One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

The two faced off again.

The arena was filled with the flashing of swords and the clanging of metal. Both fighters were incredibly fast, attacking each other relentlessly, creating a dazzling spectacle that left the audience breathless.

"This old man with the knife has really good knife skills, almost as good as my master... well, although he's still a bit inferior to my master."

Zhang Chulan watched with great interest, not forgetting to boast about his own sect. He stared intently at the field, muttering to himself as if he were watching an exciting ball game.

"Watch carefully."

Nie Lingfeng said it casually.

His gaze, however, was fixed on every movement of the two men in the arena—Sato Ittosai's footsteps, the rotation of his wrist, the angle of his blade; Yuri's shifts in weight, the rhythm of his breathing, the movement of his eyes. Not a single detail escaped his notice.

Sato Ittosai's swordsmanship made him feel a sense of threat.

That kind of unstoppable, all-consuming "momentum" is almost akin to the "Tao".

It's not the "way" of technique, but the "way" of the mind—his blade isn't for competition, it's for killing. Every strike he makes is aimed at ending the opponent's life. There are no superfluous movements, no hesitation, no pity.

And that Yuri.

Although he appeared to be under pressure—he already had seven or eight wounds, the deepest of which was on his left arm, almost to the point where the bone was visible—he was incredibly resilient and fought with a fierce and unpredictable style.

He was like a wolf lurking in the shadows, not that he didn't want to bite, but that he was waiting—waiting for his opponent to show a weakness, waiting for his opponent's strength to wane, waiting for a chance to strike a fatal blow.

It should not be underestimated.

really.

After narrowly avoiding Sato Ittosai's horizontal slash once again—which swept across his head, shaving off a few strands of hair and leaving a shallow bloodstain on his scalp—a fierce glint flashed in Yuri's eyes.

It seems they've made up their minds about something.

He stopped dodging.

Instead, he took a deep breath—a deep and long breath, as if he wanted to suck all the air in the hall into his lungs—and his already lean body tightened again, not because he was getting thinner, but because his muscles were contracting, compressing, and storing energy.

There seemed to be a bluish-black current flowing beneath his skin—not from the outside, but from deep within his body, like black snakes wriggling beneath his skin.

His eyes instantly turned bloodshot, the blood vessels on the whites of his eyes were as dense as a spider web, and his pupils shrank to the size of pinpoints.

The aura suddenly became violent and chaotic!

It was as if a wild beast had awakened within him.

"Berserk mode?"

Wang Ye raised an eyebrow.

"No—it's a secret technique similar to unleashing potential, but much more brutal, and the side effects are probably significant. This isn't the 'Snowfield Fang' method... Is it some kind of ancient shamanic ritual? He's fused the soul of some kind of beast—or something worse—into his own body."

Wang Zhenqiu also noticed something was wrong and whispered, "Look at his eyes—those aren't human eyes. They're wolf eyes."

Entering a berserk state, Yuri's speed and strength surged once again.

He left two footprints on the ground beneath his feet, cracks spreading outwards. His body leaned slightly forward, his center of gravity lowered, like a wolf about to pounce on its prey—no, not just "like," he *was* a wolf at that moment.

He completely abandoned defense—he knew it was useless, as he couldn't defend against Sato Ittōsai's sword—and instead charged at Sato Ittōsai frantically and recklessly!

The two curved swords transformed into a myriad of sword shadows—no, not sword shadows, but light—a cold glint, the afterimages left by the lamplight reflecting off the blades. These afterimages intertwined densely, like a net woven from blades, relentlessly enveloping Sato Ittōsai!

It's a fight where you risk your life!

You slash me, I slash you back. You stab me, I stab you back. Let's see who falls first—a contest of speed, ruthlessness, and fearlessness.

A glint flashed in Sato Ittosai's eyes.

It's not fear.

Not surprised.

Yes—excitement.

Instead of retreating, he went to meet him!

The katana in his hand emitted a clear, resonant hum—a sound like the sword itself singing, or perhaps cheering. The layer of bright light on the blade instantly receded, not vanishing, but compressing and condensing. The white light that had covered the entire blade was now concentrated entirely on the edge, that single line of light so bright it was dazzling, like a star embedded in the blade's edge.

It became simple and unadorned.

But the killing intent and sharpness condensed on the blade reached their peak.

"One-Sword Style: Cut Water!"

He uttered a low growl.

Hold the knife with both hands.

From bottom to top.

Facing the sky filled with the shadows of countless swords.

Simply and easily—with a flick of the wrist.

There was no earth-shattering fanfare.

There was no dazzling light.

Only a single, perfectly condensed blade intent, seemingly capable of severing flowing water and separating light and shadow, flashed by in an instant.

The intent of the sword.

It's not the glint of a blade, nor the aura of a blade, but the intent of the blade—something intangible yet undeniably real. It is the realm a swordsman pursues throughout his life, a strike that encapsulates his will, his beliefs, and his very life, all condensed into the blade.

Time seemed to stand still at that moment.

The countless sword shadows vanished abruptly.

It wasn't that it was blocked, but that it was "cut" off—the sword shadows that Yuri swung out, at the moment they came into contact with Sato Ittosai's sword intent, were cut off in the middle as if by an invisible pair of giant scissors, dissipated, and returned to nothingness.

Yuri's ferocious figure, lunging forward, froze in mid-air.

The crazed expression on his face froze.

His mouth was slightly open, his eyes were wide open, and the image of Sato Ittosai sheathing his sword was reflected in his pupils.

A trace of disbelief lingered in his eyes—not "How did I lose?", but "That slash... was so beautiful."

Yes, beautiful.

That kind of beauty isn't visual beauty, but a beauty that transcends the visual and reaches the soul. It's the kind of beauty that comes from a swordsman dedicating his entire life to finally unleashing a perfect strike.

"Click."

A soft sound.

The two steel scimitars in Yuri's hands broke in two.

The fracture was as smooth as a mirror—so smooth that it could be used as a mirror, reflecting half of Yuri's face.

It wasn't severed, it was "cut open." It was sliced ​​in half by that invisible and intangible knife intent, like cutting tofu.

Followed by.

A thin line appeared to tear in his specially made bulletproof vest—the kind of tactical vest made of multiple layers of Kevlar and ceramic inserts that can withstand close-range rifle bullets.

The thin line slashed diagonally from the right shoulder to the left abdomen, forming a perfect diagonal line with an angle so precise it looked as if it had been measured with a ruler.

then.

Blood gushed out like a fountain!

It wasn't just gushing out, it was gushing out—like an invisible faucet suddenly being turned on full blast, dark red blood spurting from the wound, forming an arc in the air, and landing on the ground with a "plop plop" sound.

A horrific knife wound, slashing diagonally from the right shoulder to the left abdomen, so deep that the bone was visible—you could see the white ribs below, the broken ends of the ribs, and the faintly throbbing organs behind the ribs.

They almost ripped him open!

"Thump!"

Yuri's muscular body crashed heavily to the ground.

blood.

The blood spread from beneath him, quickly staining a large area of ​​the ground red. It was dark red, with a rusty smell, spreading, seeping, and congealing on the ice. Beneath the ice, it looked like a giant, dark red flower had bloomed.

He twitched twice.

He scratched at the ground with his fingers, his fingernails filled with dust and ice.

The light in his eyes dimmed rapidly—from crimson to dark red, from dark red to grayish black, like a lamp whose oil had run out and the light had gone out.

It stopped moving.

Quiet.

Sato Ittosai slowly sheathed his sword.

"Clang—"

The katana is returned to its place.

The sound was very soft, like a pebble falling into a deep pool, echoing in the quiet hall for a long time.

His movements were fluid and natural, as if he had just done something trivial—like drinking a cup of tea, taking a walk, or casually chopping a piece of firewood.

He didn't even glance at Yuri's corpse on the ground.

He turned around and walked back to his own camp.

All that remained was a trail of blood.

And a stunning silhouette that captivated the entire audience.

"Match 3, Sakura Country, Sato Ittosai wins."

The voice of the suited elite rang out again.

This time, there was a subtle, almost imperceptible solemnity.

"In Group B, the final score is: Sakura National Second Grade wins and loses one, advancing to the next round."

At this point, the winner of the four-way arena competition has been determined.

In Group A, China won both of their matches and advanced to the final.

Group B, Japan (Sakura Nation), with two wins and one loss, advances to the finals.

Bald Bear's team lost both matches and was eliminated.

The Eagle Nation and Bear Nation joint team, with one win and two losses, was eliminated.

Catherine leaned against the wall, her face pale. She looked at the old man slowly sheathing his sword in the arena, then at the suited elites on her side. Her lips moved, but she said nothing. She had won her match, but her team had lost. That's what ring fighting is—an individual victory doesn't equal a team victory.

The man in the suit patted her shoulder and whispered something. Catherine lowered her head, a hint of sadness flashing in her icy blue eyes, but she quickly suppressed it.

Next up is the final match—

China's side.

Matchup.

The land of cherry blossoms.

The winner will gain control of the "ready" missile that could change the course of the game.

All eyes were once again focused on the two ends of the limestone circle.

On one side was the Chinese side, led by Nie Lingfeng—Chen Duo holding a child, Zhang Chulan who was nonchalant but had sharp eyes, Wang Zhenqiu who seemed unreliable but was actually very capable, Daoist Wang Ye who had just shown off his magical skills, and Gao Yuhuan who was injured but whose fighting spirit was not diminished.

On the other side were the three from the Sakura Kingdom: Fujiwara Sousuke, with a sinister aura and a missing but bandaged arm; Hattori Senzo, silent and cold with a restrained aura; and Sato Ittosai, who had just killed Yuri with a single strike and whose momentum was overwhelming.

"The final will also use the best-of-three format."

The suit-clad man, acting as the "host," maintained a facade of impartiality despite his own team being eliminated. His voice was neither warm nor cold, as if he were reading a routine announcement.

"Each side will send three people, and the order of the matches will be determined by drawing lots. Please send someone to draw lots."

A tin can skewer holder was brought out again.

There were three slips of paper inside, labeled 1, 2, and 3.

Nie Lingfeng looked towards the country of cherry blossoms.

Sato Ittosai happened to be looking over as well.

Their eyes met in mid-air.

No sparks.

There was no fighting or bloodshed.

There was only a calm, profound, and scrutinizing gaze, as if they were weighing each other's weight.

then.

Nie Lingfeng withdrew his gaze.

Sato Ittosai also withdrew his gaze.

The final showdown.

About to start.