The Master Arrived! The Bearing of the Strong!

Ning Rongrong's cry for help pierced the night sky.

The staff descended, less than half a foot from her forehead.

Everyone's hearts skipped a beat.

Then—

A hand reached out from thin air.

Its five fingers spread open, casually blocking the Dragon-Patterned Staff head-on.

Bang.

A dull thud rang out. The staff struck the palm without budging in the slightest, like a chopstick poking a city wall.

Li Yusong's pupils shrank to pinpoints in that instant.

The owner of that hand stepped out from the void before Ning Rongrong. His figure went from nonexistent to hazy, then clear, all within the span of a breath.

He looked like a young man, with the face of someone seventeen or eighteen.

He wore a fine brocade sleeping robe, its sash hanging loose and half his shoulder exposed, revealing his collarbone and muscular contours beneath the moonlight. His hair was a mess, like a bird's nest, with several stray locks plastered to his forehead.

Most outrageous of all was his face.

His cheeks, neck, and even the exposed half of his shoulder were densely covered in lipstick marks. Dark red, pale pink, dusky purple—every color imaginable, as though someone had stamped his face seven or eight times.

He looked exactly like a debauched playboy.

Yet his fingers closed around the tip of the Dragon-Patterned Staff.

It did not move at all.

The night wind drifted by.

Everyone on the field got a clear look at the young man who had appeared out of nowhere.

And at his hand.

That hand had casually caught the full-force blow of a level sixty-three Soul Emperor with five fingers.

Yang Xing yawned.

He glanced downward.

The girl in the white dress lying on the ground had disheveled short hair, a face drenched in sweat, and skin as pale as paper. She was looking up at him with a dirt-smudged little face and an indescribable expression in her eyes.

Yang Xing yawned again.

"Why are you screaming?" His voice was muffled, thick with the irritation of having just woken up. "It's the middle of the night. Why aren't you asleep?"

He paused, looked over Ning Rongrong's bedraggled state, and frowned slightly.

"My good disciple, how did you end up in such a sorry state?"

Ning Rongrong lay on the ground as tears spilled out uncontrollably.

It was not grievance. Nor was it fear. It was an emotion she had suppressed for too long, one she only dared release after someone had caught her.

"Why did you come so late?!" Her voice was hoarse and shrill, trembling with tears. There was resentment in her tone, but also the faint, moving relief of finally being able to let go. "I nearly got beaten to death! You liar of a master!"

Yang Xing looked down at her for two seconds.

His expression was somewhat helpless.

He vaguely remembered that, in the original story, Ning Rongrong had indeed gotten into a major conflict with Shrek during her first two days at the academy. It had even become quite serious. He had been too busy moving into his new home, building up the city lord's residence, and spending his days and nights with sixteen maids, so he had completely forgotten about it.

Of course, there was also the unconscious reassurance from knowing that Ning Rongrong had been perfectly fine in the original story.

After all, she had turned out fine there.

But looking at her little face, so pale it was utterly bloodless, Yang Xing awkwardly scratched his own cheek. His fingertip brushed over a lipstick mark before pulling back.

"Alright, alright. It's fine now." His voice softened, as though he were soothing a cat with its fur standing on end. "Master's here."

Ning Rongrong's nose stung, but she clenched her teeth and said nothing more.

Yang Xing's gaze left Ning Rongrong's face and fell upon the white-haired old man before him.

Li Yusong still gripped the Dragon-Patterned Staff. But his hand was trembling.

Not from fear. From shock.

His full-force strike as a level sixty-three Soul Emperor had been caught with one hand by a young man who looked seventeen or eighteen.

Caught.

Not blocked. Not countered.

Five fingers had pinched the staff's tip as though it were a fire poker, leaving it utterly motionless.

Li Yusong exerted more force. The Dragon-Patterned Staff did not budge.

He added another thirty percent.

Still, it did not budge.

That hand seemed welded to the staff's tip.

Li Yusong's pupils constricted violently. He raised his head and met Yang Xing's gaze.

Those eyes were half-lidded, carrying the languid drowsiness of someone not fully awake. It was as if he were looking at a mosquito that had accidentally flown in front of him.

There was no hostility. No anger.

Only indifference.

Cold sweat instantly soaked Li Yusong's back.

This feeling was not unfamiliar to him. In his youth, when he had frequented spirit fighting arenas, he had once glimpsed a Soul Douluo passing through the city gates from afar. That person had merely swept his gaze over him, yet it had chilled the then-Soul Ancestor-ranked Li Yusong from head to toe.

It was exactly the same feeling.

No, even stronger.

The young man before him emitted no soul power fluctuations whatsoever. He was quiet as a pool of dead water. Yet it was precisely that stillness that made every hair on Li Yusong's body stand on end.

Unfathomable.

And far too young.

Even if someone had methods to preserve their youth, their bearing and bone structure could not deceive others. Everything about the man before him carried an innate casualness, nothing like the mannerisms of an old monster who had cultivated for decades or centuries.

That made Li Yusong even more uneasy.

The less he could see through him, the more terrifying he was.

"Who are you?" Li Yusong's voice sank. He loosened his grip on the Dragon-Patterned Staff but did not withdraw it. The staff lay horizontally before his chest in a defensive stance.

Yang Xing did not answer.

His hand released the staff tip. Casually, as though letting go of a useless branch.

The Dragon-Patterned Staff sprang back into Li Yusong's hand, humming twice before settling.

Yang Xing took a step forward.

Just one step.

Li Yusong's body instinctively retreated half a step.

The instant that half-step was complete, the old man's expression changed. He realized that he had retreated. A level sixty-three Soul Emperor had instinctively taken a step back before a young man whose depths he could not fathom.

Humiliation.

But he had retreated. His body had been more honest than his mind.

Yang Xing did not continue advancing.

He stopped in front of Ning Rongrong, turning slightly to stand between her and Li Yusong.

His posture was as casual as though he were waiting for someone by the roadside.

His sleeping robe hung loosely on his body, his exposed shoulder and neck covered in lipstick marks of every color. His messy hair stuck up in all directions, and his eyes remained lazily half-open. His entire presence radiated, I was just dragged out of a warm bed and I'm very unhappy about it.

Yet with that posture, so obviously full of openings—

Everyone found it perfectly natural on him.

As though this was how the truly strong were meant to be. Unkempt, nonchalant, and simply by standing there, becoming the rules themselves.

The training ground fell utterly silent.

Tang San's gaze fixed on Yang Xing's back.

His eyes gradually turned grave.

From the instant Yang Xing appeared, Tang San had been assessing him. One hand had caught a Soul Emperor's full-force strike, without releasing soul rings, without any soul power fluctuations—pure physical strength crushing everything.

This was already beyond the scope of what he could assess.

Dangerous.

Extremely dangerous.

Without drawing attention, Tang San shifted his center of gravity half an inch backward. His right hand hung by his waist, his thumb unconsciously rubbing the jade on his belt.

Zhu Zhuqing stood behind and to Tang San's side.

A trace of astonishment remained on her eternally icy face.

This was Ning Rongrong's master?

The mysterious person who had taught Ning Rongrong Wind Empress Qimen?

When Ning Rongrong had displayed those unimaginable abilities during the day, Zhu Zhuqing had already formed an image of this "master" in her mind. She had considered countless possibilities: a reclusive expert, a white-haired elder, an unmatched powerhouse in an ancient mountain temple.

She had never imagined a debauched playboy with lipstick all over his face, draped in a sleeping robe, looking as though he had just emerged from a brothel.

But that oppressive presence was real.

Zhu Zhuqing's catlike pupils contracted. She could feel the hairs on her back rising one by one. As an agility-attack-type Soul Master, her perception of danger was far keener than ordinary people's.

Ning Rongrong's mysterious master was strong.

Strong enough to make her instinctively wary and tense, while also stirring an unconscious desire to explore.

The thought flashed through her mind before she suppressed it.

Xiao Wu stood at Tang San's side.

Her reaction was completely different from everyone else's.

The moment Yang Xing appeared, her pupils had dilated. Shock, surprise, curiosity—those emotions had indeed existed for the first two seconds.

But when Yang Xing casually pushed aside Li Yusong's staff, frightened off a level sixty-three Soul Emperor, and then stood before Ning Rongrong with that lazy yet powerful bearing—

Xiao Wu's sixth sense suddenly tightened.

It was as though something had exploded within her.

Fear.

Unexplained, groundless fear surged from the deepest part of her body.

To her senses, the young man in the sleeping robe standing barely ten meters away was not human.

He was a primordial beast that could not be approached.

A black hole that swallowed all light.

Her instincts were screaming, urging her to leave.