On the stage, Zih An rapidly retreated, but still sustained a wound across his chest and abdomen. Opposite him, Lu Ye closed in for another strike with his saber.
Zih An rolled away like a ground gourd, narrowly avoiding the attack. When he got up, his body was covered with mud dyed red with fresh blood, an extremely sorry sight.
Barely stabilizing his stance, a gust of wind struck from behind. He threw himself forward like a rabid dog, feeling a chill on the top of his head as a large patch of his scalp was sheared off.
Struggling to fall to the ground, Zih An knew he was doomed this time.
He truly couldn't understand; the opponent's Spiritual Artifact was broken, yet it didn't affect its power. His own Spiritual Artifact, once broken, was as good as a decoration in hand...
He couldn't dodge the next strike no matter what, but the pride of hailing from a 2nd grade sect bit back his cry for those two words.
He didn't cry out, but someone did it for him: "I concede!"