Yang Jing took a deep breath and walked up onto the arena.

His gaze fell upon Zhou Tong.

His opponent was also walking onto the arena, his movements slightly stiff. His left arm was pressed against his side, barely swinging at all. Dark bloodstains were faintly visible at his cuff. The injury was clearly hampering his movement, but on the surface, at least, it didn’t look overly severe.

During the hour-long break just now, Yang Jing had been keeping a close eye on Zhou Tong.

He saw Zhou Tong take three Elixirs, after which the color returned to his face somewhat. Although the movement of his left arm was sluggish, it wasn’t completely immobile.

An injury to bone and sinew is inherently slow to heal. Those Elixirs had clearly done little more than suppress the pain; they couldn’t possibly root out the underlying damage.

Hard-style arts rely on full-body coordination. An impeded left arm was, ultimately, a major weakness.

The two of them stepped onto the arena one after the other.

Zhou Tong stood on the east side, slowly flexing his right arm. The muscles on his bronze-colored arm were still bulging, but his left arm remained pressed against his ribs. His eyes, however, held the stubbornness typical of a hard-style Martial Artist.

He looked at Yang Jing and said in a low voice, "Be careful. Even with just one arm, my fist isn’t so easy to block."

Yang Jing stood on the west side and cupped his fist in a martial salute. "Senior Brother Zhou, I ask for your instruction."

He sank into a horse stance, naturally assuming the opening stance of the Mountain-Shattering Fist as his Inner Strength flowed steadily through his meridians.

His gaze landed on Zhou Tong’s left arm. While the arm could make small movements, there was no way it could be used to generate any significant power. Defending his left flank was undoubtedly his opponent’s weakness.

’Fourth place...’

Yang Jing thought to himself.

While fifth place offered a good chance of making the rankings, fourth place was a sure thing.

Zhou Tong’s injury was plain to see. It was an opportunity, and he had to seize it with everything he had.

He reined in his thoughts, concentrating all his attention on Zhou Tong.

Even if his opponent’s left arm was hindered, the foundation of his hard-style arts was still there. The power of his right arm was not to be underestimated, and a single moment of carelessness could lead to an unexpected defeat.

Zhou Tong took a deep breath and slowly clenched his right fist, his knuckles cracking. The aura of his hard-style arts, while not as potent as when he was at his peak, still carried a fearless, death-defying intensity.

The Silver Armor Captain walked onto the arena, his gaze sweeping over the two men. He slowly retreated to the edge and announced in a deep voice, "Ready—"

The air on the arena suddenly grew tense.

Yang Jing stared at Zhou Tong’s right shoulder, his opponent’s sole remaining source of power.

Zhou Tong, in turn, watched Yang Jing’s fists, his gaze as sharp as a blade.

Sunlight spilled onto the arena, stretching their shadows long. This battle to decide the final rankings was ready to erupt at any moment.

"Begin!"

The moment the Silver Armor Captain’s voice fell, he immediately retreated from the main arena.

At the same time, Zhou Tong shot forward like an arrow loosed from a bow.

The muscles on his right arm bulged. With a sharp whistle that tore through the air, he sent a Heavy Fist straight for Yang Jing’s face.

Although his inability to use his left arm affected the overall aura of his hard-style arts, the ferocity of this punch still far surpassed that of an ordinary Dark Energy Martial Artist.

He was, after all, one of the best among those at the Peak of Dark Energy. Even though his condition was impaired, his foundations were still profound.

Yang Jing didn’t meet it head-on. He executed the Surging Waves Leg Technique, his body sliding diagonally like flowing water, narrowly avoiding the wind from the punch.

Zhou Tong’s fist smashed into the arena floor—a surface of alternating bluestone slabs and wooden planks. A plank instantly buckled, sending splinters flying, while the force of the impact spiderwebbed cracks across the adjacent bluestone.

His first strike having missed, he didn’t pause for a moment. His right arm lashed out like a sudden storm, each punch carrying the power to shatter stone tablets, forcing Yang Jing to dodge and weave between the afterimages of his fists.

BAM!

Another punch grazed past Yang Jing’s shoulder, the wind from it making his robes whip and snap.

Yang Jing used the force to spin, his right foot lashing out in a smooth motion. It was the Wave Roll form of the Surging Waves Leg Technique, an arcing kick aimed at Zhou Tong’s left leg.

Zhou Tong snorted. His left leg, steady as a post, took the kick head-on. He retreated only half a step before steadying himself, his right arm already swinging up again as his fist whistled through the air toward Yang Jing’s chest.

Yang Jing’s eyes narrowed. He knew he couldn’t dodge this one. He sank into a horse stance and unleashed the Mountain Leaning form of the Mountain-Shattering Fist, his right fist colliding fiercely with Zhou Tong’s.

CRACK—

With a dull thud, Yang Jing felt an immense force surge toward him. His right arm went numb, and he had to take two steps back to disperse the force. A faint sweet taste rose in his throat.

Meanwhile, Zhou Tong was also shaken by the impact, his left arm trembling. A flash of pain crossed his face—a clear sign that the collision had aggravated his wound.

’He really is tough.’

Yang Jing wiped the trace of blood from the corner of his mouth, growing even more cautious.

It was fortunate Zhou Tong was already injured. Otherwise, if he had to face him at his peak, Yang Jing’s only option would have been to admit defeat.

Yang Jing took a deep breath, swallowing the metallic sweetness in his mouth.

He knew Zhou Tong was gathering his strength, hoping to end the fight quickly with a thunderous assault. He immediately decided on a strategy: focus on evasion and wear down his opponent’s initial ferocity.

For the next several dozen exchanges, Yang Jing pushed the agility of his Surging Waves Leg Technique to its limits. His figure weaved through the afterimages of Zhou Tong’s fists like a small boat in a raging storm. It looked perilous, but he always managed to avoid vital points by a hair’s breadth.

On the rare occasion he couldn’t dodge, he would meet the blow head-on with the raw power of his Mountain-Shattering Fist, not to injure his opponent, but simply to hold his ground.

Zhou Tong was injured, after all. His fierce assault gradually began to show signs of fatigue. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead, and his breathing grew heavy.

What frustrated him even more was that Yang Jing could always precisely exploit the opening on his left side.

Whenever he swung his right arm, creating a gap in his defense on the left, Yang Jing’s fists and feet would follow like a shadow.

Sometimes it was a punch to his left ribs, other times a sweeping kick to his left leg. Although the blows weren’t delivered with maximum force, they always left shallow wounds.

Several bloody gashes appeared on Zhou Tong’s left ribs and leg. Though not fatal, they were like a sickness in his very bones. Every movement aggravated his injuries, causing him pain and gradually slowing his punches.