He stood nearly a hundred meters taller than Xiangliu.
The giant looked down at the Nine-Headed Serpent.
All six people on the island craned their heads back, their necks bent at almost ninety degrees.
Yang Wanqing's mouth formed a perfect circle.
In her twenty years of life, she thought she had seen plenty while following her master. But this—
A man had become a mountain.
The talisman in Ying Wenjie's hand fell. He did not even notice.
Qin Xiaoyu stared fixedly at that enormous figure, its sky-blotting silhouette reflected in her pupils.
Wu Tian swallowed.
Ye Chendong's sword hand dropped to his side.
Chen Siyao stood behind all the disciples, looking up at her brother.
Wind blew in from the sea, sweeping over the giant's shoulders.
The next second, Chen Hao moved.
No spiritual energy. No spells. No talismans or magical treasures.
One punch.
A pure, utterly primal punch.
His fist smashed into Xiangliu's leftmost head.
The sound was not a boom, but a dull, solid crash, like an entire building being smashed apart.
That head's skull caved in beneath his fist. Dark red scales shattered, their fragments spraying out like rain. Xiangliu's body lurched to the right, and its remaining eight heads let out piercing shrieks.
One was not enough.
A second punch.
A third.
Chen Hao did not punch quickly. He could even have been called slow. Every punch was unhurried, without a single wasted movement. Draw back his fist, turn his waist, punch.
The path of his power was clearly visible—from the soles of his feet to his hips, from his hips to his shoulders and back, and from there to his fist.
But every time a punch landed, a head exploded.
A fourth punch. A fifth.
In the livestream footage from the shore, visible sound waves