Ninety-Nine Victories · Killing Intent Tempers the Imprint
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Ninety-eight matches.
Nan Feng stood in the corner of the stone house, his fingertips carving the ninety-eighth mark on the rock wall. Each mark represented a life-or-death struggle.
He spent two months in the Slaughter City, where the Power of Creation healed his hidden injuries and the Gravity Field tempered his body.
Soul Power level 30. This is the number I've had since the first sacrifice ring, and it hasn't changed in two months. Thirty is a multiple of ten, and without absorbing Soul Ring, I can't advance any further.
With the Fallen One's Mark reduced by 10% and the arena area reduced by another 10%, the actual combat strength is between level 24 and 25.
Old Huai's face was clearly visible in the Tower Spirit Space.
"Ninety-eight matches. Add one more and it'll be ninety-nine." Old Huai snorted. "One hundred trials, the last two are the life-or-death battles."
Nan Feng sat cross-legged on the stone bed, his consciousness sinking into the Tower Spirit Space.
The time flow rate stabilized at 1.2:1; one day and one night inside the tower was equivalent to twenty hours outside. The gap in the door on the third floor widened slightly.
He opened his eyes and looked at the red ribbon on his left wrist.
The braided rope that Xiao Wu had woven had faded quite a bit, and the knots were worn and frayed. He touched it and remembered the morning exercise on the back hill of the Nuoding Academy, when the girl with the scorpion braid kicked him into the river.
"Tower Simpleton, come back alive."
The ninety-ninth match is in three days.
The stands were filled with the fallen, their faces cast a ghastly green by the dim green lights. Nan Feng emerged from the passageway.
"Tower Master" Slaughter City. Ninety-eight consecutive wins, and the opponents are getting stronger and stronger.
Nan Feng walked to the center of the field and stood still.
Footsteps came from the opposite passageway.
A man walked out.
He was a head taller than Nan Feng, with dark, iron-gray skin covered in old scars. His right hand was twice the size of his left, with fingertips gleaming with a dark gold hue.
The Martial Soul is a giant warhammer with dark red lightning patterns wrapped around its head.
Five Soul Ring swirled around him: white, yellow, purple, black.
Soul King, Level 59.
Nan Feng scanned the opponent's martial soul with his Treasure-Appraising Spirit Light. The opponent's Martial Soul was a blunt weapon-type Power Attack System, and with the suppression, it was actually around level 53.
"So you're the Tower Master?" the man asked, his voice low and husky. "I heard you fought ninety-eight matches, all victorious. I fought forty-two matches, also all victorious. Today, one of us has to lose."
Nan Feng's gaze fell on the other person's right foot. His Treasure-Appraising Spirit Light detected a disordered fluctuation at that ankle.
Old injuries will affect explosive power.
"Start--"
A dry, rattling sound came from the highest point of the stands.
The man moved.
The warhammer swept across, and dark red lightning exploded on its surface, carrying lightning-attribute Soul Power.
Tower Realm.
A cyan-gold barrier unfolded, and gravity suddenly increased within a ten-step radius.
The warhammer was dragged slightly, its trajectory deviating by half an inch. Nan Feng dodged to the side, his right shoulder grazing the hammer's surface, and a patch of his sleeve was scorched.
He didn't back down; he took a step forward.
Bone Spike shot out from the man's left arm and pierced his right ribs.
The man slapped the side of the Bone Spike with his left hand. Nan Feng was knocked back three steps. Only a white mark remained on the tip of the Bone Spike.
The warhammer swung down in a wide arc. The Nan Feng's Gravity Field reversed, shifting him two feet to the side. The hammerhead struck the spot where he had just been standing, cracking the ground.
Nan Feng squinted, his Treasure-Appraising Spirit Light locking onto the other person's right foot.
He dodged three more heavy blows, each time leaving a shallow crater in the ground.
The Nan Feng was hit.
The fourth strike was a feint. The man changed direction halfway through the strike, sweeping the hammer handle horizontally. Nan Feng crossed his arms to block in front of his chest.
The force slammed into his arm. He was sent flying, his back hitting the rock wall ten paces away.
Two ribs are broken.
Nan Feng knelt on one knee and coughed up a mouthful of bloody saliva. His left arm, from shoulder to wrist, was numb.
It's dislocated.
"The Tower Master is nothing special." The man strode forward, his warhammer dragging on the ground. "Ninety-eight wins. That's it."
The Nan Feng raises its head.
My left arm hung at my side, and the excruciating pain from the dislocated bone spread from my shoulder to my fingertips.
The man's right ankle showed a noticeable disruption in the flow of Soul Power after the outburst; his old injury had flared up again.
Nan Feng stood up, supported his left arm with his right hand, and twisted it sharply.
The dull thud of the bone realigning was clearly audible in the arena. He gritted his teeth and remained silent.
"You have an old injury on your right ankle," Nan Feng said.
The man's expression changed. He pulled his right foot back half an inch.
The Tower Realm unleashed its full power, and the third layer of Power of Creation poured out from the crack in the door. The first chapter of the Mountain Suppression Art was activated simultaneously.
Double suppression. Tower Suppression Tower Realm.
The man's body suddenly sank, and the yellow sand beneath his feet collapsed by nearly an inch. His Soul Power was suppressed to around level 53.
He roared, swung his warhammer, and dark red lightning exploded.
The Nan Feng is faster than him.
Twenty steps in one step. His figure disappeared for half a breath. The man only saw a blur flash past on the left, and a sharp pain came from his right ankle.
Bone Spike sprang from his left arm, piercing the site of an old wound and penetrating half an inch deep, causing blood to gush out.
The man lost his balance.
Nan Feng's right hand solidified the illusory image of the tower into a physical form, and the three powers of Mountain Suppression, Devouring, and Creation poured into the tower.
The sledgehammer struck the warhammer.
The deafening roar caused the spectators in the stands to cover their ears. The warhammer flew out of their hands and embedded itself half a foot deep in the rock wall.
The man's hand was split open, the skin cracked from his palm to his wrist, and blood gushed out.
Nan Feng took a step forward. The tower hammer transformed into a tower shadow, and the tower shadow transformed into the Tower Realm, disappearing into his right fist. The suppressing power condensed into a golden light membrane on the surface of his fist.
He punched the man in the chest.
The man spat out a mouthful of dark red blood, flew through the air, and tumbled more than ten times before coming to a stop.
His warhammer Martial Soul retracted into his body, and all five Soul Ring extinguished. A large section of his ribs collapsed, and blood from the corner of his mouth was mixed with fragments of internal organs.
He propped himself up with his elbows, but his right arm gave way, and he collapsed back into the yellow sand.
A fallen man in a gray robe in the front row stood up.
"Tower Master--!"
The second shout, the third shout—the shouts surged down from the stands.
Nan Feng stood in the center of the arena, his left arm hanging at his side, the golden light on his right fist dissipating. There was blood at the corner of his mouth, and the wound on his back was still bleeding.
His back was very straight.
He turned around and walked towards the exit. After taking three steps, he paused and turned to look at the northeast corner of the stands.
A gaze was watching him from the shadows, quiet, sharp, and carrying a familiar aura.
The Primordial World Power.
Nan Feng's gaze met that stare for a fleeting moment. The figure moved, turned, and disappeared into the darkness.
Nan Feng didn't give chase. He needed time to recover.
Hu Liena leaned against the rock wall at the exit, waiting for him. A small section of her broken fox tail had grown back.
The ice membrane of the Ice Marrow maintained suppression on the outer layer of the curse.
"Ninety-nine wins." Hu Liena handed over a small bottle of dark green liquid, a healing potion from the Slaughter City. "Drink it. If you win the next match, you can challenge Hell Road."
Nan Feng took the medicine bottle and gulped it down. The liquid tasted bitter as it went down her throat, then turned into a warm sensation. The pain subsided.
"When you delivered that final punch, the golden light within your soul was blindingly bright." Hu Liena tilted her head. "You stirred up the killing intent throughout the entire Hell Slaughter Arena."
"Have you fully mastered the first chapter of your Mountain Suppression Art?"
Nan Feng did not deny it.
At the moment when the killing intent reached its peak, the Primordial World Imprint deep within the soul was activated on its own. A golden power surged from the Soul Core, and the Qi-guiding method of the first chapter of the Mountain Suppression Art Technique was completely mastered under the onslaught of killing intent.
The power of suppression is no longer limited to the physical body and Soul Power; it has begun to touch the realm of the soul.
"What do you plan to do after you achieve 100 wins?" Hu Liena asked.
"Hell Road."
Hu Liena was silent for two seconds, then smiled. That smile was devoid of calculation.
She reached out and patted him on the right shoulder.
"Then let's go finish the hundredth match."
She turned and walked deeper into the alley. After a few steps, she glanced back at Nan Feng.
"I saw it too when you looked in the northeast corner. There was a presence in that figure."
"Tower Master," Nan Feng said.
Hu Liena's smile faltered for a moment. Without saying anything more, she turned and disappeared into the depths of the alley.
Nan Feng returned to the stone house and sat cross-legged on the stone bed.
The broken ribs have been repaired by the Power of Creation and the medicinal liquid, and the left arm joint has been stabilized again.
Half of the Old Huai's face emerged from the tower wall.
"You've mastered the first chapter of the Mountain Suppression Art. The incantation for the second chapter has already surfaced in your soul, but it's not time to cultivate it yet," Old Huai said. "You need to reach at least the Soul Emperor level to withstand the second chapter."
The Nan Feng nodded.
Two months of Hell Slaughter Arena trials, ninety-nine battles, and the Primordial World Power condensed into liquid.
Inside the Tower Spirit Space, the resonance of the fourth fragment has stabilized. The gap in the third layer of the door has widened slightly.
They won the ninety-ninth game.
There's one last game. After a hundred wins, it's the Hell Road.
Nan Feng opened her eyes and looked at the red hair ribbon on her left wrist. The knot gleamed in the dim green light.
He reached out and touched it. The rough texture reminded him of his morning exercise on the hill behind Nuoding Hill, Xiao Wu braiding her hair ribbon.
"Tower Simpleton, come back alive."
Nan Feng tightened her hair ribbon again and closed her eyes.
Dark green lights flickered outside the stone house, watching the undefeated legend of the Hell Slaughter Arena advance to its hundredth match.
There's one last game left.