"Perhaps. But I still stand by my judgment. Perhaps your ideas and way of thinking aren't wrong, but you may not necessarily be able to achieve them. So, do you want to make a wager with me?"
Although Meng Zhao had known Yan Congke only briefly, he had already gained a deep understanding of the man. In particular, through the Sword Intent revealed by the sword marks on the thick wall, he could see past the surface and strike directly at the core.
Rather than a swordsman, this man was better described as a gambler—a gambler through and through, utterly mad.
His so-called sword of resolve, charging forward without hesitation, was in truth a kind of gambling art. Either he achieved great success, or he suffered utter defeat.
For now, he was still safe and sound. He had yet to encounter anyone capable of breaking his sword, so he could barely be considered to have achieved great success. But good fortune would not remain at his side forever. Sooner or later, he would meet someone who would defeat him.
Given Yan Congke's temperament, the day he suffered defeat would likely be the day he died.
Meng Zhao still cherished this man's talent in the sword path. He intended to act first and free Yan Congke from this fate of either great success or utter defeat.
He had deliberately used the phrase "make a wager." He believed that, given Yan Congke's personality, he would certainly accept this bet and would not shrink back.
Sure enough, upon hearing the word "wager," Yan Congke immediately came alive. Sword-like light flashed in his eyes, while his surging battle intent steamed upward like boiling water. "You want to wager with me? What are we betting on? How?"
At some point in his life, apart from