Gray-white fragments of law kept flaking from the edges of the tear that ran through his right arm. The pain made him clench his teeth, but his face betrayed nothing.
As he passed the edge of the Arena on his way out, he glanced down at the shattered pieces of the giant hammer scattered across the ground.
The largest fragment still bore half a forged pattern.
The pattern ended abruptly at the break, like a word left half-spoken, never to be finished.
Zhurong paused for a breath, then walked on. Behind him, the remains of the flaming dome finally crashed to the ground and became one last sea of fire.
Several breaths later, it slowly died out, leaving only scorch marks and ash across the ground.
"Blacksmith, in the end, I won this battle."
"But you were strong."
At the edge of the Arena, Zhurong cast one long look behind him. Then he turned and left, his figure vanishing into the darkness.
For a moment, the entire crowd fell silent.
The cultivators watching from the Origin Continent had never imagined that Iron Hammer would lose.
After all, his attacks at the start had been so fierce that they had almost thought victory was at hand.
But reality had played a cruel joke on them.
He had lost. Iron Hammer had lost, suddenly and without warning.
A battle they had been certain he would win had ended in defeat.
Countless cultivators still wore stunned expressions. The shock had not faded from their faces.
They stood rooted to the spot, staring in silence.
"I... I really saw that right, didn't I? Iron Hammer lost. He's dead."
"Yes, you saw it. He died at the hands of the Chaos Ancient Clan. I saw it with my own eyes. I'll never forget this."
"If