From the start of the match until now, he had kept his head lowered.
The shadow of his conical hat concealed his face. No one could make out his features, much less his expression at this moment.
He wore a simple azure robe, with an ordinary red cord tied around his waist and a pair of straw sandals on his feet.
From head to toe, he exuded an air of utter simplicity.
This simplicity was not deliberately cultivated modesty, but something natural and seamless.
It was as though he was meant to be this way, as though all prosperity and clamor had nothing to do with him.
Yet when such a person slowly rose to his feet, the eyes of everyone present were involuntarily drawn toward him.
His movements were slow.
He first raised his head slightly. Beneath the shadow of his conical hat, the sharply defined outline of his jaw could vaguely be seen.
Then, he reached out and pressed a hand against the hemp rope at his waist before slowly standing up.
He was not tall, and could even be called somewhat thin.
Yet the instant that seemingly frail figure stood fully upright, everyone present felt an indescribable pressure.
It was not the pressure of an aura.
There was not the slightest leakage of cultivation aura from his body. He was like an ordinary mortal who had never cultivated.
Yet that sense of oppression was undeniably real.
It was as though his very presence represented some truth, some law, some existence that could not be questioned.
"Who... who is he?"
Someone in the spectator stands instinctively asked the question.
From the beginning of the match until now, this young man in azure robes and a conical hat had remained seated in that corner, motionless and silent.
He had