One person: Starting with the Snow Drinking Blade

Nie Lingfeng slowly sheathed his sword.

The Snow Drinking Blade in his hand transformed into specks of icy blue light, like shattered fireflies, drifting and scattering in the air before disappearing.

He patted off non-existent dust from his clothes. His fingers moved lightly and naturally, from the front of his shirt down to his thighs, as if he had just come from a light morning workout.

It was as if I had only done a trivial little thing.

Turn around.

They went back to their own side.

"In the second match, Nie Lingfeng from China won."

The voice of a suit-wearing elite rang out.

Extremely dry.

It even carried a slight, almost imperceptible tremor.

He adjusted his glasses, his fingers lingering on the frame for a long time—not because the glasses were crooked, but because his hands were shaking, and he needed to use this gesture to cover it up.

His eyes were practically overflowing with horror, but he took a deep breath and tried to appear calm.

This... this is no longer a question of whether it's strong or not.

This is crushing.

A complete and utter crushing defeat on a level of strength.

What kind of monster is that man holding the child?

On the other side of the cherry blossom country, all was deathly silent.

Fujiwara Munemi's face was ashen, his single arm hanging limply at his sides. His lips trembled, not with fear, but with something indescribable—like someone who had never doubted their faith suddenly discovering it was wrong. That bewilderment was more terrifying than fear itself.

Hattori Chizo struggled to get up, bracing himself with his left hand, but the slightest movement aggravated his injuries—his left shoulder was comminuted and his right arm was pierced by lightning—the excruciating pain caused him to groan, cough up blood again, and fall to the ground, his face covered in dust.

Their strongest asset.

Sato Ittosai, who has devoted sixty years to honing his swordsmanship and is only half a step away from becoming a "Sword Saint"—

That's it...gone?

Frozen into an ice sculpture?

"Brother Nie! Awesome!"

Zhang Chulan was the first to react.

He let out a roar and jumped up, almost losing his balance as he sprang to his feet, but that didn't dampen his excitement at all. He was gesturing wildly, even more excited than if he had won, his face flushed red, and the veins on his neck bulging.

"One strike! Just one strike! My God! Brother Nie, you're so cool! From today onwards, you're my idol! No, you're my eternal god!"

His voice cracked as he shouted, and the last word "god" sounded like a scream, but he didn't care.

"Brother Nie, where did you conjure that knife from? And that chilling aura—are you a cloud manipulator or an ice manipulator? How many other things do you know? Is there anything you can't do?"

Wang Zhenqiu was also dumbfounded.

His mouth was agape, his eyes bulged, and he stood frozen in place like a statue. After a long while, he finally murmured:

"My goodness... This is too outrageous! That's Sato Ittosai... Itto... gone?"

He suddenly shivered and shrank his neck.

"Brother Nie, when you were on missions with us before, were you just slacking off the whole time? You never fought seriously, did you? With your skill level, you still pretended to be a newbie? Don't you have any conscience?"

Master Wang Ye took a deep breath.

Suppress the shock in my heart.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again. The divination results in his pupils slowly faded—not intentionally, but because he couldn't continue calculating. Nie Lingfeng's strike had exceeded his comprehension.

He smiled wryly:

"Brother Nie... is unfathomable. That strike just now touched the edge of 'rules,' beyond human power to stop. Sato's defeat was not unjust."

Chen Duo held Xiao Yun in her arms, her eyes sparkling as she watched Nie Lingfeng walk back. Her eyes were usually hazy, as if covered by a layer of mist, but now that mist had dissipated, revealing clear pupils like mountain springs.

Her face was expressionless—she wasn't very good at making expressions anyway—but the slight upturn of her lips betrayed her mood. The curve was so small that it was almost imperceptible unless you looked closely, but it was definitely a curve.

Xiaoyun clapped her little hands and shouted in her childish voice:

"Uncle Lingfeng is amazing! He froze that bad old man into an ice cube!"

Her clear voice echoed through the hall, creating an eerie contrast with the blood, smoke, and frost scattered everywhere.

Nie Lingfeng walked closer.

He merely nodded slightly in response to the praise from the crowd—the nod was so small, barely two degrees, that it was barely noticeable unless you looked closely.

He took the kettle from Xiaoyun and took a sip. The water was still warm, with a faint herbal taste. He took another sip, his Adam's apple bobbing, then screwed the lid back on and handed it back to Chen Duo.

He looked at Fujiwara Sousuke, whose face was ashen.

And that suit-wearing elite.

"There's no need to play the third match."

He said calmly.

The sound wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears clearly.

"Two wins, we've won."

Fujiwara Sousuke's body trembled.

Like a leaf swaying in the wind, he trembled slightly. He opened his mouth, his lips moved a few times, as if he wanted to say something—he wanted to say "We haven't lost yet," he wanted to say "There's a third game," he wanted to say "It's unfair"—but he couldn't utter a single word.

The agreement was signed in front of everyone beforehand.

Now we have lost both battles.

They had no reason.

They have no face whatsoever.

Let's talk about the third match.

Sato Ittosai's death not only disqualified them from competing for the missile, but also caused the world of supernatural beings in Japan to lose a top-notch swordsmanship master.

This is a huge blow.

The suit-wearing elite's expression shifted.

His expression shifted three or four times in just a few seconds—from shock to assessment, from assessment to calculation, from calculation to weighing the options. Finally, it culminated in a long sigh.

He adjusted his glasses.

Walk to the center of the hall.

He said in a loud voice:

"The four-way contest has concluded, and the ultimate winner is China. According to the agreement, the missile in the 'ready' state is yours to dispose of. China, along with the Xiong Kingdom and the Sakura Kingdom, must immediately withdraw from the base without further objection."

Bald Bear's face turned ashen.

His men were all watching him. Some held guns, some gripped knives, and some clenched their fists—just waiting for his command to charge forward and fight to the death.

But looking at the ice sculpture of Sato Ittosai—which was still emitting cold air and had frozen the surrounding ground with a layer of frost—and then at Nie Lingfeng, who was holding a child and had a calm expression, she looked at him again.

The harsh words that were on the tip of his tongue were swallowed back down.

He just let out a heavy snort.

That "humph" sounded like something was being exhaled from the nostrils, carrying anger and resentment, but that was all.

He led his remaining troops and slunk towards the exit.

Some walked with a limp, some clutched their still-bleeding wounds, and some could only walk steadily by holding onto the wall. Their shadows were stretched long and thin under the emergency lights, like a pack of defeated, stray dogs.

Over in the United States.

The man in the suit gave the woman with the wire-rimmed glasses a wink. The wink was brief, lasting only a fraction of a second, but the woman understood.

The two silently packed their things. The woman with the gold-rimmed glasses picked up her glasses from the ground—they had fallen during the fight and the lenses were covered in dust—wiped them with the corner of her clothes, and put them back on.

Catherine leaned against the wall, her face still pale, watching the ice sculpture in the arena slowly crumbling. Her lips moved, but she said nothing. She had won her match, but the team had lost. That's the arena—an individual victory doesn't equal a team victory.

She lowered her head, a hint of sadness flashing in her icy blue eyes, but she quickly suppressed it, like stubbing out a cigarette.

Over in the land of cherry blossoms.

Fujiwara Sousuke silently carried the heavily injured Hattori Chizo on his back.

Hattori Chizo lay on his back, his hands hanging limply at his chest, his head resting on his shoulder, his eyes half-open, his breathing shallow and rapid. His blood dripped onto Fujiwara Sousuke's white kimono, staining it with dark red flowers.

He took another deep look at Sato Ittosai, who had turned into an ice sculpture—the surface of the ice sculpture had begun to melt, and water droplets were flowing down the knife marks, as if Sato Ittosai was crying.

His eyes were complicated.

There was reluctance, grief, anger, and an indescribable weariness.

finally.

He also left dejectedly.

The huge underground hall was soon empty except for Nie Lingfeng and his group.

And that lonely ice sculpture.

And the bloodstains on the ground that had not yet dried.

"Phew—it's finally over."

Zhang Chulan plopped down on the ground.

His buttocks slammed onto the ground with a dull thud, sending dust flying. He didn't seem to mind the dirt; he just lay there sprawled out, letting out a long sigh, like a fish that had been pulled ashore.

"I almost had a heart attack from all that fighting. Those ninjas were so cunning, using knives and poison all the time... my poor heart..."

He patted his chest and coughed exaggeratedly twice.

"Brother Nie, that last move of yours was so cool! Can you teach me? I'm not greedy, I just want to learn your freezing move! I'd be rich selling popsicles on the street in the summer! No electricity, no ice, made to order, freshly baked!"

Nie Lingfeng ignored him.

He walked up to the ice sculpture and glanced at it.

Sato Ittosai remained in the forward-swinging stance, his expression frozen at the last moment—bewilderment, confusion, and relief. The ice crystals had begun to melt, a thin film of water covering the surface, refracting tiny fragments of light under the lamplight.

He waved his hand casually.

The ice sculpture silently transformed into countless ice crystals, dissipating into the air.

It wasn't melting, it was disintegrating—like a shattered mirror, broken into countless tiny, crystalline fragments, each reflecting the ghastly white light of the emergency lights, drifting, swirling, and falling in the hall.

Like a silent snowfall.

Not even a trace was left.

Sato Ittosai's body also turned into ice crystals and dissipated, leaving only a puddle of water on the ground—not large, about the size of a washbasin, with a ring of white frost around the edge.

And that katana called "Blood Cherry".

The katana lay quietly beside the puddle of water, the dull, dark sheen of its blade faded, revealing the silvery-white surface beneath. The bloodline on the blade was still there, but its color had changed from dark red to bright red, as if it had just been activated.

It has no owner.

Nie Lingfeng bent down and picked up the "Blood Cherry".

When his fingers gripped the hilt, the blade trembled slightly and emitted a low hum—as if saying "hello" or "goodbye."

He looked him over.

The blade was undamaged—Sato Ittosai may have lost, but his sword did not. It was a fine sword, but it had the wrong master.

He casually tossed it to Zhang Chulan.

"Here you go."

Zhang Chulan was sitting on the ground catching his breath when a silvery-white object flew over with a whoosh.

"Huh? For me?"

He caught it in a flurry of activity. He didn't catch it with his palms, but rather with both hands as if he were catching a hot potato. His fingers and arms moved in a chaotic manner, and he almost failed to catch it.

It felt cold and heavy in his hand—much heavier than it looked. He almost dropped it, and it slumped down before he managed to catch it. The dull, dark sheen and blood-like patterns on the blade looked somewhat eerie under the light, making him a little uneasy.

"This...this thing looks ominous. It killed 999 people! Brother Nie, you should keep it for yourself! I'm afraid it'll get up in the middle of the night and start attacking me!"

"I use Xueyin (a type of herbal drink), so I don't need this."

Nie Lingfeng said calmly. He took the handkerchief Chen Duo handed him—it was white and had a faint herbal scent—and wiped his hands, one finger at a time, his movements unhurried and deliberate.

"A knife is a weapon, but it's also a tool. Used well, it can save lives; used poorly, it can be used for evil. It's up to you."

Zhang Chulan looked at the "Blood Cherry" in his hand.

His face was reflected on the blade—not a reflection, but a strange, distorted image, as if something inside the blade was watching him. The lines of blood flickered in and out of existence under the light, as if they were alive.

Then look at Nie Lingfeng.

Nie Lingfeng had finished wiping his hands and folded the handkerchief into a square, returning it to Chen Duo. His expression remained as calm as ever, as if he had simply gone to empty a glass of trash.

Scratched his head.

He eventually put it away. He tucked the "Blood Cherry" into his belt behind his waist, the hilt sticking out and digging into his back, making him feel a little uncomfortable.

"Okay, I'll take it for now and hand it over to the company later. Maybe I can get some contribution points. I can get a new dormitory; the walls of my old one are cracked."

"Alright, stop joking around."

Master Wang Ye walked over, his expression still somewhat solemn. His brows were slightly furrowed, not out of worry, but because he was deep in thought.

"We won the ring, but it's not over yet. What about that missile...?"

Upon hearing this, everyone looked in the direction the suit-wearing elite had pointed out earlier.

At the end of the hall.

A heavy, tightly closed metal door.

The door was two meters high and one and a half meters wide, with a panel more than ten centimeters thick, and its surface was rusted and bore bullet marks. Thick iron plates were welded to the door seams, as if to prevent something from escaping from inside.

There was a round rotary handle in the very center of the door, covered with a thin layer of frost.

missile.

Right behind there.

The real problem.

Only now.