Wasn't It Supposed to Be Begging for Mercy on Your Knees?

Li Zhong and Hua Jinsong wore unprecedentedly grave expressions.

The two exchanged glances, each seeing a trace of relief in the other's eyes.

"Old Tu's strength is evenly matched with mine. If we fought to the death, neither of us would have a clear advantage."

Hua Jinsong said in a deep voice.

Li Zhong nodded thoughtfully.

"I'm confident I could make Old Tu admit defeat within three hundred moves."

After a pause, he added, "But I can't suppress Old Tu in a single move."

The two exchanged another look, their shock deepening.

Old Tu had been beaten into such a state, which meant that if it had been them, their fate would not have been any better.

But how was that possible? How could a newly advanced Fourth Grade Martial Artist so completely crush an experienced Lower Fourth-Grade Grandmaster?

"Amitabha. This Constable Yang is likely the butcher's blade that the Iron Garment Division prepared long ago."

Master Yunmu said, "This monk can foresee that over the next thirty years, the Iron Garment Division will revolve around Constable Yang as its central pillar.

"We will likely have no shortage of dealings with him."

Grim expressions surfaced in Lu Yunshuang, Yan Jiuling, and Pei Buqi's eyes.

The implications behind Master Yunmu's words were already obvious.

Even if this Constable Yang could not advance to become a Third-Grade Great Grandmaster, reaching the Upper Fourth Grade within thirty years was practically guaranteed.

With such cultivation, he indeed had the qualifications to lead the Iron Garment Division's various missions and operations from the forefront.

In the Zhao Kingdom, the Iron Garment Division held a highly unusual position.

On the surface, its responsibilities—pursuing bandits and maintaining public order—had nothing to do with the sects.

In reality, every major sect, including first-rate sects, had to submit to