Once the mist dispersed, everyone was disappointed by what they saw. They had thought Wen Ning's attack would at least do some damage to the Evil Flood Dragon.
Instead, the Flood Dragon was completely unharmed.
There was only a scorch mark on the largest scale on his forehead, without so much as a crack.
He shook his head and raised a foreclaw.
One swipe sent Wen Ning crashing to the ground.
Wen Ning went flying, pulling a full three-hundred-and-sixty-degree Thomas spin in midair.
Then he smashed through a weeping willow as thick as the mouth of a bowl on the riverbank, rolled several times across the ground, and finally landed facedown in a puddle of muddy water.
Every inch of him hurt. It felt as though Wen Ning had just been struck by a hydraulic press.
He heard Zhang Siyu shout something in the distance, but he couldn't make it out. The Flood Dragon's blow had left his ears ringing, as if countless cicadas were shrilling inside them at once.
Then he heard another voice. This one was far too close for the ringing to drown it out, because the creature speaking was just above his head.
The Flood Dragon spoke with a hint of surprise and amusement, like a cat toying with a mouse that had dared to fight back.
"You've got some skill. That strike of Thunder Arts actually made my forehead hurt a little."
Wen Ning watched the Flood Dragon rub his forehead.
Slowly, he braced his hands against the ground and got up, wiped the mud from his face, and looked up at the dragon's head, which was larger than his entire body. He grinned.
"A headache, huh? Good. This stuff's great for headaches. Want another dose?"
The Flood Dragon flicked his tail, sending several loose