Inside the martial arts tournament venue.
Everyone stared intently at those two figures.
The martial artists from various countries were one thing, but ordinary people had never seen anything like this. Cries of astonishment and strange shouts erupted in an uproar.
Lian Youming looked closely and saw that the iron-staff lama's team had also been cobbled together, with Asians, black people, and white people of varying strength.
He also noticed a young monk standing below the platform, with rosy lips and white teeth. He too wore saffron robes, with a thick layer of dark stubble on his head. He looked neither startled nor flustered, but exceptionally calm.
Yet, whether it was his imagination or not, Lian Youming noticed that the boy seemed to glance at him too.
That was rather extraordinary.
He looked down from above, at least sixty or seventy meters from the platform. Only his inhuman eyesight allowed him to take in every detail on it. Yet that young monk could look toward him amid the packed audience, among this sea of people, and even detect someone else's gaze. How could he be ordinary?
Boom!
With a dull crash, both men on the platform moved at once.
The old lama swung his staff into action. With a twist of his waist, he whipped that enormous pestle-like staff up in one hand and brought it crashing down at the head of the mysterious, strange man named Nalan Wushe.
Nalan Wushe's eyes were dark and unfathomable. He strode forward and lowered his center of gravity, sitting his hips back as he crossed his arms and raised them overhead. He actually intended to take the blow head-on.
The attack appeared unremarkable, but when the staff in the old lama's hand fell soundlessly...
The platform beneath their feet suddenly shook, then collapsed