55: Ling Feng vs Ruan Ceqiang

The shadow of a Dragon circled beside him, and a thin layer of frost condensed in the air.

The surroundings were silent, with only the wind blowing dust slowly between the two.

The people of Skydome City began to cheer.

"We won!"

"Ling Feng is amazing!"

The voices grew louder. People slapped the city walls, and soldiers raised their weapons and shouted.

Shen Xiaochuan stood motionless on the war chariot, his gaze fixed on Ruan Ceqiang's Face—those eyes were still open, but the corners of his mouth were slightly upturned.

Something was wrong.

He immediately raised his hand and shouted, "Retreat—!"

But it was already too late.

Ruan Ceqiang leaped up suddenly, as if pulled by an invisible hand, and lunged straight at Ling Feng.

He hugged Ling Feng's waist tightly, and a metal device on his chest suddenly lit up with a red light, emitting a rapid "beep—beep—beep—" sound.

It was a bomb.

Ling Feng's pupils constricted, and he tried to break free, but the opponent was holding on too tightly.

Just as he raised his spear to strike, a deafening roar erupted, and the explosion swept outward.

Flames shot into the sky, and the shockwave knocked over all the nearby soldiers.

A blast of hot air hit his Face, and Shen Xiaochuan raised his hand to shield his eyes, his ears ringing incessantly.

Thick smoke billowed from the center of the explosion.

Ten seconds later, the flames weakened.

Ling Feng lay twenty meters away, his body charred black, the silver dragon spear broken in two and stuck diagonally in the soil.

His chest rose and fell weakly.

The clothes on his left arm were completely destroyed, revealing ghastly white bone, and blood foam continuously gushed from his mouth, trickling down his chin.

Ruan Ceqiang had disappeared.

He left no traces behind.

The battlefield fell into instant silence.

The crowd that had been cheering just a moment ago all fell silent.

Some people had their mouths open but couldn't make a sound; the soldiers in the front row were deathly pale, their hands trembling uncontrollably.

Trump sat on his war chariot, his expression slowly changing.

He looked down at his palm, and when he looked up, a sneer appeared at the corners of his mouth: "Heh."

He then picked up a loudspeaker, and his voice echoed across the entire battlefield: "Is this the powerhouse you speak of? He won, yet he was blown up like this by a dying man? Relying on subordinates to hold the line—what kind of skill is that?"

He paused, his tone becoming heavier: "Shen Xiaochuan, you don't dare to take the field yourself, so you let others die for you? I see that you, this Special Grade Deity, are nothing more than a coward hiding in the back!"

The enemy camp erupted in laughter.

"Hahaha! Loser!"

"You can't even protect your own men, what kind of god-realm are you guarding?"

"Weren't you being arrogant earlier? Why are you mute now?"

The jeers rose one after another.

Shen Xiaochuan stood on the war chariot, his hands gripping his sword hilt tightly.

He did not look at Trump, nor did he respond.

His gaze remained fixed on Ling Feng, watching as he was carried away toward the city gate.

A long trail of blood was dragged along the ground.

Chen Yan stood at the very front, his fists clenched so tightly they creaked.

His eyes were fixed on the direction where Ling Feng had disappeared, and the veins on his neck were bulging.

He took a sudden step forward, raised his battle axe, and said loudly, "I'll go! Isn't there a German named Hitel who wants to challenge us? I'll go!"

After speaking, he turned back to look at Shen Xiaochuan, his eyes full of determination.

Shen Xiaochuan finally nodded.

He waved his hand in approval.

Chen Yan turned and strode toward the center of the battlefield.

A man wearing dark gold armor walked out of the enemy ranks, holding a barbed spear, the ground beneath his feet cracking.

He stood still and looked up at Chen Yan.

"You are not my opponent."

His voice was low. "The one from just now was crippled; do you want to end up the same way?"

Chen Yan did not speak.

He shouldered his battle axe and continued forward.

When he reached a distance of ten meters from his opponent, he suddenly accelerated, his right foot stomping hard on the ground, and he shot out like an arrow from a bow.

"You're courting death!" Hitel snorted coldly, his spear sweeping out horizontally.

Chen Yan dodged to the side, rolled forward with his left hand supporting him, and swung his battle axe upward, slashing fiercely at his opponent's flank.

Clang! Sparks flew everywhere.

Hitel took a half-step back, a flash of surprise in his eyes.

He had not expected this man to have such strength.

"Interesting." He said in a low voice, waving his right hand and thrusting his spear into the ground.

The earth trembled.

Several dark purple vines burst from the ground, wrapping around Chen Yan's legs like poisonous snakes.

He swung his axe to cut two of them, but a third quickly coiled around his left arm.

"What is this?"

He struggled hard, but the vines did not budge.

Hitel sneered and turned his palm.

The vines wrapped around Chen Yan's left arm tightened suddenly.

"Ah—!"

Chen Yan roared in pain as his entire left arm was ripped off.

The stump was a bloody mess, and blood gushed out.

He fell to his knees, only remaining upright by leaning on his battle axe.

The entire audience was shocked.

No one on the Huaxia side spoke.

The South Alliance camp erupted in wild laughter.

"Hahaha! His arm is gone!"

"Is this your new hero? Too weak!"

"Who's next? Do we need to bring a wheelchair?"

Shen Xiaochuan stood on the war chariot, his expression grim.

He watched Chen Yan—the man was kneeling in a pool of blood, his right hand supporting the axe handle, his Face pale, teeth clenched tight.

Blood dripped continuously from his severed arm, one drop after another, seeping into the scorched earth.

Trump picked up the loudspeaker again and shouted with a laugh: "Shen Xiaochuan, do you still dare to send people out? Or are you just planning to watch them get crippled and bleed to death one by one?"

He chuckled: "Surrender. If you admit defeat now, you might still save your lives."

No one responded.

Skydome City fell into silence.

The soldiers gripped their weapons tightly, their eyes filled with both anger and fear.

They had witnessed Ling Feng being blown away and saw Chen Yan lose his arm; while anger burned in their hearts, fear was more prevalent.

Shen Xiaochuan looked down at his hand.

His faith points were jumping.

+1 per second, growing steadily.

He raised his head and scanned the battlefield.

He looked toward the direction where Ling Feng had disappeared, toward Chen Yan's kneeling figure, and toward those smug Faces in the enemy camp.

He did not draw his sword.

Nor did he order an attack.

He simply stood quietly, like an unshakable mountain.

Chen Yan used his right hand to push himself up and stood up slowly.

His severed arm had been bandaged hastily, but his Face was even paler, and his breathing was rapid and heavy.

"I haven't lost."

He looked up at Hitel, his voice hoarse. "As long as I am still standing, I haven't lost."

Hitel frowned: "You've lost an arm, and you still want to fight?"

Chen Yan ignored him, silently pulling out his battle axe, gripping it with one hand, and assuming a fighting stance.

Shen Xiaochuan finally spoke: "Chen Yan."

The voice was not loud, but it clearly reached everyone's ears.

"Come back."

Chen Yan was startled and turned back to look at the war chariot.

"Boss..."

"You did well."

Shen Xiaochuan said, "I'll handle the rest."

He slowly raised his hand and placed it on the hilt of his sword.

His fingertips touched the cold metal.

The laughter in the enemy camp stopped abruptly.

Trump narrowed his eyes, staring intently at Shen Xiaochuan.

"You want to go yourself?"

He asked, "Are you throwing your life away just for Face?"

Shen Xiaochuan did not answer.

He only gazed ahead, at the scorched battlefield, at the place where Ling Feng had fallen.

His hand tightened around the sword hilt, inch by inch.

Chen Yan dragged his battle axe, walking back step by step.

With every step he took, a bloody print was left on the ground.

Wherever he passed, the soldiers automatically cleared a path, their eyes filled with respect and grief.

Shen Xiaochuan stood on the war chariot, his gaze never shifting.

His hand had fully gripped the sword hilt.

The blade was still in its sheath.

But his Aura was already different.

Trump sat up straight, his hands gripping the armrests tightly.

He felt a sense of oppression slowly bearing down from across the field.

Shen Xiaochuan finally spoke.

He looked at the enemy ranks, his voice low: "You. Should not have touched my people."