Chapter 109: Yu Xiaogang Faints from Rage
Luo Ling's words were clear, logical, and cuttingly precise—so much so that even the audience murmured their agreement.
Even the powerful guests in the VIP stands nodded, their eyes filled with a faint sense of pity as they looked at Tang San.
Such a promising youth… wasted under the guidance of the wrong teacher.
Hidden in the crowd, Tang Hao frowned deeply, glancing between the son standing on the stage and Yu Xiaogang not far away.
It had been his decision to entrust Tang San to Yu Xiaogang. Now, it seemed that choice might have been a mistake.
Back in Holy Soul Village, he had known little about Yu Xiaogang. Even after the plagiarism scandal broke, Tang Hao hadn't paid it much mind.
But hearing the Warlock's reasoning now, he had to admit—the so-called "theoretical master" didn't sound reliable at all.
His face darkened grimly.
"You're lying! My teacher is a master of spirit theory! His theories can't be wrong!" Tang San shouted, refusing to believe the Warlock's words.
Yet, when he looked down at his own Blue Silver Grass, doubt stirred in his heart.
He realized something—most of his victories hadn't come from his martial soul at all, but from the secret arts of the Tang Sect: the Xuantian Record, the Ghost Shadow Steps, Controlling Crane Capturing Dragon, the Purple Demon Eye…
His martial soul, compared to those, seemed pathetically weak.
"Master? Don't tell me you're talking about that thirty-something-level failure down there," Luo Ling said casually, glancing toward the stands where Yu Xiaogang sat.
"At his age, still at the thirtieth rank—and you call him a 'master'?"
"With that level, he's barely seen the surface of martial soul research. How could he possibly understand its deeper mysteries?"
"He builds half-baked theories out of his own imagination—if one happens to succeed, it's luck; if not, it's inevitable failure."
"And those so-called Ten Core Theories of Martial Souls? Their data came from the Spirit Hall. At best, he's a glorified copyist."
Luo Ling's tone dripped with derision. Below, Yu Xiaogang trembled with rage, his whole body shaking.
This arena was filled with powerful figures from every major force on the continent.
He had once been known as a master of theory—but now, with the Warlock's words echoing through the hall, he was being publicly branded a fraud.
Tang San's mind was spinning. He had followed Yu Xiaogang for six years, treating him like family. But no matter how painful, every word the Warlock said struck too close to the truth.
In the VIP box, the gathered powerhouses studied Yu Xiaogang silently. Whatever respect they might once have held for him was gone.
In the Blue Lightning Tyrant Dragon Clan's private lounge, Yu Yuanzhen's face was ashen.
Yu Xiaogang, after all, was his son. To see him so humiliated in public left him furious and humiliated in equal measure.
Then, under the crushing weight of derisive stares from around the arena, Yu Xiaogang's eyes rolled back—and he dropped straight to the floor.
He had fainted from rage.
"Xiaogang!" Flender rushed forward, catching the man and checking his pulse. After a moment, he sighed in relief.
"Dean, how is he?" Zhao Wouji asked, his voice complicated.
"He's fine. Just passed out," Flender said helplessly.
"Dean, maybe we should… leave." Zhao Wouji gestured nervously at the audience. Hundreds of contemptuous eyes were fixed on them, and he could barely stand it.
And besides, it was obvious that the fight above would end soon.
Only Tang San had any fight left—and even he couldn't threaten the Warlock.
The whole battle was turning into a farce, a public humiliation staged by the Warlock—especially for Tang San and Yu Xiaogang.
Zhao Wouji could already see what would happen. After today, Yu Xiaogang's so-called prestige would be forever destroyed.
Flender took a heavy breath. Looking up at the stage, watching Tang San still standing there, he wanted to leave too, but… that was his student.
"Zhao Wouji, take Xiaogang and go back first. I'll stay until this is over," Flender said bitterly.
Seeing no reason to argue, Zhao Wouji hoisted Yu Xiaogang over his shoulder and left the arena as quickly as possible. He had no desire to stay a second longer—this was beyond humiliating.
On the platform, watching Yu Xiaogang being carried away, Luo Ling smiled in satisfaction.
This duel had two purposes: to claim Tang San's Xuantian Record—and to utterly humiliate Yu Xiaogang.
Now, the man's reputation was in ruins. But it still wasn't enough.
Luo Ling shook his head, turning his gaze back to Tang San. With the teacher gone, it was time to claim what he came for.
He stepped beside his Crow Shadow Puppet, his eyes glowing a deep crimson.
In the next instant, the puppet's domain activated—the Abyss of No Light.
And suddenly, the entire Great Spirit Arena plunged into absolute darkness.
The world froze. For a few heartbeats, nothing but blackness existed. Then the darkness lifted—and the figure of Luo Ling reappeared.
But now, he was wholly transformed. His entire body radiated dense, wicked energy; blackness and scarlet entwined over him like burning shadows of a demon.
Even Tang San shuddered. Staring at the figure before him, his very soul trembled.
Why? Why was the Warlock releasing such overwhelming power?
He wasn't in danger—Tang San couldn't even threaten him. Was he doing it only to display his might?
Before he could think further, his mind went blank.
The dark threads vanished, replaced by invisible spirit lines that no one else could see. They coiled around Tang San's soul, corrupting and consuming it.
He offered no resistance. His eyes turned dull, his body slack—like a puppet being pulled by unseen strings.
Step by step, Tang San walked toward Luo Ling, expression empty. The spectators were confused, unable to comprehend what was happening.
Only Bibi Dong and the Douluo duo beside her—Chrysanthemum Douluo and Ghost Douluo—understood.
It was the invasion of spirit threads.
They each shivered.
Such power… insidious, invisible, impossible to defend against.
Thank goodness this man serves the Spirit Hall.
That thought ran through all three of their minds at once.
Tang San stopped before Luo Ling and, to everyone's horror, knelt.
He knelt like a servant—obedient and broken.
In the stands, Tang Hao's eyes widened in disbelief. His son—kneeling willingly before another? Impossible!
Before the man could move, Luo Ling's right hand, wreathed in dark power, reached forward.
He clutched Tang San's head lightly and lifted him off the ground.
A scream tore through the arena—sharp, raw, agonizing.
Tang San's body convulsed violently, his face twisted in pain, as if his soul itself were being torn apart.
The sound of his torment echoed like a chorus of wailing ghosts from hell, sending chills through every spectator present.
Luo Ling ignored their fear. Leaning close, he whispered softly so that only Tang San could hear:
"I'll be taking your Xuantian Record."
During deep soul invasions, the target always felt overwhelming pain—along with flashes of awareness.
As those words entered his mind, Tang San's pupils constricted sharply.
Xuantian Record?!
That was his ultimate secret—how could anyone possibly know of it?!
(END CHAPTER)
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