One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

Hattori Senzo missed his first strike and did not linger in the fight.

His figure glided backward like a ghost—his feet barely left the ground, as if gliding on ice, yet his speed was astonishing. He narrowly avoided the ferocious punch, the wind from the blow sweeping past him half a foot in front of him, forcing his mask to stick tightly to his face.

At the same time, he raised his left hand.

"Whoosh whoosh-"

Several shuriken shot out in a triangular formation, heading straight for Andrei's face and chest!

The shuriken's flight trajectory was unpredictable—not a straight line, but an arc, like three moths swaying left and right as they flew, making it difficult to predict their landing point. Moreover, they were extremely fast, accompanied by a faint whooshing sound, like the flapping of bees' wings.

Clearly, they had been poisoned or imbued with special energy. The edges of those swords had a faint bluish-black sheen, not the original color of the metal, but traces of poisoning.

Andrei dared not be negligent.

He swung his arms to block.

"Ding ding ding—"

The shuriken were knocked away; three hit the wall, one bounced to the ceiling, and the last one "whooshed" into a wooden box in the distance.

Sparks flew everywhere.

But at the very moment he blocked—

Hattori Chizo's figure disappeared.

It's not a metaphor.

It's really gone.

Like a drop of water merging into the ocean, or a snowflake falling onto the snow-covered ground, his gray ninja uniform blended seamlessly into the dim corner of the hall, the stark white light of the emergency lights seemingly automatically avoiding his position.

next second.

It appeared to Andrei's side and rear.

"die!"

He drew both swords simultaneously!

A single stroke to the throat!

A single stab to the waist!

The movements were synchronized as if they were two mirror images of the same action; the sound of the blade cutting through the air overlapped, creating an eerie buzzing sound.

Andrei is a highly experienced fighter.

He didn't look back—it was too late—he just relied on the sound of the wind to locate himself, and his massive body twisted violently with a flexibility that belied his size!

"Hiss—hiss—"

Two flashes of cold light streaked past.

They narrowly avoided a fatal blow.

The blade grazed his neck, leaving a shallow bloodstain, like a cat's scratch. But a real gash was slashed across his waist, deeper than the one on his arm, and blood seeped out again, flowing down his abdomen and soaking his trousers.

Andrei grunted, staggered a couple of steps, steadied himself, and turned to glare at her.

Hattori Chizo had already retreated to a distance of three meters.

The two swords are crossed in front of the chest, with the tips pointing downwards.

Blood stained the blade—drops dripping down, landing on the gray cement floor, blooming into tiny dark red flowers.

His breathing remained unchanged.

His gaze remained unchanged.

My heartbeat didn't change.

Those two slashes just now seemed to be nothing more than a warm-up for him.

The ensuing battle almost became a one-man show for Andrei—

A personal show where someone is being played.

Hattori Chizo was like a top-notch assassin, perfectly embodying the ninja's cunning, agility, and ability to escape a thousand miles away if the attack misses.

He never confronted Andrei head-on—not even once. Every time Andrei threw a punch, he dodged at the last second, never wasting a single ounce of energy.

He always hovered on the edge of Andrei's attack range—a distance he had perfected: you couldn't hit me, but I could hit you at any moment. It was as if there was an invisible line drawn on the ground, and he would jump around on that line, never stepping over it even a step too far.

With his ghostly movements and accurate predictions, he dodged Andrei's heavy punches time and time again.

Then, seizing that fleeting opening—perhaps a brief moment of stiffness, a slight loss of balance, or even just a breath's time—he used his sharp dagger to leave wounds on Andrei's body.

A knife.

Another cut.

Another cut.

The wounds were never deep—Hattori Chizo's sword was very "stingy," each cut just barely piercing the skin, not penetrating any further.

But the number is constantly increasing.

Five paths.

Ten paths.

Fifteen.

Andrei's external martial arts skills were clearly not as profound as Bald Bear's—Bald Bear, a martial artist who specialized in external martial arts, was not the same type of combat maniac like Andrei, who only used external martial arts as a supplementary means. Although his defense was not bad, able to block bullets and ordinary swords, it was still somewhat inadequate in the face of Hattori Senzo's short sword, which was imbued with special Qi and was exceptionally sharp.

and.

Hattori Chizo's swordsmanship was not only fast, but also poisonous.

Every cut was precise, made at crucial points—not randomly chosen, but meticulously calculated. The origins and insertions of muscles, the direction of ligaments, the gaps between joints, the distribution of nerves—he knew Andrei's body better than Andrei himself.

Although not fatal, it greatly affected Andrei's strength and agility.

A knife wound to his right arm reduced his punching power by 30%. A knife wound behind his left knee slowed his turning speed by half. The wound on his side caused him sharp pain with every twist of his waist, naturally distorting his movements.

Each of his attacks was distorted and slowed down by pain and muscle stiffness.

What frustrated Andrei even more was that the other side didn't give him a chance to confront them directly.

Slippery and slippery.

Like a loach.

It's like a persistent, incurable disease—you can't get rid of it, but it can bite you at any time.

He wanted to force his opponent to take the hit head-on with a wide-range attack—spreading his arms and spinning like a windmill, trying to cover Hattori Chizo's dodging space with his area of ​​effect.

But Hattori Chizo's movements were too unpredictable, always managing to dodge at the last second—sometimes he would slip under Andrei's armpit, sometimes he would flip over his head, and sometimes he would even slide between his legs like a snake.

He tried to provoke the other person with words—"Coward! Don't run away! Fight me fair and square!"

But the other party remained silent, like a mute, without uttering a single word. No matter how much Andrei cursed or provoked him, he showed no reaction.

Only the cold glint of blades.

And a cold, indifferent gaze.

That look was as if he were looking at something—something devoid of emotion that needed to be dealt with.

"Aaaaah! Coward! Don't you dare run away!"

Andrei was so angry that he roared, his voice echoing through the hall.

Several more wounds appeared on his body, and blood had stained his clothes—his dark tactical vest had turned dark red, and blood was dripping from the cuffs, collar, and hem.

He looked quite disheveled.

Although he was brave, blood loss and accumulating injuries were rapidly depleting his strength and condition. His breathing became increasingly heavy, like a bellows. His steps became unsteady, his footing no longer firm, and he would sometimes stagger slightly. The power of his punches was also diminishing, from splitting rocks to barely striking iron.

"Ivanovic is going to lose."

The man in the suit adjusted his glasses and spoke softly to the woman with wire-rimmed glasses beside him. His voice was steady, but there was a hint of reluctance in his tone.

The woman with the gold-rimmed glasses nodded.

His complexion wasn't good either.

Their alliance with the Bear Kingdom was temporary—it was called a joint team, but in reality, they were each fighting their own battles, with the winner taking over. However, if Andrei lost, the Eagle Kingdom would have to face the potential opponents alone.

That unfathomable Nie Lingfeng.

And then there's Zhang Chulan, who won entirely through underhanded tactics.

The situation is not optimistic.

really.

Another few minutes passed.

Andrei's movements slowed down noticeably.

His punching speed dropped from three punches per second to barely one punch per second. His movement changed from a powerful charge to a shuffling, inefficient shuffling. Even his blocking became sluggish—he clearly saw a blade, but he just couldn't raise his arm, watching helplessly as the blade sliced ​​across his forearm.

His breathing was like that of an old engine, each inhale accompanied by a hissing sound in his throat, and each exhale carried a bloody smell.

Hattori Senzo.

It's still the same as it was at the beginning.

His breathing was steady—his chest rose and fell almost without variation. His eyes were cold—his expression remained unchanged from beginning to end, as if he were wearing a mask. His breathing was even—even more even than at the beginning, as if he had finished warming up and entered his optimal state.

It was as if the series of high-intensity attacks just now were merely a warm-up.

at last.

After a powerful punch missed.

Andrei's body stiffened briefly.

It was a very brief moment of stiffness—less than half a second. It was the result of a combination of factors: the pain from an old injury that hadn't healed, the fatigue from accumulated new injuries, the exhaustion from a long, high-intensity battle, and the inertial imbalance after that punch missed.

For ordinary people, half a second means nothing.

For Hattori Senzo—

enough.

A cold glint flashed in his eyes.

That was the first—and only—time he showed an expression throughout the entire battle. The cold glint was like lightning in the night, fleeting yet enough to illuminate everything.

His figure appeared behind Andrei as if by teleportation—not really teleportation, but because he was too fast for Andrei's eyes to keep up.

Two swords crossed.

It was placed on Andrei's neck.

The cold blade pressed against his skin, making the hairs on his skin stand on end. The chill of the blade penetrated his skin, his muscles, and reached his very bones.

"Admit defeat, or die."

A hoarse voice.

Without a trace of emotion.

It's like asking, "Is the weather nice today?"

Andrei's body stiffened.

He could feel the chilling killing intent emanating from his neck—not a threat, but a fact awaiting an answer. Hattori Chizo's hand was steady, as was his sword, ready to strike at any moment.

And the sharp aura on the blade, enough to easily slice his throat—that aura was unlike any attack he had ever encountered before; it was not brute force, not skill, but a pure power born to kill.

His facial muscles twitched violently.

His eyes were filled with resentment and humiliation.

His lips trembled, as if he wanted to say something harsh, to curse "I'd rather die than submit," to act like a hero.

But the knife to my neck was too cold.

The coldness brought him to his senses.

Finally, he squeezed out two words through gritted teeth:

"...I admit defeat."

The voice was so soft it sounded like it was coming from underground; it was hoarse, dry, and had an indescribable quality.

It's not that I'm afraid of death. It's that it's not worth it. It's that I accept defeat wholeheartedly. It's that continuing to fight would just be a waste of time.

Hattori Senzo heard this.

He cleanly and decisively sheathed his knife.

back.

Stand still again.

"Clang—" The twin swords were sheathed.

It was as if the deadly threat had never happened. He remained silent and unassuming—like a stone, like a tree, like a piece of dead wood.

The few drops of Andrei's blood on his body stood out starkly against his dark gray ninja uniform. The bloodstains on his left shoulder and right rib resembled two dark red flowers, slowly spreading in the dim light.

"First match, in the land of cherry blossoms, Hattori Senzo wins."

The suit-wearing elite announced it expressionlessly.

But his slightly clenched fist betrayed his inner turmoil. His knuckles were white from gripping, as if he were desperately trying to hold onto something that was about to slip away.

Andrei kept his head down.

He staggered back to the Bear Kingdom.

Each step was heavy and slow, like a convicted prisoner walking towards his cell. With each step, a faint bloody footprint remained beneath his feet.

He was met with the silent gazes of his companions.

No one speaks.

No one offered comfort.

No one blamed them.

She just watched him silently, with an expression that said, "I knew this would happen."

He lost.

And the defeat was quite ugly.

He didn't lose because of strength, nor because of courage, but because he simply didn't know how to fight. From beginning to end, he didn't even touch the hem of his opponent's clothes.

The "Snowfield Fang" of the Bear Kingdom has lost half its face.

"Who will you send for the second match?"