Boiling Beast Bloodline
Chapter 944 - 223: The Shameless Martial Artist

The swan high priest’s arms hung naturally by his sides, and despite his best effort to control them, everyone could see that his hands were trembling slightly. The sleeves, adorned with golden threads from the violent collision, had turned to tattered cloth. Blood droplets seeped from his pores covering his bruised arms, hanging on his sweat-soaked hairs, ready to drop.

"Your grandma!" Richard "dong dong dong" sprang up from below the arena, pointing at the nose of the Seven-Colored Dragon and cursed, "Ibrahimovic! Play fair and stop using your magnetic bipolar control—or is this how you get rid of me?"

"Although the Dragon Clan is proud, it does not mean we are idiots," the Seven-Colored Dragon, Ibrahim, laughed again. "Dealing with one is always better than dealing with two, right? Did you really think the Seven-Colored Dragon’s reputation as combat geniuses was just fabricated by Bards for fun?"

"You’re quite the clever dragon," Richard was taken aback and then laughed as well.

"Now you two can come at me together," the Seven-Colored Dragon, Ibrahim, said with a jesting look at Mourinho, "Can you fight again, respected Fire Phoenix priest?"

Mourinho said nothing, just quietly walked to the corner and took a half-charred wooden stake from the brazier’s stand.

"Teacher Mourinho, that thing won’t kill a dragon," Richard said, looking at the swan high priest’s bloody arm, feeling a bit of pity.

Mourinho still said nothing, he looked up at the complacent Seven-Colored Dragon. The sharpness contained in that look instantly stiffened the dragon’s smile; the swan high priest raised the half-charred stake with his left hand, and his right palm slashed diagonally across it—a crisp "crack" sounded as a smooth segment of the stake tumbled twice in the air, "thud" landing on the ground.

Two clusters of flames sprang respectively from the two freshly cut surfaces of the stakes, created purely by the high-speed friction. It was late at night, the torches in the arena were bright, but they could not overshadow the tiny yet vigorous flames.

"The Burning Palm Print!" the Seven-Colored Dragon, Ibrahim, raised his eyebrows and smiled.

"You ask if I still have the strength to fight?" Mourinho tore off his tattered sleeve, wiping away the blood droplets that had seeped from his arm.

Richard hadn’t removed one of the iron stakes surrounding the arena, which the Seven-Colored Dragon quickly pulled to himself with one hand. Ibrahim flipped backwards, his legs like the blades of huge shears, casting a metallic arc light. The iron stake exploded with sparks under this arc and was neatly split into two, landing on the ground simultaneously with the Seven-Colored Dragon, Ibrahim, with a clinking sound.

"Playing monkey tricks? Who would stand there dumb enough to let you kick them?" Richard sneered dismissively, wiped his nose, and sloppily patted Mourinho, "Right?"

"That’s the ’Swallowtail Snip’," Mourinho glanced at Richard.

"Attack with abandon!" Richard said fiercely.

"Then bring it on!" the Seven-Colored Dragon, Ibrahim, beckoned with his fingers and chuckled, "If I defeat the two great Beamon high priests, I can also have the Giant Beast’s emblem embroidered on my sleeve in the future, I’ve decided on one gold and one silver."

"Damn it! In your dreams! Let me at him," Richard stretched out his hand to stop Mourinho, hugging his arms as he stared down the Seven-Colored Dragon, Ibrahim, "Don’t play that magnetic repulsion trick again! If you’re a man, fight with fists and feet!"

"No problem!" the Seven-Colored Dragon, Ibrahim, gave a sly smile. He slightly shook his arms, and suddenly a strong pull tugged at Richard’s Mithril arm, rushing straight towards Ibrahim.

"Magnetic Bipolar Dragon Skin" not only repels but also attracts!

At the same time, the Seven-Colored Dragon, Ibrahim’s heavy leg whip traced a swift arc, sweeping towards the opponent at an unblinkingly fast speed. Mourinho’s expression changed—realizing it was too late to come to the aid, Richard was stumbled and dragged along by the mysterious attraction, awkwardly positioned as if waiting to be kicked, he rushed into the Seven-Colored Dragon’s striking posture.

Many Beamon women had already covered their eyes, unable to watch any longer.

The inherent advantages of the Seven-Colored Dragon were so abundant, it caused a wave of resentment and deflation among the Beamon spectators on the stands. Though there was no so-called unfairness—this was the innate capital.

The Seven-Colored Dragon, Ibrahim, swept out his heavy leg with a splendid smile, but to his disappointment, his huge wrap only managed to sweep away a Mithril arm; the follow-up kick hit nothing but air, the aimed strike that should have hit Richard’s face only kicked empty space.

The Seven-Colored Dragon had made a critical mistake—he had taken Richard for just another hot-blooded fool.

If Ibrahim had paid a little more attention, he would have noticed Richard’s arms were crossed over his chest, always bent; alas, he missed this little detail. Attracted by the magnetic pull and drawing near to the Seven-Colored Dragon in an instant, suddenly Richard’s left arm stretched out straight, his disengaged Mithril arm flew towards the Seven-Colored Dragon’s heavy leg like a battering ram, while the free Richard performed a ground roll on the spot, evading Ibrahim’s sweeping second leg whip.

Though the posture was a bit undignified, Richard managed to lift the whole body of Ibrahim. With a tiger’s roar, the Seven-Colored Dragon’s body crashed to the ground like a meteor from the sky, "bang," resounding across the Golden Crown Arena, causing a massive tremor and a "squeak squeak creak creak" of muffled sounds.