On the Vermillion Bird Platform, the two stood at opposite ends, more than ten zhang apart, silently facing each other.
Yuwen Ba was not in the least anxious. He was waiting—waiting for the martial artists and commoners rushing in from every direction within Weijing.
He was clearly deep within enemy territory.
Yet he was not worried at all. Instead, he acted as though he were on his home ground.
A few days ago, he had still feared that his opponent might flee without fighting.
But over these past days, that Southern Sword, Lu Wu-bing, had turned clouds with one hand and rain with the other. From the imperial court to the streets and alleys of the capital, he had carried out a thorough purge. After drilling troops and preparing for war, Yuwen Ba knew this matter was settled.
There were many experts in the world, yet not that many.
Those who had truly fought their way through countless bloody battles were fewer still.
Cultivation realms meant nothing, and secret arts meant nothing either. Who was strong and who was weak ultimately depended on personal ability.
From a very young age, Yuwen Ba had known that it was people who were formidable in this world, not divine arts or secret techniques, nor martial cultivation realms.
A truly formidable figure could wield an ordinary weapon and use commonplace martial arts known to every street vendor, yet still remain undefeated and without equal.
And he was a born God of War. Over several hundred battles in his life, he had never lost once.
Today, naturally, he would not lose either.
"You did not flee overnight. I am greatly comforted. Soon, before the people of Southern Li, I will beat you into a pile of mush. I will tell the myriad nations and foreign