174: Chapter 174 Rome - Immortal

Caesar's fists were too fast, too vicious, and too unreasonable—that was an instinct honed from over a decade in underground fighting rings, not relying on any Qi sensing, but solely on muscle memory and combat intuition.

"Bang!"

The fist landed squarely on his waist.

It wasn't the muffled thud of striking a spatial shield, but the sound of flesh and blood being hit for real.

Arthur let out a muffled grunt, his figure swaying violently in space like a projection with an unstable signal; a trickle of blood overflowing from the corner of his mouth was particularly jarring within the silver-gray radiance.

He hadn't expected this.

This Roman's fist could actually pierce through spatial fluctuations and directly injure his physical body.

"Come again!"

Caesar's roar made the Qi barrier in the stands hum.

He lunged forward; with every step he took, the ground was crushed into bowl-sized pits, and gravel, swept up by the force of his punches, scattered like bullets. Striking the yet-to-dissipate spatial rifts, they even sizzled and sparked.

Arthur's expression darkened completely.

He stopped speaking.

He raised his star realm battle axe high above his head, and the silver light on the blade began to condense frantically—no longer the flowing Shimmer from before, but a near-tangible, scorching white.

The space within the arena began to distort violently—the scene in the spectator stands was stretched, compressed, and rotated, like plasticine being kneaded by an invisible giant hand.

"Star Realm · Annihilation!"

This was Arthur's trump card: at the cost of thirty percent of his own Qi, he created a small-scale spatial collapse with a diameter of twenty meters.

It wasn't cutting, it wasn't tearing, but a true collapse—the spatial structure within this area would disintegrate in an instant, and all matter would be torn into molecules by the chaotic spatial turbulence.

Caesar's figure was swallowed by the silver light.

He stood at the center of the collapse, his body being torn by invisible forces from all directions.

His left arm was twisted behind his back, his right leg pulled diagonally upward, and his head pressed toward his chest—every inch of skin, every bone, and every blood vessel was enduring pulling forces from different directions.

Creak.

That was the sound of bones being unable to bear the load.

Caesar's shoulder blades were the first to cry out, followed by his ribs, and his spine.

Fine bloodstains bloomed on the surface of his skin—not knife or sword wounds, but thousands of blood lines caused by capillaries being pulled and torn by space, dyeing him into a bloody mess.

"It's over."

Arthur's voice carried a gasp, yet he still maintained the composure of a titled-level fighter, "No matter how hard your bones are, they aren't harder than space."

But the next second, a roar came from the collapsing space.

That sound didn't come from his throat, but erupted from the depths of his chest, from the depths of his bones, from the depths of every torn cell—it shook the heavens, and even the chaotic spatial turbulence paused for a moment.

Golden light.

Golden radiance seeped out from Caesar's body—not the gold of externalized Qi, but a gold seeping out from under his skin, between his muscle fibers, and from his bone marrow.

His body surged by half a foot amidst the spatial tearing; his already burly physique became even more terrifying, his muscles bulging like the roots of an old tree, and knotted veins pulsed frantically under his skin.

The Roman Imperial Secret Technique—War God Transformation.

At the cost of burning life force, it exchanges for unparalleled power in an instant.

Every Roman Emperor passed this secret technique to their most direct heir, but for a hundred years, no one had actually used it—because the price was too great, great enough to make a Domain Realm expert fall from their Realm, great enough that they might never recover.

Caesar used it.

He had fought seven hundred and thirty-two matches in underground boxing rings, four hundred of which were pure hand-to-hand combat without Qi, one hundred and twenty where he turned the tables after being pinned to the ground and having his bones broken by opponents, and another twelve where he climbed back up after being thrown out of the ring.

He never admitted defeat.

"Rome... is undying!"

His fist broke through the blockade of spatial blades. Those silver-gray spatial turbulences were forcibly knocked aside, crushed, and scattered before his fist—it was not a confrontation of Laws, but a pure crushing of power.

The fist, burning with golden light, smashed heavily onto Arthur's star realm battle axe.

Crack.

The sound of bone shattering pierced through the entire arena.

Everyone thought it was Caesar's hand bones—after all, that was flesh and blood against an SSS-grade divine weapon, and his fist was already too mangled to see any intact skin.

But it was Arthur's wrist that shattered.

The star realm battle axe flew out of his hand, tumbling in the air, tracing a silver-gray arc, and finally, with a "hum," embedded itself into the barrier a hundred meters away; the blade was deeply embedded, and dense cracks appeared on the surrounding barrier wall.

Arthur's entire right arm was twisted at an eerie angle, from wrist to elbow, the bones shattered into seven or eight pieces.

The spatial Laws within his body began to disorder, and his figure could no longer maintain its ethereal state; after flickering in and out of existence a few times, he fell heavily to the ground.

Caesar breathed heavily.

With every breath, blood foam gushed from the corners of his mouth.

The wounds on his body continued to expand under the backlash of the "War God Transformation"—the tear on his left shoulder already revealed white bones, and the wound on his right rib was bubbling with blood with every breath.

But he still walked toward Arthur step by step, leaving a bloody footprint on the ground with every step.

His fist hovered above Arthur's head.

That fist could no longer be recognized as a fist—mangled flesh, exposed white bones, with golden embers flickering between the cracks of the bones.

But it was still clenched so tightly, so steadily, as if it could still smash out another hundred punches.

"You lost." Caesar's voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible; every word he spoke, a mouthful of blood surged into his throat, which he swallowed back down by force.

Arthur lay on the ground, looking at the fist hovering above his head, looking at those eyes burning with golden embers, and then looked at his own twisted arm.

He was silent for a long time.

Then, he smiled.

It wasn't a bitter smile, nor a miserable one, but a complex, relieved smile, carrying thirty percent self-mockery and seventy percent awe.

"I lost."

He said, his voice calm, unlike someone who had just had his wrist shattered, "I lost to a madman."

When the referee rushed into the arena, Caesar had already collapsed.

The moment he fell, the golden light all over his body faded rapidly, leaving only a mangled body, his chest rising and falling weakly.

Blood seeped out from beneath him, winding into a river on the shattered ground.

Arthur was helped up, but his gaze never left the fallen figure.

His right arm hung powerlessly, broken bones protruding in a terrifying shape under the skin, but he didn't look at his own injury, only stared at Caesar.

Staring at that madman.

In the stands, some were silent, some were trembling, and some quietly wiped away tears from the corners of their eyes.

This was not a duel.

This was a war where one man used his bones to smash space.