Li Xingchen, having been judged so by Meng Zhao, could no longer suppress the surge of blood in his chest. With a puff, he spat out a mouthful of blood. His spirit was utterly listless as he sat in the wooden chair, his gaze murky and dim, like a puppet that had lost its soul.
Compared with the Li Family young master who had previously been high-spirited, radiant, and razor-sharp, he seemed like an entirely different person.
The outward shell was still the same—unmatched in handsomeness—but his bearing and aura had indeed changed drastically.
Li Ya'er and Li Xinglu's expressions changed. They hurried to Li Xingchen's side to examine his injuries and found that his meridians had only suffered minor damage, while his internal organs were bleeding. He could not circulate his martial power for a short time and could only recover slowly through herbal medicine. Otherwise, there was nothing seriously wrong.
Though his injuries were not light, they were not overly severe either. At last, they were relieved.
Although Li Ya'er desperately wanted to win Meng Zhao over and form an alliance with the Meng Family, seeing his nephew—on whom the family had pinned such high hopes, and who was also his blood relative—reduced to this state filled him with rage and heartache. He turned and glared at Meng Zhao. "Young Master Meng, this was merely an ordinary sparring match. Why did you strike with such cruelty? Your intentions are far too vicious."
His anger was understandable. Meng Zhao's move had nearly crippled Li Xingchen outright.
Not physically, of course, but in spirit, in will, and in martial arts.
If a peerless genius possessed only an empty shell without a soul, then how was he any different from a cripple?
If this matter reached the family, he, Li Ya'er,