On the arena.
The disparity between the two was substantial, and Dylan Grant was pressured into submission, undeniably helpless, his immaculate disciple vestment now muddled with grime.
His unhealed wounds split open again, staining his clothes with fresh red blood.
How could a mere mortal's body compare to that of a cultivator? The outcome was predetermined, and it was a match without suspense. Dylan Grant was like an ant being trampled on at will, humiliated and insignificant.
Despite his injuries, he refused to let go of his wooden sword. He rushed at Frederick Von with the sword in his hand, his eyes filled with resolution.
"..."
From below, Polaris Yule clenched her lips tight, her eyes filled with both pity and anger. The sourness building in her throat choked down the words she wanted to say.
She wanted to ask him to admit defeat, but she knew his pride would never allow it.
