Well Done! Forgot to Wipe It Off!

Ten meters. Fifteen meters.

With a boom, his back slammed into the ground at the edge of the training field. Dirt sprayed 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 moved from its spot.

Then, amid everyone's stunned stares, he spoke again as though adding a clarification.

"Sorry." He tilted his head and scratched his messy hair with one hand, putting on the look of someone who had just remembered something embarrassing. His lazy eyes narrowed, and an indifferent smile rested at the corners of his lips.

He looked toward where Li Yusong had fallen.

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

He yawned, and the hem of his sleep robe swayed with the motion.

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

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

Tang San's pupils contracted to their limits.

He had seen the entire process. The instant Li Yusong came face-to-face with Yang Xing, he reacted. All six Soul Rings were released, his Soul Power formed a protective barrier around his body, and the Panlong Staff swung out in tandem. A level sixty-three Soul Emperor's full-power burst, from judgment to execution, had taken less than half a second.

That reaction speed would have been considered exceptional even among 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 the slightest 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 seasoned Soul Emperor flying fifteen meters.

Tang San's Adam's apple bobbed.

A Soul Saint? Or even a Soul Douluo?

Once that 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 Title Douluo. That was too absurd. Whether Yang Xing's seventeen- or eighteen-year-old face was preserved youth or his true age, the term Title Douluo sounded utterly ridiculous when placed beside him.

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

Alarm bells blared in Tang San's mind.

Zhu Zhuqing stood where she was.

Her usually cold expression finally could not hold.

Her lips parted slightly, and Yang Xing's figure, which had not shifted from its original position from beginning to end, reflected in her catlike eyes. The shock in them could not be concealed.

Six Soul Rings had been shattered with one kick.

Not broken through. Shattered.

It was as effortless as an adult crushing a child's clay toy in their hand.

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

And he looked so young.

She had originally thought Yang Xing was an old monster skilled at preserving his youth. But now, looking at the messy lipstick marks all over his face and the laziness and unruliness that seemed to seep from his 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 perhaps even younger.

For a moment, complicated thoughts churned in Zhu Zhuqing's heart.

Dai Mubai had stiffened into a stone.

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

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at Li Yusong, 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 too weak?

The answer was obvious.

Xiao Wu gripped Tang San's hand so tightly that her fingertips had gone white.

Her instincts had been proven right.

Yang Xing was strong. Absurdly strong.

For some reason, her sixth sense, born from her instincts as a Hundred-Thousand-Year Soul Beast, screamed 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 made her feel that they were "dangerous, but escapable."

The person before her made her feel that there was "nowhere to escape."

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

And Ning Rongrong, who sat on the ground.

Her pale little face had eyes so bright they practically shone.

"Wow!"

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

"Hit him, hit him, well done!"

Just moments ago, she had been miserable beyond measure. Yet now she smiled brilliantly, as though she had not been chased down seven times by a Soul Emperor and nearly seriously injured.

Yang Xing had done all 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 eyes at close range—eyes whose cheeks still bore tear tracks but had already begun to shine—Yang Xing's lips curled up unconsciously.

"Alright."

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

Ning Rongrong instinctively tilted her head aside, pursed her lips, and wore that familiar haughty expression. Her eyes were still red, and her tears had not dried, yet she stubbornly lifted her chin slightly to preserve that ridiculous bit of pride.

But she did not dodge.

A faint red glow surged from Yang Xing's palm, flooding over Ning Rongrong's entire body like a tide.

The effects were immediate.

The scrapes, bruises, and exhaustion from overusing her power faded from Ning Rongrong's body at a visible rate beneath the red glow. Color returned to her pale face, her scattered focus gathered again, and her depleted Soul Power began to replenish.

Only five seconds passed.

Ning Rongrong felt as though she had changed from a wrung-out rag back into a lively, flopping fish.

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

"Good disciple Rongrong, get up."

He stood and reached out, pulling Ning Rongrong up from the ground.

Once she had steadied 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: dark red, pale pink, deep purple, orange-red. They densely spread from his cheeks all the way down his neck, and even covered his exposed collarbone. There were so many of them, in such a wide variety of colors and locations, that it was obvious they had not been left by one person.

Ning Rongrong's mind buzzed.

Her gaze slowly swept over 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 shifted from blankness into an indescribably oppressive gloom.

"Liar Master, your face..." Her voice sounded normal as she asked calmly, "What are these?"

Yang Xing blinked.

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

Oh.

He had forgotten to wipe it off.