Well Fought! Forgot to Wipe It Off!

Ten meters. Fifteen meters.

With a boom, his back slammed into the edge of the training ground. Dirt flew everywhere, and a cloud of dust rose beneath the moonlight. A muffled groan and cry of pain came from within the dust.

Yang Xing withdrew his leg.

His other foot had not even shifted from its spot.

Then, amid everyone's stunned gazes, he spoke again as though adding an explanation.

"Sorry." He tilted his head and scratched his messy hair with one hand, looking as if he had only just remembered something. His lazy eyes narrowed, and an indifferent smile curled at the corners of his lips.

He looked in the direction Li Yusong had been sent flying.

"Seems I didn't put it accurately. I do have a reason to hit you."

He yawned, the hem of his nightgown swaying with the movement.

"After all, I'm Rongrong's good master."

The training ground fell deathly silent for a full three seconds.

Tang San's pupils contracted to their limit.

He had seen the entire process. The instant Yang Xing closed in, Li Yusong reacted. All six soul rings were released, his soul power formed a protective barrier around him, and the Panlong Staff swung out at the same time. A level-sixty-three Soul Emperor's full-force burst—from judgment to execution—had taken less than half a second.

That reaction speed was already among the best for soul masters of the same rank.

But it had been useless.

Yang Xing's kick had not even summoned a soul ring. There was not even a trace of soul power flowing around him. It had been a simple kick. Yet it shattered the defense formed by six soul rings and sent a battle-hardened Soul Emperor flying fifteen meters.

Tang San's Adam's apple bobbed.

A Soul Sage? Or even a Soul Douluo?

Once the thought formed, he could no longer suppress it.

Tang San's back stiffened for a moment, and his fingers stopped rubbing the jade in his hand. He did not consider the possibility of a Titled Douluo. That was too absurd. Whether Yang Xing's youthful face was the result of preserving his appearance or his true age, the words Titled Douluo and the person before him were simply too ridiculous together.

But the possibility of him being a Soul Sage or Soul Douluo was high.

Alarm bells rang wildly in Tang San's mind.

Zhu Zhuqing stood where she was.

The cold expression she always wore finally could not hold.

Her lips parted slightly, her catlike eyes reflecting Yang Xing's figure, which had not moved from its spot from beginning to end. Uncontainable shock filled her gaze.

Six soul rings had been shattered with one kick.

Not broken through. Shattered.

As effortlessly as an adult crushing a child's clay toy in their hand.

Zhu Zhuqing reached a conclusion similar to Tang San's. At that level of strength, there were only a handful of people in the entire Star Luo Imperial Family who could compare.

And he looked so young.

She had originally thought Yang Xing was some old monster skilled at preserving his youth. But now, looking at the chaotic lipstick marks all over his face, at the laziness and wild unconcern that seemed to radiate from his very bones, Zhu Zhuqing suddenly felt that he might truly not be that old.

If he really was young.

If he was truly only in his twenties, or even younger.

For a moment, complicated thoughts surged through Zhu Zhuqing's heart.

Dai Mubai had gone stiff as stone.

The expression on his face had frozen, shifting between light and dark. He no longer dared to think about what would happen next. After Yang Xing and Ning Rongrong finished whispering over there, what if Ning Rongrong complained to her master that he had threatened her and hunted her down...

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Li Yusong, who was still struggling in the dust fifteen meters away, unable to get up.

Was Ning Rongrong's mysterious master simply too strong, or was Teacher Li just too weak?

The answer was obvious.

Xiao Wu clutched Tang San's hand, her fingertips already white.

Her instincts had been confirmed.

Yang Xing was strong. Absurdly strong.

For some reason, her sixth sense, born from the instincts of a hundred-thousand-year soul beast, was screaming madly at her. Leave. Leave. Get as far away as possible.

That feeling was completely different from facing high-level soul beasts in the Soul Hunting Forest. High-level soul beasts felt "dangerous, but escapable."

The person before her felt like "there is nowhere to run."

Xiao Wu shrank behind Tang San, revealing only half her face. Her large eyes were wide and round as she stared at Yang Xing's back in wary panic.

As for Ning Rongrong, sitting on the ground—

Her pale little face was lit by eyes so bright they seemed ready to glow.

"Wow!"

The sound burst from her throat, carrying irrepressible excitement, satisfaction, and a trace of proud gratitude.

"Hit him, hit him! Well fought!"

The girl who had been utterly bedraggled moments ago now smiled brilliantly. It was as if she had not just been chased down seven times by a Soul Emperor and nearly seriously injured.

Yang Xing had done all of this in no more than two or three minutes.

He turned around and walked back to Ning Rongrong.

Then he crouched down.

Meeting those sparkling almond-shaped eyes at close range—eyes that still bore tear tracks on her cheeks but had already begun to shine—Yang Xing's lips unconsciously curved upward.

"Alright."

He raised his right hand, palm down, and placed it on Ning Rongrong's head.

Ning Rongrong instinctively tilted her head aside, pursing her lips as that familiar proud expression surfaced on her face. Her eyes were still red, and her tears had not yet dried, yet she insisted on lifting her chin slightly to preserve that ridiculous bit of pride.

But she did not dodge.

A pale red glow poured from Yang Xing's palm, washing over Ning Rongrong's entire body like a tide.

The effects were immediate.

The scrapes and bruises on Ning Rongrong's body, along with the weakness caused by excessive exertion, visibly faded beneath the red light. Color returned to her pale face, her scattered focus gathered again, and her depleted soul power began to refill.

It took no more than five seconds.

Ning Rongrong felt as though she had gone from a wrung-out rag to a lively, flopping fish again.

Yang Xing withdrew his hand and smiled as he patted the top of her head.

"Good girl, Rongrong. Get up."

He rose and pulled Ning Rongrong up from the ground.

After steadying herself, Ning Rongrong instinctively brushed the dust from her white dress. Then she looked up at Yang Xing's face, which was covered in lipstick marks.

Her expression froze.

The marks came in all sorts of colors—deep red, pale pink, dark purple, orange-red—densely spread from his cheeks down to his neck, with even his exposed collarbones bearing them. There were so many, in such varied shades and such widespread locations, that it was obvious they could not have been left by one person.

Ning Rongrong's mind buzzed.

Her gaze slowly swept across those lipstick marks. One, two, three... she counted seven or eight different colors.

Seven or eight.

Different colors.

Different people.

Ning Rongrong's frozen expression turned blank, then the blankness became an indescribably oppressive gloom.

"Liar Master, your face..." Her voice sounded as calm as usual as she asked lightly, "What are these?"

Yang Xing blinked.

He lowered his head to glance at his exposed shoulder and collarbone, then raised a hand to touch his cheek. His fingertips brushed over a dark red mark, staining them with color.

Oh.

He had forgotten to wipe it off.