Inside the private room.
Olivia is sitting on the sofa by the floor-to-ceiling window, leaning against the armrest, her legs propped up on the cushion.
Her silver-white high twin-tails hang in front of her shoulders.
A bag of chips is placed in front of her.
Bored, she picks one up, stuffs it into her mouth, chews, then frowns.
The chips are way too salty.
Of course she wants to eat something else.
But this private room seems to only sell these.
Every time she wants sausage, the waiter says it’s sold out; when she asks again, they say the next batch hasn’t arrived;
Ask again, and they say the Knight Platter is also gone.
She puts the chip bag back on the low table, picks up her water glass, and takes a big gulp, trying to wash down the saltiness.
No help for it—there are too many people in the audience seats below.
She can’t very well sit in the private room and compete with the audience for food.
Liliana sits on the sofa next to her, crossing her feet in sandals, holding a cup of coffee.
She watches Olivia’s scrunched-up face, her cat ears perking up and twitching.
“With a face this pretty and a figure this good, you need to watch your diet, nya~”
Olivia swallows the chip in her mouth and shoots Liliana a sideways glare with her silver eyes.
“I’m a dragon. You know how much I eat.”
The previous few matches were pretty boring.
A canine knight lost after overtime and was eliminated; a horse knight made it to the semifinals.
Olivia half-lies on the sofa, stuffing the last chip into her mouth.
On the arena.
Kathy Bates, the Grand Master of the Silver Lance Knights, and Kaznid, the Vice Master, stand in the front row of the audience.
Kathy Bates has her arms crossed over her chest, while Kaznid holds a document.
They’re watching the match instead of patrolling, for a simple reason.
The document prints the info on Masiweiluo’s opponent for today—just a thin page, as if the opponent has never experienced anything at all.
“The record is too vague, only mentioning they stayed in Urske.”
Kathy Bates closes the document.
“Hope Masiweiluo can handle it… Hopefully the Merchant Union’s assessment isn’t a hostile setup…”
The magical projection screen above the arena lights up.
Masiweiluo’s portrait appears on the left side of the screen; on the right is a name never seen before—”Fuxiu Qishi.”
The portrait is a photo of someone wearing a fully enclosed helmet, face unclear, the helmet’s surface covered in rust.
On Zijiang’s phone screen, the comments are exploding.
“Fuxiu Qishi? Who’s that?”
“Never heard of them!”
“How does a semifinal have such a contestant?”
“Can’t find this person.”
“What about their record? Points ranking?”
“Got in through connections, right?”
“The Merchant Union pulling shady tricks again.”
“Is there any fairness left in the Grand Tournament?”
The organizer’s announcement sounds.
The canine host’s voice comes through the loudspeaker, a bit faster than usual.
“Dear audience, regarding contestant Fuxiu Qishi’s qualification: due to the previous advancing contestant withdrawing due to injury, according to tournament rules, the slot is filled by the next in points ranking. Fuxiu Qishi’s points ranking fully meets the fill-in conditions. There is no rule violation. Please view this rationally.”
The comments don’t stop.
“Points ranking? Show the ranking list!”
“Withdraw just like that? Who withdrew?”
“A fill-in gets to the semifinals?”
“Explanations are just cover-ups.”
“Whatever, go Masiweiluo!”
Zi steadies her phone, points the camera at the arena entrance, and raises her voice.
“Everyone, calm down. The match is about to start. No matter who the opponent is, we’ve all seen Masiweiluo’s strength—”
The comments continue, but cheers are already rising.
The host stands up from the announcer’s desk; the cuffs of his silver suit glint under the lights.
“Distinguished audience—Semifinals, first match—Masiweiluo—versus—Fuxiu Qishi—begin!”
Masiweiluo walks out of the contestant tunnel.
Her silver-white plate armor flows with a cool sheen under the ring lights.
Brown hair spills out from under the knight helmet.
A lance stands vertically beside her, tip pointing upward.
Her hooves tread onto the grass; every step is firm.
Fuxiu Qishi walks out from the opposite tunnel.
Covered head to toe in dark gray plate armor, the plates rusty and curled at several edges.
The helmet is fully enclosed, with only a narrow horizontal slit on the front.
Inside the slit, there’s nothing—just a mass of gray mist of indeterminate depth slowly writhing.
His weapon is a rusty warhammer.
At first glance, he looks just like any wandering knight on the street.
Olivia sits up straight on the sofa.
The chip bag slides off her knee and falls onto the carpet.
“This guy’s origins are mysterious, unfathomable… and I don’t have any impression of him from the first match either.”
The match has already begun.
Masiweiluo raises the tip of her lance.
She steps forward, planting one foot into the grass, and thrusts the lance from her side.
A standard opening move—a straight thrust, so fast that the tip leaves a silver-white afterimage in the air.
The lance tip strikes the center of Fuxiu Qishi’s breastplate.
The sound of metal impact echoes across the arena.
Fuxiu Qishi doesn’t dodge.
It’s as if he deliberately let Masiweiluo hit him.
The tip drives into the rusty breastplate, leaving a fist-sized dent in the plate.
He’s knocked back half a step, his boot soles dragging two shallow furrows in the grass.
Then he steadies himself and keeps walking forward.
“Your lance lacks weight.”
Fuxiu Qishi’s voice comes through the helmet slit, hoarse like two rusty iron plates scraping together.
Then he raises his warhammer.
Masiweiluo jumps back in the gap as the hammer falls; the hammerhead slams into the grass, sending dirt and grass blades flying.
After landing, she immediately thrusts again, aiming the tip at Fuxiu Qishi’s left shoulder.
Another dent forms in the plate.
Fuxiu Qishi’s shoulder wobbles, and his warhammer sweeps sideways.
Masiweiluo quickly bends, the hammerhead passing over her helmet; the wind pressure blows her ponytail backward.
Masiweiluo creates distance.
She stops five steps directly in front of Fuxiu Qishi, switching her lance to her right hand.
She stares for a moment at the two dents in his chest from her thrusts.
No blood flows from under the plates.
Given the force of each of her strikes, even with armor protection, his internal organs couldn’t possibly be unscathed.
“What are you, really?”
“Rotten wood.”
Fuxiu Qishi takes another step forward.
“Dry bones.”
Another step.
“Forgotten.”
The warhammer is raised.
Masiweiluo does not retreat.
She takes a deep breath, and her silver-white plate armor begins to glow.
Light spreads from her chest to her arms, from her arms to the lance tip;
Light seeps through the gaps in the armor, from the engraved galloping horse crest, until the entire lance is wrapped in a layer of silver-white glow.
“No matter what you are, this is the arena.”
The lance tip thrusts out.
This time, it doesn’t strike the breastplate.
The glowing tip pierces into the gap between the plates at Fuxiu Qishi’s right shoulder.
The plate caves inward.
Fuxiu Qishi’s right arm droops.
The warhammer slips from his loosened right hand and crashes onto the grass.
A harsh scraping sound of metal rings out; rust flakes burst from the joint.
He didn’t even dodge, making one wonder if this person feels any pain at all.
He doesn’t cry out or retreat.
After taking so many hits, even—
Fuxiu Qishi reaches out with his left hand and grabs the lance shaft.
His five fingers close around the glowing shaft; the iron gauntlets on his fingers smoke from the heat of the light.
He tightens his grip and yanks outward.
Masiweiluo’s lance tip is forcibly pulled out of his shoulder; rust flakes and bits of armor fall onto the grass.
Holding the shaft, he pulls Masiweiluo a step closer, then swings his left fist at her.
The fist smashes into Masiweiluo’s shoulder armor, producing a dull thud on the silver-white pauldron.
Masiweiluo releases one hand, uses the butt of the lance to deflect his left fist, and sidesteps half a step.
His physical strength is absurdly high; even a battle bear tribe member seems to lack this power.
Fuxiu Qishi stops moving, then continues his taunt with that hoarse voice:
“Your light is nothing to speak of.”