One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

His voice was hoarse, carrying an indescribable weariness.

It's not that I'm unwilling to accept it.

It means to acknowledge.

Admit defeat.

Tactically, in terms of willpower, and in terms of decision-making—he lost.

Upon hearing these four words, Catherine abruptly withdrew her hands, and the deep blue mist receded into her body like a tide.

Then--

Her body went limp, and she fell forward.

"Catherine!"

The man in the suit rushed forward and caught her. The moment he grabbed her arm, his hand felt like it had been burned—not burned, but frozen. Catherine's skin was as cold as ice; the chill could be felt even through her clothes.

The woman with the gold-rimmed glasses—Catherine—leaned against the suited man, panting heavily. Her face was frighteningly pale, her lips were purple, but her eyes—those icy blue eyes—were astonishingly bright.

She won.

Fujiwara Sousuke stood rooted to the spot, looking down at his body shrouded in a deep blue mist. His left side was completely numb; his left leg, left arm, and left side of his torso all felt foreign. He needed the support of his right hand to stay upright; otherwise, he would have collapsed long ago.

He was silent for a long time.

Then, he bowed slightly to Catherine.

There were no words of "acceptance" or "admiration," just a simple bow.

Then he turned around and walked back to the country of cherry blossoms.

He walked slowly and steadily, as if afraid of disturbing something.

The wound at the severed arm—the translucent membrane was still intact, but the lingering chill was seeping out from the edges, forming a thin layer of white frost. His face was ashen, as if he had aged ten years.

The old man with the sword, Sato Ittosai, glanced at him but offered no words of comfort. He simply handed him a clean white kimono jacket. Fujiwara Sousuke took it and draped it over his shoulders, covering his severed arm and the frost covering his body.

"Second match, Eagle Nation, Catherine Frost, wins."

The voice of the suit-wearing elite rang out, tinged with suppressed excitement.

"The score in Group B is 1-1."

The atmosphere in the hall became tense again.

One to one.

Decisive game.

All eyes were on the last remaining member of the Bear Kingdom—the taciturn "Grey Wolf" Yuri, who was slightly thinner than Andrei but had a more sinister look in his eyes.

And from the land of cherry blossoms, the old man with a sword slowly walked into the arena—Sato Ittosai.

"The third match will decide the winner."

Wang Zhenqiu squinted and lowered his voice.

"In the Sakura Country, it's definitely that old man with the knife; he's probably in charge and the strongest. As for the Bear Country…"

Sato Ittosai was wearing a somewhat tattered kimono, and the katana at his waist was already drawn and held in one hand. The blade was long and narrow with a beautiful curve, and it gleamed with a cold, eerie light in the dim light.

He did not give his name.

He simply swept his sharp, hawk-like eyes over the remaining member of the Bear Kingdom.

That gaze was like a sword yet to be drawn—its depths were unfathomable, but one knew that once drawn, it would be a deadly strike.

"Sato Ittosai, please guide me."

He spoke.

The sound was like the scraping of a blade, icy and chilling.

Yuri, the member from the Bear Kingdom, codenamed "Grey Wolf," took a deep breath and stepped into the circle.

He wasn't as muscular as Andrei—Andrei was like a bear, but he was more like a wolf. He was lean and wiry, with well-defined muscles and not an ounce of excess fat. He wore a dark combat vest, and his exposed arms were covered in tiny scars, like a map that had been repeatedly rewritten.

His eyes were sinister, like a lone wolf poised to pounce, sizing up its prey.

He did not use a gun.

Instead, he pulled two gleaming, oddly shaped curved knives from his boots. The blades were slightly curved, resembling enlarged Gurkha kukris, but shorter, thicker, and heavier—not for chopping, but for tearing. A row of fine serrations ran along the back of the blade, and a blood groove was carved into the tip. The handles were wrapped with black anti-slip tape, worn smooth and shiny, clearly indicating long use.

"Bear Kingdom, 'Fang of the Snowfield,' Yuri."

He licked his slightly chapped lips, leaving a damp trail with his tongue before the cold wind dried it.

His eyes gleamed with a bloodthirsty light.

Although he was silent—he didn't utter a single complete sentence from beginning to end—the murderous aura emanating from him was more concentrated and more dangerous than that of Andrei.

That wasn't the killing intent honed on the battlefield.

It was honed through assassinations.

"start."

The moment the words fell—

They moved at the same time!

Sato Ittosai's movements were concise and sharp, without the slightest flourish. He simply took a step forward, drew his sword, and slashed!

A bright, white blade of light, like lightning slicing through the night sky, accompanied by a sharp, piercing sound, instantly covered several meters and slashed towards Yuri's neck!

Fast! Accurate! Ruthless!

To bring the essence of "Iaijutsu" to its ultimate form—the moment the sword is drawn is the moment of attack, without warning, without charging, without hesitation. The flash of the sword and the sound of footsteps arrive simultaneously; by the time you hear the sound, the sword is already next to your neck.

Yuri's actions, on the other hand, were full of savagery and cunning.

He didn't take the fierce, unparalleled strike head-on—he knew he couldn't. Instead, at the very moment the blade was about to strike, his body twisted strangely to the side as if boneless, his spine seemingly removed, his entire body contorted into an impossible arc, narrowly avoiding the blade.

At the same time, his left-hand curved sword, like a viper spitting its tongue, slashed upwards towards Sato Ittosai's ribs!

The angle is tricky—not a straight thrust, not a horizontal cut, but a slanted angle that just bypasses the opponent's arm defense and goes straight for the most vulnerable spot under the armpit.

Its speed was equally ghostly!

"snort!"

Sato Ittōsai seemed to have anticipated this.

The momentum of the katana's strike hadn't yet dissipated—the power of that strike hadn't been fully utilized—with a flick of the wrist, the blade changed from vertical to horizontal, like a door panel, slapping against the incoming curved blade!

It's not a chop, it's a slap!

But his "slap" was much heavier than most people's "chop".

"clang!"

A piercing clang of metal clashing!

Sparks flew everywhere—not ordinary sparks, but scorching particles that burst forth when the metal was squeezed, rubbed, and heated up instantly during the collision of two weapons, resembling tiny fireworks in the dim light.

Yuri felt an irresistible force surge from the scimitar, as if he'd been hit by a truck. His hand instantly split open—not slowly tearing, but exploding the moment of contact—blood gushing out, and the scimitar nearly flew from his grasp!

"Damn it—!"

He was horrified.

This old man's strength is terrifying!

Yuri was confident in his strength—each of his scimitars weighed four or five pounds, allowing him to wield them both at high speed, and his arm strength was among the best in the "Fang of the Snowfield." But Sato Ittosai's strike made him feel as if his sword was being crushed by a mountain, and he couldn't lift it no matter what he did.

He dared not engage in a direct confrontation.

Using the recoil, he retreated rapidly—not by turning and running, but by facing the opponent, gripping the ground with his feet, and leaning back like a bent bamboo suddenly springing back—at the same time, his right hand drew a strange arc with his curved sword, slashing upwards towards Sato Ittosai's ankle!

This cut was made at an even more tricky angle.

He was crouching as he chopped—his entire body weight was on his left leg, his right leg stretched forward, his whole body like a scorpion close to the ground, his tail—his right-hand curved knife—slashing upwards from below, his target not the knee, not the calf, but the Achilles tendon behind the ankle.

This is Yuri's signature move—attacking from all three sides. He doesn't care if the moves are aesthetically pleasing; he only cares whether you can stand up after one strike.

Sato Ittosai's footwork changed rapidly.

Instead of jumping to dodge—jumping would leave his lower body wide open—he glided side to side, his feet barely touching the ground, like ice skaters. His left foot moved half a foot to the left, his right foot followed; his right foot moved half a foot to the right, his left foot followed. His movements were as fluid as dancing on ice, easily dodging the knife.

At the same time, the katana in his hand once again transformed into a bright curtain of blades, enveloping Yuri!

"One-Sword Style: Snowflake Slash!"

The katana's light wasn't a single point, but a vast expanse—like a blizzard, with countless blades slashing in from all directions, each strike carrying the power to cut through everything.

It wasn't indiscriminate cutting.

Each cut has a clear target—throat, heart, abdomen, wrist, thigh, knee—all vital organs and joints of the human body. Every cut is fatal, every cut shows no mercy.

Yuri could only dodge and parry.

Dodge to the left, dodge to the right, lean back, crouch.

The curved blade parried, "clang clang clang clang"—the sound of metal clashing was so dense it was like the sound of blacksmithing, sparks flying everywhere, like a golden rain.

The situation was fraught with danger.

The blade grazed his shoulder, drawing blood; the tip of the blade sliced ​​his outer thigh, tearing a hole in his trousers; a small piece of his left earlobe was sliced ​​off—the blade was less than a centimeter from his head, and if he had been a fraction of a second slower, it wouldn't have been his earlobe, but half his head.

But his wolf-like eyes remained calm throughout.

It's not that I'm not afraid.

It's just a habit.

Like a wolf surrounded by hunters, he dodged and weaved through the hail of gunfire, constantly searching. He wasn't waiting to die; he was waiting for an opportunity—waiting for the hunter's gun barrel to overheat, waiting for the hunter to run out of bullets, waiting for the hunter's hand to tremble slightly.

His movements were unpredictable, and his curved blade was particularly cunning and ruthless, targeting the lower body and vital joints—knees, ankles, wrists, and elbows, all the most vulnerable parts of the human body. He would also occasionally deliver a sinister stab from unbelievable angles—from under the armpit, from the groin, from behind, from above the head—causing considerable trouble for Sato Ittosai.

On one occasion, his scimitar passed under Sato Ittosai's armpit, the tip of the blade less than half an inch from the other's axillary artery. But Sato Ittosai suddenly pulled back his arm, clamping the back of the blade with his upper arm, and then swept the blade horizontally, forcing Yuri to abandon his sword and retreat. The scimitar in his left hand, which he had used for three years, was knocked away by Sato Ittosai and landed on the ground some distance away with a "clang," the blade still stained with blood.

Sato Ittosai did not pursue, but simply stood there, his katana pointing diagonally at the ground, watching Yuri pick up the curved sword from the ground.

His gaze wasn't contemptuous, nor pity, but rather—a scrutinizing gaze?

It's like looking at prey and assessing its value.

Yuri picked up the scimitar; the blood on the blade was his—the wound on his hand was still oozing blood, staining the anti-slip tape on the hilt red. He wiped the scimitar on his trouser leg, gripped it tightly again, licked the blood from his lips, and his eyes grew even more ferocious.