...Ah!"
The abruptly cut-off scream reached everyone's ears, brief and jarring.
Frost and snow drifted through the air. Most had yet to recover from the gong's clang, but when they looked closely again, the situation in the arena had changed.
Lian Youming released his hands, and a limp heap collapsed to the ground.
The man's spine was broken, his ribs were broken, both arms were broken, and his right leg had been broken too.
Splintered bone, exposed tendons, spraying blood mist-the sight was utterly gruesome.
But the man was still alive.
At least his eyes could still move, though he could no longer speak. His ribs had punctured his lungs, leaving him able only to rasp and groan.
"Ha!"
Lian Youming tipped his head back and let out a long breath, as though exhaling a mass of boiling heat that became a long ribbon of white mist in the air, like a dragon or flowing water. As his breath escaped, blood poured from the boy's mouth and nose, but his eyes remained calm and cold.
Yet something else had happened in the arena.
In fact, around the moment the gong sounded, someone had shouted.
"How dare you!"
But the deafening gong had drowned it out.
Amid the white curtain of snow, a short, powerfully built figure pushed off his chair and vaulted into the air, rising and falling as swiftly as flight. Two broad, fleshy palms swept down from above toward Lian Youming with the force of a collapsing mountain.
The Flower Fist King, Ao Fei.
His beloved disciple had died a gruesome death, and he could no longer stay seated.
But another figure moved faster.
The old man in the seat of honor gave a cold smile. His right index and middle fingers brushed the teacup beside him, then