In the Continent Martial Arts Competition, the participants are merciless, often killing their opponents outright.
Allowing surrender in the duels diminishes the competitive spirit, fails to exhibit sportsmanship, and doesn’t inspire the participants to exert their utmost abilities.
Therefore, surrender is implicitly invalid; one’s survival after defeat depends entirely on the winner’s will.
Thus, a vicious cycle arises: I spare you, but who will spare me?
However, the essence of the Continent Martial Arts Competition is, firstly, the Emperor’s personal hobby, secondly, the Military Department’s recruitment of new blood, and lastly, the National Bank’s profits from gambling.
Should everyone die, what fresh blood could be recruited? The problem of stagnation within the military would intensify.
Therefore, the rules state that after each match, one may choose to maintain their current ranking and withdraw, and upon entering the top 500, one can apply to retire from the competition, limiting their achievements to that point but being hired by the Military Department as an officer, starting from the position of Officer.
At the very least, one must win the first round.
Yet everyone who participates in the Continent Martial Arts Competition dreams of soaring to prominence, aiming to reach the top 100, or even the top 16, which is a direct path to the Emperor’s favor, receiving recognition, and being appointed as the head of a newly established department, with a noble rank steadily rising until weary, earning a ticket to Heaven Palace.
But for those burdened with criminal charges, seeking a redemption in the Continent Martial Arts Competition, the thought process is not the same.
As long as they win the first round... their charges will be pardoned, and that’s sufficient.
For Pascal, this is the case.
Regarding the truth of Pascal’s imprisonment.
The public’s intuition was correct.
The broadcast’s echoes had yet to dissipate.
She didn’t possess the wealth to sit in the front row, only stood on the edge, while the subsequent bloodshed of that duel hadn’t altered the fallen family’s destiny.
Her vows were as steadfast as iron, piercing her heart; her nails gouged crescent-shaped blood marks in her palm.
The fallen noble lady for whom Pascal fought as a substitute, adhered to her promise of last November, awaited Pascal’s victory in this year’s Continent Martial Arts Competition to clear his name, leave the prison, and forever escape the power struggles of the Royal Capital, seeking peace in a coastal town for the remainder of her life.
Her nearly whisper-like cheers were drowned in the frenzy of the gambling crowd.
"Dad! You have to win!"
Galen was also frenzied with gambling, sweating profusely and squinting as if mimicking Tom’s nightmare meme, completely unaware that Gren aimed to purchase Liszt’s life with the gambling money.
Gren’s heart was pounding; he didn’t even dare to peek through his fingers, just pressed his forehead with interlocked fingers, praying to the Lord of the endless blue, the Holy Spirit of storms and waves, hoping he would sense his sincere devotion.
The large-scale underworld, prominent figures of the Western Continent loved to join the excitement—Evgeny Consortium, Narrow Sea Convention Organization, Gate of Truth—key players from these groups sat in the VIP seats.
The four Heavenly Kings of the underworld, the biggest in public perception, while the Thief Guild seemed overly foul-smelling and Diaz wouldn’t join the fray.
The Gravel Sand Land was quite expansive; Sack Head didn’t even wear armor, merely wielded a long-handled axe cold as a prison, charging at Pascal.
Whereas Pascal, after selecting his weapon and even the duel having commenced, showed no action.
He merely scanned quickly around the stands as if searching for someone; enduring a year in Northern Prison felt longer than a thousand years.
He was uncertain whether the past vow still held.
Yet the crowd was too vast to search through, and the enemy’s ax dragging closer and closer, moving swiftly like a meteor; no time remained for searching.
With a long and a short sword, Pascal steadied his mind, adopting an Ice Cone Style grip in a hunting stance, crouching and suddenly thrusting forward, Twist Sword Slash misaligned, securely intercepting Sack Head’s first axe strike.
This axe strike was powerful; Pascal’s knees bent slightly. Under the torrid midsummer sun, he flipped his wrist to angle the blade at forty-five degrees—a position capable of reflecting a blinding silver spot under intense light.
The sparks from metal meeting didn’t fade; as Sack Head was momentarily dazed, Pascal used the short sword to deflect the force, then misaligned the long sword and twisted it, the sword blade slicing through the air with a sharp whistle, breaking the air into rings, this reverse Twist Sword Slash striking like a snake flicking its tongue.
Flaring towards Sack Head’s lethal chest and abdomen blind spot, the path changed three times along the way, phantom-like, conjuring sword shadows like a windstorm, a million thrusts aiming for his life.
In the Continent Martial Arts Competition, absolute fairness dictates the use of venue-provided weapons and armor.
That could withstand this deadly sword honed through countless deadly battles.
Through sheer force and speed, Sack Head hadn’t completed his first axe strike; it was transitioning into a fast-slow rotating Big Ring Slash, now fully exerting force, wrenching apart Pascal’s short sword.
The shadows hadn’t even appeared; the series of entangling attacks just finished at this moment.
Like a dead branch falling, more shrill than a Guillotine.
Pascal’s head rolled several times in the sand, the large severed neck twitching intermittently with the still-beating heart, weaker and weaker, spurting a few more blood streams, the body collapsing with dwindling strength.
At the moment the axe severed the head, time froze within her pupils, splashing blood staining the entire mind red, the bouquet in her hands withered petal by petal in the wind.
This brutal direct appointment from Emperor to King.
"Awesome! Awesome! Make money, make money, make money!"
Galen leapt up in joy, punching the air, shouting until he broke his voice, utterly thrilled, more exhilarating than a thousand simultaneous prostitutes.
"The winner is, contestant number 114, named Executioner, hailing from the Cross Alliance Forgotten Port Executioner, ah, just now I almost got confused, let’s anticipate more of his performance in the second round!"
After the host completed the announcement.
The crowd erupted in curses, boos filling the air; what kind of substitute fighter can’t even beat a sack-headed trash?
And the slam-dunk gamblers, because the odds are small, are now exhilarated beyond ice; if not for public setting constraints, they’d struggle not booking a flight for Sack Head! Western Continent gamblers are indeed extreme.
Sack Head showed no emotion, tossed aside the long-handled axe, and walked into the iron gate without looking back.
The defeated remain nameless.
Pascal’s corpse was efficiently carried away on a stretcher by the arena staff, swiftly cleaning the bloodstains from the ground.
Gren’s first step to wealth through gambling to regain Heaven Port succeeded.
In complete blissful euphoria, her mind went blank for quite a while, no longer sweating palms, feeling light as though dreaming. ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ NoveI(F)ire.net
"2.6 odds... I placed 1,900 Golden Dragons, how much would that be?"
Gren started to calculate with her fingers.
The deputy leader of Wind Radiance Adventure Team, playing coy, swiftly calculated, eyes widening, "After deducting a ten percent handling fee, at 2.6 odds, there’s 4,750 Golden Dragons left, which means, after recovering the principal, a net gain of... 2,850 Golden Dragons."
Meili’s gambling demonstrated vividly, in East Sea, employing 3,000 Golden Dragons to hire a Pirate Gang could flip any port city of Beima Duchy upside down.
Gren couldn’t help but breathe a few times, pacing rapidly, hand covering her mouth, incredulous that it went so smoothly.
Joyfully grabbed Galen’s arm and bounced around.
Galen was stunned; in just a few minutes on stage, roughly 3,000 Golden Dragons were processed?
"I’ll treat tonight! Feel free to spend, it’s your advice that gave me the idea, but... half is too much, I’ll give you 500 Golden Dragons, okay? Who to bet on next?"
Gren said whatever came to her mind, relying on Galen for advice next, already forming a path dependency.
She felt as if she just entered society with direct guidance from an Immortal, who could withstand that? Already feeling capable, ready to play in East Sea, dominate a region.
Galen was dumbfounded by Gren’s generosity, staring at the sweet smile completely contrasting the tattoo of a Dragon Whale—a female saint!
And at this very moment.
On the other side of the stand, some rejoiced while others mourned.
Ben smoked without manners in this public place.
Ben extinguished the cigarette butt.
Originally snuck in without a ticket, he had placed a bet on Pascal right before the duel closed within the last two minutes, just to make a little profit; even if a mosquito, it’s meat, losing his entire fortune of six Golden Dragons.