Chapter 87: The Challenge with Lingyin City’s representatives (Part-2)

The cheers from the grandstands rolled like waves crashing against stone.

“Yuan Qiong! Yuan Qiong!”

“Finally! Let him crush those arrogant bastards from Lingyin!”

“He’s one of the five exempted seeds, two-star Upper Elite! Who can even touch him in Fengyue?”

“Come on, Yuan Qiong! Beat those pigs bloody!”

Yuan Qiong stood at the edge of the ring, letting the sound wash over him.

His chest rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths. The corners of his mouth curved upward. He had waited for this moment ever since he first heard the name Fang Tian, ever since that outsider had dared to speak of Fengyue City as if it were some backwater province beneath his notice.

He stepped fully onto the white stone platform. The sunlight caught the faint metallic sheen of the bracers on his forearms. Then he looked down.

Fang Tian was already there.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Face calm to the point of boredom. He hadn’t even bothered to tie his long hair properly; a few loose strands hung across his forehead, stirred by the wind. He looked like someone who had wandered in from the street rather than a participant in the city’s most anticipated qualifying match.

Yuan Qiong’s smile grew colder.

“So you’re Fang Tian,” he said, voice carrying clearly across the ring. “My name is Yuan Qiong. Remember it well. Because today, I’m going to make sure every single person in Lingyin City remembers what happens when you underestimate Fengyue.”

Fang Tian slowly lifted his gaze.

For a moment he simply stared.

Then, almost like an afterthought, he spoke. “I have no interest in the name of a loser.”

The words weren’t loud.

They weren’t shouted either, as Yuan Qiong did.

They were just… stated as if he was speaking the truth.

And yet they landed like a slap.

Yuan Qiong’s left eyelid twitched. The smile vanished immediately. “You…” His voice dropped half an octave, dangerous now. “Good. Very good. I hope your strength can match that disgusting mouth of yours.”

He slid his right foot back, knees bending, arms rising into the familiar starting form of the Mantis Flow. Pale green qi began flickering around his calves and forearms like tiny blades of light.

“Since you’re so confident,” Yuan Qiong said with an intense, serious gaze, “then come. Let me see exactly what kind of expert Lingyin City sent to face us.”

Fang Tian exhaled through his nose.

A tiny, almost amused sound.

“To deal with you…” He said lazily, rolling his right shoulder once, “One punch is enough.”

The stands exploded again, this time half in outrage, half in incredulous laughter.

“He said what?!”

“One punch? Is he insane?”

“Hahaha, this kid is digging his own grave!”

Yuan Qiong’s expression twisted into something feral. “Very well.”

He exploded forward.

No probing, no testing. He went straight into his strongest opening move.

“Flying Mantis Leg!”

Yuan Qiong launched himself skyward.

His body spun in mid-air like a sickle thrown by a god of death. The right leg whipped out in a perfect crescent arc, the air itself shrieking as the green-tinged qi edge tore toward Fang Tian’s head.

This was no ordinary kick; this was an Earth-rank martial art executed at full power. A direct hit would split stone and shatter bone.

Down below, many spectators unconsciously leaned back.

And then, Fang Tian moved.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t flashy either.

He simply took one big step.

Then another.

And then he punched.

A single, casual, almost lazy right straight.

No wind-up. No glowing technique. No dramatic name shouted to the heavens.

Just a fist with perfect timing.

Yuan Qiong’s descending kick met the oncoming punch dead-center.

BOOM

The shockwave blasted outward in a visible ripple, kicking up dust and sending the banners around the arena flapping violently. Several weaker cultivators in the front rows cried out and staggered, ears ringing.

And then…

One figure was sent flying backward.

It was Yuan Qiong.

His body flipped awkwardly in the air, arms windmilling. A thick spray of blood burst from his mouth and nose in a gruesome arc.

He crashed shoulder-first into the stone, then skidded another seven or eight meters before finally rolling to a stop near the edge of the platform, face-down, motionless.

A thin trail of blood slowly spread beneath his cheek.

The entire arena fell into a stunned, suffocating silence.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

On the high platform, the family heads stared with wide eyes.

One move.

Not even a proper martial art.

Just… a punch, as Fang Tian stated earlier.

And Yuan Qiong, a two-star Upper Elite, one of Fengyue City’s five exempted geniuses, was lying unconscious in a pool of his own blood.

A Western Mansion referee and two medical disciples scrambled onto the ring. They knelt beside Yuan Qiong, fingers pressing against his neck, then his wrist. After a few tense seconds, one of them looked up and nodded.

“Life is not in danger… but he’s completely unconscious. Severe internal injuries.”

The head referee stepped forward, expression complicated. He raised his voice.

“First match of the qualifiers, Fang Tian of Lingyin City wins by knockout!”

The silence lasted another heartbeat.

Fang Tian shook out his right hand once, as if flicking water off his fingers.

Then he turned and walked back to his original position.

He didn’t look back at the fallen Yuan Qiong even once.

The roar that followed wasn’t a celebration.

It was something uglier.

A tangled mess of shock, fury, humiliation, and raw disbelief rolled through the stands like black smoke. Faces twisted. Fists slammed against railings. Someone in the third row actually stood up so fast his stool toppled backward with a clatter.

One of Fengyue’s five exempted seeds—Yuan Qiong—had been flattened in a single, contemptuous punch.

Not just defeated.

Launched like a rag doll on home soil by someone from Lingyin City.

The shame burned hotter than any midday sun.

“Trash! Yuan Qiong, you useless piece of—”

“That bastard from Lingyin cheated! He must have!”

“Shut up! You saw it with your own eyes!”

Fang Tian slowly turned toward the boiling sea of spectators.

The sneer on his face was open, deliberate, almost lazy—like a cat toying with a nest of hornets.

He raised his voice just enough to carry over the noise. “Hmph. A bunch of idiots.”

He paused, letting the words sink in, and further added, “So this is the level of Fengyue City?”

The arena seemed to detonate at once, with his provocative comment.

“Say that again, you son of a bitch!”

“You Lingyin dog!”

“You got lucky once—think you’re some genius now?”

“Just wait! Fan Wei hasn’t even stepped up yet!”

“And Li Wei! You’re dead when Li Wei comes!”

“If Fengyue doesn’t smash this arrogant prick today, I’ll give out free wine for a month at my tavern!”

“Free roast meat at my shop too!”

“My entire butcher stall—free for anyone who wants it!”

The promises piled up like kindling, feeding the fire.

Down among the waiting participants, Fengyue’s remaining candidates stood rigid with their Knuckles white. Their jaws clenched so tight that veins stood out on their necks.

They hated to admit it—even to themselves—but the truth sat heavy in their guts.

If Yuan Qiong, a two-star Upper Elite, couldn’t even block one casual punch…

What chance did the rest of them have for the victory?

Up on the high platform, Wang Zongyao’s brows knitted together.

He hadn’t expected this.

Not this fast. Not this absolute.

Fang Tian’s cultivation was only one small star higher—three-star Upper Elite. By every common-sense rule of combat, Yuan Qiong should have at least lasted long enough to trade a few blows, maybe force the outsider to reveal more cards.

Instead…

One punch.

A clean, brutal knockout.

Something was off. Wang Zongyao’s sharp eyes lingered on the tall figure still standing casually in the center of the ring. The way Fang Tian carried himself, the strange lack of flourish in that punch, the complete absence of visible technique…

It didn’t add up.

But defeat was defeat.

No point chewing on theories now.

Wang Zongyao exhaled once through his nose, then turned his head. “Li Wujie,” he called, voice calm but carrying. “You’re next.”

A ripple of discontent immediately swept the stands.

“Li Wujie? Seriously?”

“Why not Fan Wei? Or Li Wei?”

“Is the examiner blind? Li Wujie is only a nine-star Elite!”

“Yuan Qiong got turned into a kite in one hit—what’s Li Wujie gonna do? Become a bloodstain?”

“This is humiliating. I wanted to see that smug bastard get his face caved in…”

“Quiet down. Maybe Li Wujie can surprise us. He’s slippery. He’s fast.”

“Yeah… let’s at least watch.”

“Li Wujie! Don’t lose too badly, alright?”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep