Miao Wu still wanted to say more, but Chen Duan interrupted him again, leaving him no choice but to stop.
In any case, Miao Wu had offered his advice. Having gone this far, no one could find fault with him.
If Steward Hu asked about it later, he would have an answer that held up.
Naturally, Miao Wu did not know that beneath Chen Duan's words lay more than arrogant confidence—he had other considerations as well.
True techniques were strange and varied. Secondhand information heard before a fight might not be comprehensive or accurate. Instead, it could cause one to form preconceived notions, disrupt one's mind, and affect one's judgment.
It was better to cast aside distracting thoughts, meet all changes with constancy, and use one's own fists and feet to gauge the opponent's depth.
Round after round of blood fights came to an end.
Soon, the arena was given another cursory cleaning. The referee stepped onto the platform and loudly announced the matchups for the next bout.
It was time for Chen Duan to take the stage.
It was now the break before the match.
Chen Duan rolled his neck, then suddenly turned his head and smiled at Miao Wu.
"Little Miao, if you want to make some money, go bet on me to win. If you want to make a fortune, bet on me beating that Short-legged Wolf to death."
Miao Wu froze when he heard Chen Duan's words.
This Lord really dared to say anything!
Over the years, there had been more than one or two Martial Masters who had declared they would beat Short-legged Wolf to death. Yet that Madman was still alive and kicking, while his opponents had either died or been crippled.
However, seeing the extreme confidence on Chen Duan's face, Miao Wu inexplicably