Fang Han quickly scrambled up from the ground. You Xin, however, remained sprawled out, not getting up right away.
In the distance, the dozen or so Qingxuan Sect disciples watched this scene, undisguised joy flashing in their eyes.
"You Xin's down!"
"Did Senior Brother Fang win?"
Someone couldn't help but whisper in amazement, their voice filled with irrepressible excitement.
But in the next moment—
You Xin's figure on the ground stirred.
He slowly pushed himself up, rising from the pool of blood.
His movements were slow and difficult. Each one tugged at the wounds covering his body, drawing a muffled groan from him.
But eventually, he stood up.
His once-handsome face was now pale as paper, a trail of fresh blood at the corner of his mouth.
His dark, silver-patterned black robe was soaked through with blood, clinging tightly to his body.
He stood there, swaying slightly, as if he could collapse again at any moment.
But his narrow eyes remained locked on Fang Han.
