Chijiao stood in the center of the arena.
His dark red armor was still steaming, and the battle’s aftermath left faint wisps of vapor seeping from the gaps between the plates.
At his feet, the turf was torn up by the battle axe, dirt and grass roots mixed together.
Wolfgang lay less than three steps away.
His gray-white short hair was covered in grass clippings and dirt.
Half of the wolf-head pauldron was shattered, the crack running from the wolf’s jaw down to the neck.
The battle axe had flown from his grip to the edge of the field, stuck in the grass with the blade sunk half a foot into the dirt.
He tried to push himself up with his left hand, the only one that still worked, but halfway up he collapsed back, his back hitting the grass hard.
The referee’s flag was already raised, but Wolfgang seemed not to see it.
His chest heaved violently, his breath whistling—probably a broken rib.
A new wound had opened beside the old scar at the corner of his mouth, and blood dripped from his chin onto the grass.
He stared at the night sky for a long time.
The ring lights stung his eyes, making him squint.
Then he turned his gaze to Chijiao standing in front of him—that dark red helmet, that narrow visor slit that showed only a cluster of dark red light.
Wolfgang should have been eliminated, but he had used his connections to get back into the arena.
Now he had run into someone on the same level as Masiweiluo—Chijiao.
“What kept you going?”
Wolfgang’s voice was halting.
Every word cost him half a breath.
Chijiao pulled the battle axe out of the grass, dragging the butt across the ground.
The dark red light shone steadily in the slit of his helmet, neither brighter nor dimmer.
“Just that simple.”
Wolfgang coughed, splattering bloody foam onto the grass.
“It’s my comrades.”
“Soloya is your comrade.”
He pronounced the name “Soloya” with particular force, like biting down on a broken tooth.
The wolf tribe and the dark elf tribe were ancient enemies, their blood debt dating back to the ruins of Suowufutuo Lei centuries ago.
There had never been a true reconciliation between the two races.
This had never happened before in the history of knight tournaments.
A dark elf knight treating a wolf tribe rookie as a comrade—that kind of thing…
“Of course.”
Chijiao answered without any hesitation.
Wolfgang stared at the narrow slit in the helmet, looking for any trace of wavering or pretense, but he found nothing.
Only a cluster of dark red light, burning steadily.
“Ha, I don’t get it. She’s not even your own kin, and you still went all out for her.”
Wolfgang placed his left hand on his chest, pressing his fingers against the broken rib.
“Everyone has a reason to live.”
“Bro, do people care about that on the battlefield?”
Wolfgang’s voice rose a little, straining his broken rib, and he gritted his teeth.
Chijiao didn’t answer.
He rested the battle axe on his shoulder and turned to leave.
His boots sank into the grass with each step, leaving shallow imprints.
Wolfgang’s voice chased after him from behind, louder than before, using the last of his strength.
“Alright, bro. Your next opponent is Masiweiluo. Since you’ve got that much spirit, just smash the grand championship trophy on my head.”
Chijiao stopped.
He didn’t turn around, seemingly unconcerned with the dying man’s desperate words.
The dark red light flickered in the slit of his helmet, and then his voice came from under the armor, not loud but each word steady.
“I have my principles.”
Staff ran over from the sidelines—two dog-tribe medics carrying a stretcher, followed by a cat-tribe physician with a first-aid kit.
They crouched beside Wolfgang.
The cat-tribe physician cut the straps on his shoulder armor and examined the shattered pauldron to see if there was more serious damage underneath.
The two dog-tribe staff lifted him from the grass—one supporting his shoulders, the other his legs—and placed him on the stretcher.
Wolfgang lay on the stretcher, his left hand hanging over the edge, fingers still trembling slightly.
As he was carried out of the arena, he turned his head to take one last look at Chijiao’s back and muttered something only he could hear.
Then the stretcher disappeared into the shadows of the competitor’s tunnel.
Chijiao walked out of the tunnel.
The metal soles of his dark red armor clanked on the concrete floor with each step, carrying a dull echo.
The base of the Golden Emblem Knights looked the same as always.
The basement converted from a wine cellar, red brick walls permeated with the sour smell of wine, magical lamps hanging overhead radiating a pale blue light, swaying gently.
The battle axe leaned against the wall.
He took off his helmet and laid it on his knees, his dark red pupils fixed on the opposite wall.
Ye Ying walked in.
Her white hair fell from her shoulders, and her golden pupils glowed like two small lamps in the dim light.
She sat down on a wooden crate beside Chijiao, not too close, leaving about an arm’s length.
The medicine pouch rested on her knee, its silver surface carved with dark elven patterns shimmering faintly in the light.
She didn’t open the pouch right away, just sat there in silence for a while.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. How’s Wei?”
Chijiao’s voice came from deep in his throat.
His helmet sat on his knees, and he didn’t look at Ye Ying.
Wei was at least a former teammate.
Back in the ruins of Suowufutuo Lei, the three of them—Chijiao, Ye Ying, and Wei—had spent a long time together.
After leaving the Blood King’s Court, she went to Rantesti City and joined the Red Sun Brigade.
But no matter what, he wanted to ask.
Ye Ying tapped her finger on the medicine pouch once.
Then she unclasped the pouch, took out a small jar of pale green ointment, and unscrewed the lid.
“She left here too.”
“When did that happen?”
“Just now.”
Ye Ying placed the jar on her knee, her fingers still resting on the lid.
A long silence.
The hanging magical lamp swayed, the pale blue light shifted an inch across the wall, then swayed back.
Chijiao lifted the helmet from his knee, turned it over, and looked at the inside.
The inner padding was worn and fuzzy, and in some places it had formed a dent shaped like his head.
He set the helmet beside the bench, then shifted his dark red pupils back to the opposite wall.
“Fine. She’s no longer walking the same path as us. She has the right to decide where she goes, and I no longer have the authority to restrict her.”
Ye Ying didn’t reply.
She closed the jar, put it back in the pouch, and fastened the clasp.
Then she stood up.
At the door, she paused, turned to look at him.
“And you? Where do you go?”
Chijiao didn’t answer.
The battle axe leaned against the wall, the dark red patterns on its blade flickering on and off.
He lowered his head and looked at the back of his hand.
There was Wolfgang’s blood on his armored glove, already dried, dark red stains embedded in the seams between the plates.
Ye Ying stood in the doorway for a moment, then pushed the door open and walked out.
—
At the entrance of the Commerce Federation building.
A black car was parked at the bottom of the steps.
Four wheels pressed against the stone pavement.
Its glossy paint reflected the gray outer wall of the neighboring building and the pale blue sky overhead.
In Wolfgang, cars were rarer than rare.
Probably only big shots in the Commerce Federation in all of Genitswa could afford this kind of iron shell imported from Osteria.
The door opened.
A dog-tribe girl stepped out.
She wore a dark dress with a small silver badge pinned to the collar.
She stood by the car door, lifted her head, and looked up at the Commerce Federation building.
The building was a gray stone structure, four stories tall, with three banners hanging from the outer wall, flapping noisily in the wind.
Her eyes were dark brown.
“Has my father’s body been buried?”
The manager hurried down the steps.
“It’s taken care of… guided by his Excellency the President…”
The manager’s voice trembled.
“Okay. Thank that chuunibyou cat for me.”
The corner of the girl’s mouth twitched, just a faint curve.
She pulled her gaze away from the building and looked at the manager.
The manager took half a step back under her stare.
“From Vinadow.”
“Miss… y-you… when did you arrive?”
The manager’s words came out disjointed.
“Nothing. From now on, the Commerce Federation is under my full control.”
The girl’s voice was not loud, but every word sounded as if it had already been written into a document, stamped with a seal, and filed in an archive—just waiting for you to sign.
She walked past the manager, her leather shoes ringing on the stone steps, one step at a time.
The hem of her dark dress swayed gently in the wind.
The manager turned and watched her back, mouth opening and closing, opening and closing, momentarily at a loss for words.
Delias, the only daughter of Emrick, was only fifteen—and she was taking over the Commerce Federation.
This would reshuffle the entire power structure of Wolfgang.
“This… ah.”