And yet.
Lao Qing did not dodge at all.
He merely raised his right hand slightly, the five fingers that had hung at his side spreading open in an instant.
Pale and slender, they even looked somewhat delicate.
But the instant that hand opened, a faint peal of ancient thunder rang through the air-the explosive crack of air compressed by overwhelming force!
Clang!!!
It was the deafening crash of metal against metal.
Wild sparks blossomed in Lao Qing's palm.
But.
Every explosion, every ounce of impact, came to an abrupt halt, as though they had struck an invisible wall of despair.
The smoke and dust cleared.
Lao Qing still stood where he had been, without a single crack in the asphalt beneath his feet.
His left hand remained tucked in the pocket of his suit trousers.
And his right hand.
It had actually clamped around that glowing-hot 155 mm shell!
The shell's tail flame still hissed, but it could not advance another fraction of an inch.
Crack.
Lao Qing exerted a little force.
The solid warhead, powerful enough to pierce two hundred millimeters of armor, began deforming and twisting in his palm like a soda can. Then he gave it a casual squeeze.
Pff.
A lump of scrap iron fell to the ground with a dull thud.
Dead silence.
The Jiaolong Guard, General Sang Kun's troops.
Even the Huaxia compatriots who had thought they were certain to die.
The gathering of thousands fell so quiet that a pin dropping could have been heard.
Zhang Hu's Adam's apple bobbed. He had prided himself on being a "flood dragon," but faced with this sight, he suddenly felt he might not even qualify as a mud loach.
"Mr. Chen... his bodyguard... just what kind of monster is he?"
Lao Qing raised his head