Chapter 3793 — Both Sides Wounded?

Even a formidable early Foundation cultivator, once his life truly lay in another's hands, was not one whit more stubborn than an ordinary man—quite the opposite. The higher one had climbed, the more fragile one became at such a moment, for the higher the perch, the harder the fall, and he stood to lose far more than any common person ever would.

Accustomed as everyone was to Meng Zhou's arrogance and conceit, to the way he looked down on every other newcomer of Qingyun Pavilion with his insufferably overweening air—now, set against this wretched, lowly sight of him, Qiao Hongcai could not help but be amused.

Truly, people were all cheap creatures. Think too highly of yourself and in the end you discover you are not worth a fart.

"Seems the great newcomer Meng has nothing left to say. Then this good-for-nothing will make so bold as to send you on your way—and if you've anything to say later, remember to say it in my dreams." Qiao Hongcai gave a cold laugh, at once gathering true qi in his palm, ready to send Meng Zhou on to the next life.

In that instant the whole arena seemed frozen in time. Not a soul dared breathe too deeply; every eye was fixed unblinking on Qiao Hongcai's movements, and throat after throat kept swallowing dry.

As for Meng Jueming, his face had darkened to the point of dripping water, yet there was nothing at all he could do.

It had to be said that killing and burning were nothing novel in the cultivation world. When the whole of Qiushui Manor, over a thousand souls, had been wiped out, it had only become after-dinner gossip for people. By comparison, a death or two in this newcomer challenge tournament was hardly worth anyone's attention.

But this was, after all, the first time in the month or more since they had entered Yingxin Pavilion that such a scene of death had appeared, and to deal the final blow in front of all the newcomers—that was a precedent never before seen.

If he finished off Meng Zhou today, Qiao Hongcai would surely take his place and become the dark horse of this year's Qingyun Pavilion newcomers, a fearsome god of death under Wei Zhao's command whom all would dread at sight.

"Rest easy and go!" Qiao Hongcai sneered, and a strike of the Iron Cold Palm, Twenty-One Forms, chopped down straight at Meng Zhou's head. Every heart in the arena leaped into every throat.

Meng Zhou was about to perish beneath that iron palm—yet in the next instant, Qiao Hongcai's palm suddenly halted, less than ten centimeters from Meng Zhou's forehead.

Oh, for heaven's sake! What on earth was this good-for-nothing Qiao playing at? That palm could clearly have finished the man, yet he pulled back at the very last moment—was he not just toying with them?

Meng Jueming's face had gone as black as the bottom of a pot. Meng Zhou being killed was already an unbearable, crushing blow to him; and if Qiao Hongcai then toyed with him like an old cat playing with a mouse, his face would be utterly lost, and he would never again be able to lift his head before the other Qingyun Pavilion newcomers.

Yet just as Meng Jueming was about to explode with rage, Qiao Hongcai suddenly gave a muffled groan, spewed a mouthful of fresh blood, and dropped straight down onto the ground, struggling for a long while without managing to rise.

"My god! Scared me half to death—so this good-for-nothing was nothing but a rotten husk, all show and no substance! Once a good-for-nothing, always a good-for-nothing!" Meng Jueming was the first to react, overjoyed, and let out a long breath of lingering fright, while the other newcomers fell to discussing it all in a hubbub.

As for Wei Zhao and the others, they could only exchange glances, unable to speak. They had barely held on to the very last step, only to fail at the final moment.

In truth, thinking it over carefully, Qiao Hongcai lasting this long was itself already a miracle.

He had taken the full brunt of Meng Zhou's Thousand-Leg Art, Twenty-One Forms, and then, enduring grave injury, had forced himself to unleash the Iron Cold Palm, Twenty-One Forms. Any reasonably normal early Foundation cultivator would likely have collapsed before that—to hold on until now before falling, Qiao Hongcai's feat already deserved to be called that of an iron-blooded man.

At this, not only were the newcomers below in an uproar, even the referee from Xuanji Pavilion at the edge of the stage did not know what to do for a moment.

Both combatants, Qiao Hongcai and Meng Zhou, were gravely wounded and unable to move; neither could do anything to the other. Though both were not far from death if things went on this way, neither could deal the other the finishing blow, and so it could only become this awkward deadlock, the two locked in standoff.

"What do we do now?" The put-upon senior brother and Wei Zhao exchanged a look and shook their heads wordlessly in unison.

By the rules of the newcomer challenge tournament, all outcomes could only be decided by the two duelists themselves; no one else had the right to interfere. But the present situation was a real mess.

Neither could move; Meng Zhou could not even speak for the time being, and as for Qiao Hongcai, though he could speak, he would never be the one to open his mouth and concede. Neither could do anything to the other, and so they could only drag it out endlessly.

But when would dragging it out ever end? The other newcomers were all still waiting for their challenges!

What was more, though Qiao Hongcai and Meng Zhou both still clung to a breath of life, their conditions were in truth precarious. If this dragged on, there was no telling whether both might wear themselves out and die together on the stage—and then this whole affair would become truly ridiculous.

It was not yet two months in, and any newcomer who could establish a Foundation was a rare talent with potential—especially here at Qingyun Pavilion, and especially with both of the two on stage being such. If these two promising newcomers were left to wear themselves out and die on the stage, then this matter would blow up enormously, and the so-called newcomer assessment system would no doubt be raked over the coals beyond all recognition.

Yet the rules of the challenge tournament had been approved by the Council of Elders; no one present, the referee included, could interfere, or they would be dealt with severely. To earn a black mark that way would leave one weeping with no tears.

Helpless, even the Xuanji Pavilion referee was at his wit's end, and could only send Meng Jueming to fetch Pavilion Master Hu Yunfeng. Though Hu Yunfeng likewise had no authority to meddle in the newcomer challenge tournament, he was, after all, master of Yingxin Pavilion, and could at least make some decisions.

After Hu Yunfeng was brought over, he looked at the deadlock on stage—Qiao Hongcai and Meng Zhou, neither able to move a muscle, yet set on maintaining their standoff—and could only shake his head wordlessly, unable to say a single word for a long while.

To be honest, this newcomer assessment system had been his own proud work, into which he had poured immense effort; every aspect had been considered thoroughly. He had been counting on it as an achievement for his record—otherwise he would never have won the approval of those titans of the Council of Elders.

But a scene like the present one had never been considered at all.

Apart from banning weapons, there were no other restrictions whatsoever. Under such loose rules, cultivators in a duel could still produce this kind of mutual destruction in which neither could do anything to the other—it was simply inconceivable.

"How about... we call this one a draw?" Hu Yunfeng glanced at Meng Jueming and proposed in an uncertain tone.