial Dao Will, leaving him unable even to withstand a single move before he was defeated outright.
Indeed, if Meng Zhao's martial arts had not already reached the realm where he could retract and release his power at will, Ji