At the strange sounds, which went from dull thuds to sharp cracks, some faces had already turned ashen, their owners trembling like leaves.
Looking again, they saw that Lian Youming's tightly locked fingers had come apart at some point.
At his feet, Bai Meng lay flat on his back with his limbs spread wide, a splash of blood surrounding his body. His bones kept snapping and cracking, as though his entire frame were coming apart.
That single slam had left no part of him intact, inside or out.
Sure enough.
Blood rapidly suffused Bai Meng's eyes. He did not even grunt, his gaze filled with defiance. Yet even as he lay dying, he struggled with immense difficulty to look toward the short sword on his right foot.
I clearly wounded his sole. How did I still lose?
Then Bai Meng understood.
The short sword had actually bent.
With that one glance, the light swiftly faded from Bai Meng's eyes. His tightly closed pores opened, oozing a layer of dark red blood. He had been slammed to death on the spot. Lian Youming's being lifted first had actually been an opening he deliberately offered.
Since he could channel the strength of his entire body through his feet, how could blades or swords hurt them?
Once Bai Meng died, the Muslim experts outside the fighting area tried to step out of the crowd, but Gan Xuansu waved them back.
Anyone present who was not blind could see that Lian Youming no longer feared cold steel. He might not have been indestructible, but he was close to impervious to blades and spears. These Muslims might have excelled at assassination and covert killings, but against someone with equally formidable offense and defense and an invincible body, they would undoubtedly be like mantises trying to