Chapter 3800 — The Trick Backfired

Striding onto the platform and planting himself there, Meng Zhou fixed Qiao Hongcai with a cold stare and sneered, "Last round you got the drop on me, and even then you barely managed to drag us both down together. Today your luck has run out. Even with my wounds unhealed, killing a man like you is no harder than killing a chicken—not so much as a flicker of effort."

To his surprise, Qiao Hongcai merely curled his lip and said carelessly, "Are those your dying words, Senior Newcomer Meng? Sounds to me like you still haven't got your affairs in order!"

Meng Zhou choked on the spot. He stood frozen for a moment, then ground out a cold snort through clenched teeth: "Sharp tongue, no sense of life or death."

Seeing that both sides were ready, the referee at once announced, "Fourth round, first match of the Azure Cloud Pavilion's newcomers' challenge tournament—Qiao Hongcai of Cave Dwelling Thirteen at the foot of the mountain, challenging Meng Zhou of Cave Dwelling Twelve. Begin!"

The words had scarcely left his mouth when Meng Zhou's figure shot forth like an arrow loosed from a bowstring. Shedding the frail pretense of a man still gravely wounded, he launched at Qiao Hongcai without a flicker of hesitation the most powerful strike he had: the Twenty-First Form of the Thousand Legs.

He meant to cut through the tangle with a single blade. No disguise could be sustained for long; once it had served its purpose of throwing the opponent off, it had to be torn away at once and the deadliest blow delivered in the same breath. Drag it out too long and the flaw would show. Such was the strategy against an enemy that Meng Jueming had taught him.

By any ordinary reckoning, ripping off the disguise and unleashing a full-power strike the instant one opened was a sudden assault no opponent could possibly guard against—and if that opponent happened to be carrying injuries, a single blow to end his life was no idle boast.

And to make the effect as crushing as possible, Meng Zhou never even entertained the notion of feinting with phantom leg shadows. From the very first instant it was an all-out, fully committed blitz.

Yet what made Meng Zhou's jaw drop—and the jaws of Meng Jueming and his whole faction below the platform with it—was that this sudden strike, launched the moment he shed his disguise, was blasted right back at him by Qiao Hongcai's Twenty-First Form of the Iron Cold Palm!

"Aiya! You worthless piece of trash, you dared fake an injury to fool me? Shameless, despicable!" Feeling the searing pain shoot up his leg, Meng Zhou's face went green in an instant.

He had been so sure that a specimen like Qiao Hongcai could never get his hands on a rare elixir like the fourth-grade Great Restoration Pill, and that three short days could not possibly be enough to recover. So the moment he saw Qiao Hongcai's faltering steps, he had taken it as gospel that the man was still a walking invalid.

From first to last, neither Meng Zhou nor Meng Jueming had harbored a shred of doubt. It had never once crossed their minds that this worthless piece of trash might be playing the exact same game as Meng Zhou himself!

Otherwise, how could a mere invalid unleash an Iron Cold Palm so brimming with vigor and power—so domineering as to batter Meng Zhou's Twenty-First Form of the Thousand Legs right back in his face?

To trap a man he had been willing to sink a fourth-grade Great Restoration Pill into the scheme. And now? Not only had he failed to bring down the goose—he had been pecked in the eye first!

Below the platform, Meng Jueming felt his face burn. By his long-held understanding, that trash Qiao was cut from the same cloth as Meng Zhou—a hothead who went at everything head-on. How had he suddenly turned so devious?

And what baffled him even more was this: Qiao Hongcai had plainly been badly hurt, yet in a mere three days he was now as lively as a dragon in spring, exactly like Meng Zhou after taking his fourth-grade Great Restoration Pill. How in the hell had he managed that?

With the paltry resources of Wei Zhao and his lot, there was simply no way they could produce a rare elixir like the fourth-grade Great Restoration Pill!

Could it be Lu Bianren? Yes—when he thought about it, only Lu Bianren, that third pavilion master, had the means to get his hands on a fourth-grade Great Restoration Pill! Damn it all. Wait till I rise to power and see how I deal with you, you meddling old fool!

While Meng Jueming was nursing his grudge against Lu Bianren, Qiao Hongcai on the platform answered Meng Zhou with a cold laugh: "The pot calling the kettle black. We are both men of the same trade. What face have you got to call me despicable?"

Meng Zhou was instantly left without a word to say. If he himself had been putting on an act, what was so strange about Qiao Hongcai, harboring the very same design, putting one on too—repaying him in his own coin?

After a long pause, Meng Zhou finally snorted coldly: "Hmph! Fine. Since the game is up, there's no point in hiding anything anymore. I'll crush you fair and square with my true strength, and let you see, you worthless trash, just how wide the gap between us really is!"

Qiao Hongcai burst out laughing. "Your schemes and tricks are all laid bare, and only now do you talk of fair and square? Senior Newcomer Meng, that thick hide of yours—did you learn it from a certain cousin of yours?"

At those words, the crowd below the platform struggled to stifle their laughter. That "certain cousin" Qiao Hongcai spoke of was none other than Meng Jueming—he was cursing Meng Jueming's brazenness in a roundabout way!

Meng Jueming's face turned black as he listened. He knew full well that the bastard Qiao was insulting him in a roundabout way, yet he could not strike back. After all, the man had only referred to "a certain cousin" of Meng Zhou—not to him, "Cousin Number Nine." To speak up now would be to volunteer for the label, to slap his own face.

Fortunately, the awkwardness did not last long. On the platform, Meng Zhou answered for him with action, wasting no words—he simply conjured a thousandfold leg shadows and hurled himself straight at Qiao Hongcai.

Having fought each other to a mutual ruin in the previous round, both Meng Zhou and Qiao Hongcai already had a deep understanding of the other's strength. Where the other was strong and where weak was plain at a glance; there was nothing left to hide between them.

As the saying goes, your enemy is often the one who knows you best. In that sense, Meng Zhou's talk of fair and square had a certain logic to it: since each knew the other inside out, there was no room left for concealment, no opening left to spring a trap.

The only choice before them now was to bring out their strongest and grind each other down all over again.

The duel that followed once again showed everyone present what cruelty and ferocity truly meant. Qiao Hongcai had no sooner taken a Twenty-First Form of the Thousand Legs than Meng Zhou was immediately made to pay back a Twenty-First Form of the Iron Cold Palm in kind.

Spitting blood was the least of it. After a few exchanges, the fight played out exactly as it had the round before: after several bloody clashes, both men collapsed to the ground together, unable to move.

And this time their injuries were even graver than in the previous round. To think of rising again was pure fantasy; to cling to a single breath and not drop dead was already proof of how remarkably strong both their wills were.

At the sight of this all-too-familiar, identical scene, the whole assembly was struck dumb, mouths agape: "Are these two's strengths really so evenly matched? Two fights in a row, and both end in mutual ruin?"