In the Continent Martial Arts Competition, the participants are rciless, 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 ?
However, the essence of the Continent Martial Arts Competition is, firstly, the Emperor’s personal hobby, secondly, the Military Departnt’s recruitnt 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 achievents to that point but being hired by the Military Departnt 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 departnt, 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 sa.
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 imprisonnt.
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 na, 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 , completely unaware that Gren aid 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 excitent—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 seed overly foul-slling and Diaz wouldn’t join the fray.
In the arena.
The Gravel Sand Land was quite expansive; Sack Head didn’t even wear armor, rely wielded a long-handled axe cold as a prison, charging at Pascal.
Whereas Pascal, after selecting his weapon and even the duel having comnced, showed no action.
He rely scanned quickly around the stands as if searching for soone; 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 teor; no ti 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 midsumr 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 tal eting didn’t fade; as Sack Head was montarily 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 abdon blind spot, the path changed three tis 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.
No Mortal Iron!
That could withstand this deadly sword honed through countless deadly battles.
But...
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 mont.
Like a dead branch falling, more shrill than a Guillotine.
Pascal’s head rolled several tis 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 mont the axe severed the head, ti 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 appointnt from Emperor to King.
"Aweso! Aweso! 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, nad 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 announcent.
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 extre.
Sack Head showed no emotion, tossed aside the long-handled axe, and walked into the iron gate without looking back.
The defeated remain naless.
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.
"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 ans, after recovering the principal, a net gain of... 2,850 Golden Dragons."
ili’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 tis, pacing rapidly, hand covering her mouth, incredulous that it went so smoothly.
Joyfully grabbed Galen’s arm and bounced around.
"Damn!"
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 the idea, but... half is too much, I’ll give you 500 Golden Dragons, okay? Who to bet on next?"
Gren said whatever ca 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.
"Damn!"
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 mont.
On the other side of the stand, so rejoiced while others mourned.
Ben smoked without manners in this public place.
"Damn it..."
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 at, losing his entire fortune of six Golden Dragons.
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