Chapter Seventy-Three: A Strange Dream

“Exactly. If you don’t mind, I’d like to take on all five of you at once. Whether it’s a series of one-on-one bouts or a swift one-against-five, it makes no difference to me,” Sikong Lang said, glancing at the Fist Demon across from him. “In fact, why not all come at me together? That’ll save me a lot of time and let me get back to my household affairs.”

“What?!” At Sikong Lang’s words, the Fist Demon swept a look at his comrades—the Frenzy Demon, the Wild Demon, the Monster Demon, and the Brain Demon—then burst out laughing, “Hahaha! Are you joking, Sikong Lang? No one has ever dared to utter such arrogant words in front of me, the Fist Demon. If the elders of the Mad Demon Clan on our Demon Rock Island heard this, they’d toss you to the crocodiles without hesitation. So you won a single tournament and think you can be so conceited? Fine, let’s do it your way: five against one. We’ll show you what it means to meet someone stronger and put you in your place!”

“Are you sure this is all right, Sikong Lang?” The referee, Miss Zhenzhen, grew worried when she saw the captain of the Demon Warrior Team agree to a five-on-one battle, all five members facing Sikong Lang at once. She’d never encountered such a match before. Even the strongest combatants she’d seen could barely last after facing three opponents, their demonic power and stamina exhausted before they could take on a fourth. For Sikong Lang to face all five at once was almost unimaginable. If he lost, his entire team would lose the right to advance—and as reigning champions from the last tournament, that would be a real shame.

“No problem. We can begin anytime. Thank you for your trouble.”

“All right, both sides take your positions.” Seeing Sikong Lang’s calm agreement, Zhenzhen could only sigh and gesture to the center, officially starting the match.

As soon as the referee announced the start, the most hot-tempered of the Demon Warriors, the Wild Demon, could no longer hold back. He raised his mountain-splitting axe and charged at Sikong Lang. Facing the burly opponent, Sikong Lang tensed every muscle in his body. “Out of respect, I’ll use forty-five percent of my strength.” With that, he threw a punch. The force was so tremendous that it punched straight through the Wild Demon’s abdomen, sending his upper and lower halves flying backward—the blow so powerful it tore his body clean in two.

Without a pause, Sikong Lang stepped forward and delivered simultaneous blows to the Frenzy Demon and the Brain Demon on either side. Neither had the chance to react before his fists pierced their skulls and chests. The Brain Demon fared worst of all—his enormous head exploded under the punch like a water-filled balloon, never even getting the chance to use his abilities.

Having dispatched three members of the Demon Warrior Team in an instant, Sikong Lang’s expression remained utterly unchanged. He looked at the Fist Demon, who had taken a hesitant step back, then advanced again. “It seems today is a bad day for the big guys.” With another simple punch—one the Fist Demon couldn’t hope to avoid—he blasted the man’s body in half, leaving him a two-piece corpse on the arena floor, just like the Wild Demon.

Watching all his teammates slaughtered with a single blow each, the last member, the Monster Demon, dropped his weapon and stood trembling, paralyzed by the demonic energy and sheer power Sikong Lang radiated. Utterly terrified, he lacked even the strength to run. Sikong Lang approached him, lifted his right hand, and flicked his middle finger gently against the Monster Demon’s forehead. The head burst open as if hit by a sniper’s bullet, brain matter spraying out the back as the limp body collapsed in a heap.

“Sikong Lang is victorious! The final team to make the quarterfinals is the Sikong Team, led by Sikong Lang!” Miss Zhenzhen, standing at the edge of the arena, hastily raised her right hand to announce the results to the crowd. Without suspense, Sikong Lang’s team advanced to the next round.

“Incredible!” Watching from the rafters above the arena, Bai Ying could not help but marvel at Sikong Lang’s effortless destruction of the entire opposing team. Four punches and a single finger had annihilated the Demon Warriors—yet Sikong Lang had only revealed a fraction of his true strength. Even his most basic punches, powered by his immense muscles, could kill with ease. He was so powerful it was frightening. If Bai Ying’s team managed to survive and face Sikong Lang in the finals, their chances of winning would be slim indeed. Unless every teammate improved drastically through battle, facing a true powerhouse like Sikong Lang could only end in surrender or death.

Wait—what about Feiyan? The thought struck Bai Ying, reminding him of why he’d come here. After seeing the state of Feiyan’s right arm after the last match, he’d recalled a medicinal herb that might help. That was why he’d arrived at the arena early that morning—hoping to find Feiyan and give him the herb to aid his recovery. But after scanning the entire area with his demonic senses, Bai Ying couldn’t detect Feiyan’s presence at all. Had something happened? With urgency mounting, Bai Ying leapt down from the rafters and hurried toward the woods surrounding the arena, hoping to find some trace of Feiyan. The next quarterfinal was about to begin, and time was running out. Without Feiyan’s support, the odds in the upcoming match would be seriously affected.

In the Fairy Hotel, after a full day’s rest, Qin Xiaochuan awoke from a deep sleep. After a day and night of slumber, he felt a vigor and clarity unlike anything he’d ever experienced—his body brimming with inexhaustible strength. Most notably, his spiritual perception seemed to have extended far beyond its previous limits. This was the most pronounced increase in his mental power since his life-and-death duel with Zhou. Previously, he’d only been able to sense the presence of others within twenty meters, but now, focusing his mind, he could clearly sense even the faintest auras of guests moving outside his room. Was this the method Master Jinghai described—gaining tremendous power by walking the edge of life and death? If so, the rewards from his last battle were greater than he’d imagined. He wondered if he’d encounter another opponent as formidable as Zhou in the next round. That last fight had been immensely rewarding.

But—when Qin Xiaochuan focused his attention on the index finger of his right hand, his mood soured again. Although his internal energy was abundant, he still couldn’t concentrate it at the fingertip. It was as though some force inside his body was blocking his ability to wield his energy, an extremely frustrating sensation. Was this the aftereffect the masked fighter had mentioned, the price paid for consecutively unleashing Spirit Bullets? If so, it was truly a shame. Without the Spirit Bullet, his tactics would be severely hampered—how infuriating!

Just as Qin Xiaochuan brooded in his room, a startled shout came from Zhang Yang’s room next door, as though something had happened to him. Hearing the cry, Qin Xiaochuan leapt up and rushed over, eager to see what was wrong. When he burst in, he found Zhang Yang, clad only in shorts, climbing off the floor—apparently frightened out of bed by a nightmare. Hurrying over, Qin Xiaochuan helped him up and settled him on the bed, asking in confusion, “What happened, Zhang Yang? Did you have a nightmare that scared you this badly?”

Rubbing the back of his head, Zhang Yang grimaced. “It’s nothing, just a strange dream. It felt so real, as if I were actually there. You know my spiritual perception is growing sharper—maybe my sixth sense is trying to tell me something, but I can’t quite put it into words.”

“Really? What exactly did you dream about that frightened you so much?” Qin Xiaochuan was curious, wondering if Zhang Yang’s dream might have something to do with the upcoming matches.

“It was a bizarre scene,” Zhang Yang said, frowning in concentration as he tried to recall the dream. Habitually pressing his index finger to his forehead, he closed his eyes and continued, “In the dream, I saw a group of people gathered around an old man lying on a hospital bed, talking among themselves. They seemed to be his disciples. Then I heard one of them, crying, telling two senior brothers that curing their teacher would require an enormous sum of money—over a million. They said they’d pay any price, even their lives, if it would heal their master. Then a white-robed old man with a huge forehead appeared before them. He was hideous, dressed like a doctor, with long, pointed ears on either side of his broad forehead. The skin on his hands was coarse and wrinkled, and his fingertips ended in sharp claws—he looked like some kind of monster. He told the weeping young people that he could cure their master, but there would be a price. Suddenly, the scene shifted, and I saw those young people writhing in pain on an operating table, their bodies being cut open by the monster. It was gruesome. That’s when I woke up, terrified, and fell out of bed. Then you came in. That’s about it…”