The scar-faced man frowned upon hearing this, and then charged forward with his knife again. This time, Zhang Xiaobei did not defend but took the initiative to attack.
In less than three exchanges, Zhang Xiaobei had stabbed his knife into the thigh of the scar-faced man. With a flick of his wrist and a flash of cold light, the blade, trailing blossoms of blood, left a wound eight or nine inches long on the scar-faced man's thigh.
Blood immediately flowed down from the hem of his clothes, and the middle-aged man winced in pain, his body swaying before he steadied himself.
"Not bad. Come at me again!"
The scar-faced man said, gripping his cleaver tighter, his eyes full of frenzy.
Through the brief bout, the scar-faced man had come to admire the young man in front of him immensely.
He had not expected someone so young to be able to withstand his sixteen attacks.
