“Big guy.”
Qiao Jiajin’s shout snapped Zhang Shan out of his thoughts. “You hate your own body, don’t you? That’s why you’re still holding back?”
“Hmm…?”
“Because you accidentally killed someone, every punch you throw now carries that weight.” Qiao Jiajin said, “That kind of thinking won’t do. I don’t want you lying on the ground later, telling me, ‘I wasn’t really going all out,’ like some excuse. That would make my victory hollow and your defeat bitter.”
Zhang Shan slowly stood up. “You’re a strange one. What if I go all out and you can’t handle it?”
“I can handle it,” Qiao Jiajin said.
“Even if I brute-force my way out of your ‘triangle lock’?”
“I can handle it,” Qiao Jiajin repeated.
“Fine.”
Zhang Shan stretched his aching limbs in the open space, then glanced down at the scrape on his forearm where Qiao Jiajin had grazed him. Sweat kept the wound from clotting, leaving his entire hand smeared with sticky, reddish fluid.
Qiao Jiajin also pushed himself up, bracing on his knees. His first move was to turn his back to Zhang Shan and ask, “Big guy, quick—check my back. Are the words still there?”
Zhang Shan focused. Qiao Jiajin’s back was badly bruised, the tattooed characters still visible, though bleeding in places.
Lines of blood cut through the words like blades—*”The world is vast, but the narrow-minded confine themselves.”*
“The words are still there,” Zhang Shan replied.
“Good.” Qiao Jiajin grinned. “As long as these words remain, I can still see the wide-open world.”
After a pause, Zhang Shan said somberly, “But you’re bleeding a lot. It’s almost covering the words. Can you really still see that world?”
“Maybe it’s not my blood,” Qiao Jiajin said, still facing away. “Maybe it’s the heavens and the earth weeping.”
Zhang Shan studied Qiao Jiajin’s back. True to his words, each character bled like teardrops, the flowing script of the tattoo making it seem as though the sky itself had rained blood.
Zhang Shan sighed. “Yeah… No matter how vast the world, we’re trapped in this bloody little corner of it.”
“Not forever.” Qiao Jiajin turned around, locking eyes with Zhang Shan. “The words are still there. Someone will wipe away the blood and tears, and show us that vast world.”
“But between the two of us… maybe only one will see it,” Zhang Shan said.
“Both of us will,” Qiao Jiajin said with conviction. “Everyone will see it again. Someone promised me that. And when that time comes, the world won’t be drenched in blood like it is now.”
Zhang Shan fell silent, as if deeply conflicted about the idea of “getting out.”
“Hey, punk… ever been to prison?” Zhang Shan asked suddenly. “How can someone who’s been locked up dare to dream of a vast world?”
“I have. Doesn’t stop me,” Qiao Jiajin shot back. “What, you too?”
Zhang Shan didn’t answer—silent confirmation.
“Now that’s weird,” Qiao Jiajin chuckled. “You’ve been locked up, I’ve been locked up… how come I never saw you inside? If I had, seeing you this gloomy, I’d have given you a good slap on the back.”
“Ha…” Zhang Shan shook his head with a frown. “Wish I had half your optimism.”
Both men stretched, preparing for the next round of their deathmatch.
After just minutes of fighting, their stamina was drained, their bodies battered. No one offered them water, no medics tended to their wounds. They had only themselves to rely on.
Now, they had to settle this before their strength gave out completely.
“Punk, if that’s how it is, I’m going all out,” Zhang Shan warned. “If you can’t handle it, just surrender.”
“Funny,” Qiao Jiajin retorted. “I’ve got a trump card too. Feel free to tap out.”
With that, Zhang Shan tore off his shirt, revealing a torso carved like stone.
For a man of his height, maintaining such a physique was near-impossible—most would struggle to balance muscle definition with sheer size. Yet Zhang Shan’s body looked chiseled by a blade, every muscle sharply defined.
To achieve that, one would need relentless training—or…
Qiao Jiajin suspected the latter. Zhang Shan had said he *hated* his body—unlikely he’d sculpt it on purpose.
Which meant this powerhouse frame was natural.
Zhang Shan didn’t need effort. No workouts, no diets. His muscles grew in perfect form on their own.
But was that a blessing—or a curse?
“What the hell…” Qiao Jiajin muttered, half-envious. “You just eat and end up like this?”
Zhang Shan rolled his shoulders, as if waking dormant power in his muscles.
Qiao Jiajin raised his fists, lifting one knee—assuming a Muay Thai stance.
Brute force against brute force.
Victory—or death—would come swiftly now.
Above them, Qinglong watched the fight with a bored tilt of his head. In mere minutes, it had escalated to a climax.
Thrilling—but not cruel enough.
“Dilong,” Qinglong called. “If these two really became ‘Heaven’—no, even just ‘Earth’—who could stop them?”
“Afraid you’d lose?” Dilong smirked.
“Hard to say,” Qinglong mused. “They’re too reliant on mortal combat—balance, technique… A single gust of ‘celestial wind’ could kill them.”
“Or maybe *you’re* too reliant on ‘immortal arts,'” Dilong countered. “Their strength is their own. Is your ‘magic’ yours?”
Qinglong’s smile faded.
“Those ‘arts’ only exist here,” Dilong pressed. “Leave this place, and they vanish—’magic,’ ‘divine power,’ all of it. *That’s* why you’re so desperate to control this land.”
“True enough…” Qinglong narrowed his eyes. “But I get the feeling Tianlong doesn’t care.”
“Oh?”
Qinglong hesitated. “As if he’s found a way to *keep* it all…”
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