The moment the two crossed paths, the Tianshuang Sword slashed down diagonally, cutting across the burly man's chest.
A line of ice stretched from the burly man's left shoulder to his right ribs.
His body staggered forward two more steps from momentum before crashing to his knees.
He lowered his head to look at the icy line on his chest and reached out to touch it. Before his fingers could make contact, the line suddenly spread. Frost burst from the wound, freezing him from the inside out into an ice sculpture.
The ice sculpture remained kneeling, frozen upon the arena.
Bing Yekong sheathed his sword and turned toward the stands.
He was the only one still standing on the arena.
The black-robed referee raised a small flag. His voice was not loud, yet it carried throughout the entire venue. "The winner of this match is 9507."
The stands fell silent for an instant before erupting into even louder cheers.
Some shouted, "9507!" Some applauded, while others tore up the slips in their hands and tossed them into the air.
Bing Yekong stood at the center of the arena, listening to the noise without expression.
The black-robed referee approached from the edge of the platform and handed him a black clay jar.
"Your spoils," the referee said. "The blood of eight people is all in there. You can keep it for yourself or trade it for supplies."
Bing Yekong accepted the jar and weighed it in his hand. It held roughly two or three cups of Bloody Mary.
He nodded and turned to walk off the arena.
The uproar behind him continued, but he never looked back.
Over the next fourteen days, Bing Yekong did only two things each day.
At dawn, he meditated and cultivated. Then he went to the