Chapter 416: The Weak

Seeing Bai Lang, this person was also taken aback, but then erupted with power like a sandstorm in the great desert, his whole body transforming into a mad wind that brought endless blade waves charging over. Along the way, everyone and everything caught up, as well as pavilions and towers, all turned into fragments, even flesh and blood dried up and blew away like sand. Before Bai Lang could be killed, the attendants and buildings of the Happy King here had already been slaughtered and destroyed in great numbers.

The storm grew larger the closer it got to Bai Lang, but this person's martial skill is indeed impressive, for he can gather his strength—otherwise, with his ability, the entire oasis would be shrouded in his sandstorm. Now it's merely rolling up tens of zhang of sandstorm sweeping toward Bai Lang—Bai Lang embraces with both arms, his momentum also surging; he has just counter‑killed three Innate Experts who came to ambush him, and the White Tiger's fighting spirit and killing power have surged to an unprecedented height.

"Ke ke ke! Want to blast me to death? You're not up to snuff yet!" Bai Lang uttered an incomprehensible strong‑person's phrase, then spread his arms, palms facing each other as he began to gather qi, and directly charged into the sandstorm. As Bai Lang's body moved, a White Tiger phantom gathered outside him, and before him a bronze bell covered the front half of the White Tiger's body; the bell's knob slammed heavily into the sandstorm.

"Boom……" The bell rang long, and myriad golden lights together with a hurricane that was utterly unlike the sandstorm but even more violent exploded from the sandstorm's center; in an instant the sky obscured by the sandstorm suddenly cleared, sunlight poured down, yet the sandstorm was blown into a ring that kept expanding—like the eye of a typhoon. Bai Lang had already seized the opponent's sword‑hand with a claw; this was a perfect match of eyesight and martial skill, penetrating straight to the opponent's middle palace and seizing his hand in a life‑or‑death grip.

If there were the slightest error, Bai Lang could now be split apart; even with the Golden Bell Shield Divine Skill protecting him, he would likely suffer heavy injury. But now Bai Lang had the upper hand, saying, "Loser! This time you'll eat shit!" He uttered the same nonsensical language, then exerted force and clenched. The White Tiger roared, its jaws snapping shut; Bai Lang's claw crushed the opponent's palm like a tiger's mouth, squeezing the sword hilt into a lump of metal, flesh, blood and bone.

Before the opponent could cry out, Bai Lang thrust a palm forward, accompanied by a tiger's roar‑like breaking wind; if this palm landed solidly, the opponent would likely be transformed. This palm's force is essentially the heavy‑iron‑cone‑like yin energy of the Southern Dipper White Tiger Fist; upon impact it naturally sheds the flesh, exposing white bone that crumbles to dregs—a supreme art for making meatballs. The sandstorm‑whipping fellow was also fierce, having no time to scream; he simply lifted his leg and kicked a thrust to the midsection.

That kick brought a spiraling whirlwind and the intent of a parched drought; even before touching Bai Lang's skin, it turned rough and sandy. Yet Bai Lang did not dodge or evade, allowing the kick to strike his chest while his own palm also hit the target. Bai Lang retreated a few steps; now only a few tatters of cloth clung to his waist, a yellowed footprint on his chest like the land of the great desert Gobi, and this hue kept spreading, his skin instantly cracking to show dryness.

"Ha!" Bai Lang laughed, his whole body blazing with golden light; the tattoos on his skin sprang to life, the monkey tattoo clutching the cracked area as if devouring it away. Bai Lang spat out a mouthful of blood with a "pah!", which turned to sand before it hit the ground. He repeatedly exhaled through his nose, each breath blowing out dry sand—and that was it.

That fellow took a palm to his chest and abdomen; all that could be heard was his body bursting like a string of firecrackers, his stature shrinking by a segment, while blood spurted from his back—half a rib cage and several vertebrae flew out, taking half his entrails with them. This is practically a fatal wound—of course, if Bai Lang did not press the attack, such injury alone might not be enough to kill an Innate Expert.

In this world there are no shortage of miraculous medicines and extraordinary arts; an Innate Expert can suspend his life with true qi, and indeed these bones and entrails can be made to "grow back"—difficult, but not impossible. Yet he had no chance; relying on true qi to sustain his life would not block Bai Lang's assault—originally it wouldn't have come to such a sorry state, but who let Bai Lang kill three men, driving the White Tiger's killing aura to such heights?

The White Tiger's killing aura shattered his protective gang qi, fierce and merciless, sweeping forward unstoppably; thus this opponent, upon meeting Bai Lang, failed to wound him and was doomed. Bai Lang, while spitting sand—this was his own blood and internal organs—took a few steps forward, lunged with a claw and swept horizontally, cleaving the man in two. Even an Innate Expert could not survive being split top to bottom. Only then did Bai Lang begin to relax, coughing repeatedly and spitting out more sand—this time mixed with blood.

Bai Lang sat cross‑legged; that kick he took was no picnic. The sandstorm‑like true qi continued to surge inside him, even able to plunder essence to fuel its own growth, but it had been tightly bound by Bai Lang's Golden Bell Shield internal force; now he only needs to expend the energy of the Golden Bell Shield and White Tiger Fist to dissipate it, and he'll be fine. With each inhale and exhale his breath was like pulling a windlass, and a bloody scent often escaped.

Even if he dispels this true qi, Bai Lang still has some internal organ injuries; his combat strength hasn't waned, but he will need recuperation afterward. "Never mind, first find some clothes to put on, then go look for the Happy King!" Bai Lang decided—the man he'd killed likewise had nothing on him; no doubt, as a confidant of the Happy King, he must have his own residence, and his belongings wouldn't all be carried on him.

The pills and such he found on the man, Bai Lang didn't recognize and dared not casually eat to heal his wounds, but perhaps the golden wound medicine could be used. Bai Lang produced a small black box of ointment; it gave off a mint‑like scent, and he dabbed a bit with his fingertip onto a wound on his body. Instantly came a burning, spicy sensation, as if activating the wound, making Bai Lang feel pain; then a cool feeling rose to quell that pain—"Seeing a white layer of salve form over the wound, this golden wound medicine is probably truly effective."

Bai Lang rushed into the still‑intact pavilion, and indeed he found some clothes, picking out pieces that fit—of course he had surely washed his body in the lake beforehand, and Bai Lang felt refreshed—he made ready to do battle with the Happy King.

This person is surely the strongest martial artist; when Bai Lang earlier sensed his qi, he had no certainty, but after killing four men in a row his killing aura has risen again, and his martial destructive power can be said to have reached a new height—yet where did the Happy King go? When will he return? Or should we go look for him?