Zhao Kang stood there, his body stiff.
One second.
Two seconds.
"Click".
A soft sound.
A very thin line of blood appeared between Zhao Kang's eyebrows, extending straight down, passing through his nose, lips, chin, neck... all the way to his lower abdomen.
Then, his massive body, like a work of art precisely cut open, slowly separated to both sides along the line of blood.
The incision was as smooth as a mirror. The blood and internal organs, separated at the moment of separation, spilled out onto the ground with a "whoosh" as they were freed from their restraints.
That man who called himself a "strategist," that "Mad Shark" with a 72-game winning streak, that monster who was just spouting nonsense, was neatly split in two.
The expression on his face remained arrogant until the moment his body fell. He didn't even know how he died.
In the stands, tens of thousands of fallen people seemed to be frozen in place.
The man with the scar on his chin stood there, mouth agape, the words "He's dead" still echoing in his ears. Now, he looked like a fool, his expression shifting from fanaticism to astonishment, then to blankness, and finally to utter emptiness.
His much-vaunted "tactical analysis" became a complete joke in the face of overwhelming strength.
High-rise stands.
Xu Jiushi whistled and laughed, cursing, "Damn it, what a show-off."
Titan's lips twitched upwards for once, a rare occurrence. He looked down at the white-clad figure and repeated his earlier words, as if making a final, definitive statement: "The more you talk, the faster you die."
In the dead silence, the host's voice rang out again, still devoid of emotion, yet it seemed to bring this absurd farce to a close.
"The challenger is dead. The victor is 9527."
"If no new challenger enters the arena within ten breaths, 9527 will accumulate another victory."
This time, the atmosphere was completely different.
If during the first countdown, people were still hoping that a strong figure would step in and finish off this newcomer;
During the second countdown, people were still excited about the "Mad Shark's" tactics.
So, for the third time, all that remained in everyone's hearts was a cold, deathly silence.
"ten."
The host's voice sounded like a death knell.
Everyone's eyes instinctively turned to the front row of the stands once again.
Those true powerhouses, those monsters who win eighty, ninety, or even close to a hundred games in a row.
The gaunt old man who had been quite interested just moments before now had his smile vanished, replaced by an unprecedented solemnity.
A man whose body was wrapped in bandages, with only his eyes showing, had his arms, which had been crossed over his chest, now lowered, and his hands were gently resting on the hilt of the knife at his waist.
Another burly man, who had been resting with his eyes closed, opened them at this moment. In his pupils, he saw the lone figure in white in the arena. His eyes were complex, showing both fighting spirit and, more than anything, fear.
"Nine."
"eight."
No one moved.
No one spoke.
Zhao Kang's death had a profound impact on them. It wasn't a closely fought battle, nor a thrilling counterattack. It was... a lesson.
Ning Liu used the most freehand way to tell everyone that strength, speed, and skill are meaningless in the face of an absolute difference in realm.
"seven."
"six."
"five."
Time passed by, each second feeling incredibly long.
The entire hellish killing field was eerily quiet. The eyes of tens of thousands of people were focused on the same person.
The person simply stood there, as if they had just finished a trivial little thing.
He didn't even look at the powerful figures he had intimidated, nor did he care about the gazes around him.
He simply raised his hand once more and gently wiped the hilt of the Asura Demon Sword with his sleeve. Nothing was there.
"Four."
"three."
"two."
"etc!"
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