[Another instant decision? Victory determined in a split second?

Once again, an overwhelmingly domineering throw, Julius barely managed to dodge it but was still affected by the explosive aftermath.

Gedre caught him off guard, his silhouette swooping past, dragging Julius by his head and splitting the Sky Arena in half.

The fate of competitor Julius is unknown; he has been carried backstage for urgent rescue and can no longer fight.]

"Holy flying big operation!"

Rein and Shadi have lost everything.

The forty Golden Dragons in the bet, either Morris betting on Xiaolong gains them in his pocket, or Chuan Che betting on Gedre takes them all away.

Tonight, one person died, several were severely injured, and Gedre's "contribution" was the largest. This stateless individual was too violent; was he uninterested in noble titles or what? With that temperament, even if he blended into the Royal Court, there's no one willing to show him a good face. He doesn't understand the hidden rules.

In the later broadcast.

Because Julius can no longer fight, Saleret now takes the third place in the losers' bracket.

This far exceeds the expectations of a group of people. Brother Dao indeed fought with all he had until he burned out; Brother Dao, who had bad luck all his life, finally got lucky and secured a majesty seat. This is the ultimate miserable luck exchanged from years of exile guarding a tower overseas.

Third place is something to boast about for a lifetime; walking across the Western Continent, everywhere he goes, people will treat him, eat free meals, stay in free hotels, and even enjoy free prostitutes.

To ensure absolute fairness in the final championship duel.

The Divine Sword Xiaolong and the stateless Gedre need to rest for a while, get into full form, and officially start the Imperial City PK, the winner will be king.

"The big one, it's coming..."

Liszt looked at Shadi, it was the idea proposed by this pale Dark Elf, "If this goes wrong, you...will be the East Sea King."

Now the situation is, big-head photos are flying all over the sky; ordinary people who aren't interested don't know what's happening, but those in high positions definitely have increasingly interesting expressions.

But just this isn't enough.

Having interesting expressions and terrifying influence is one thing.

How to turn influence into actual benefits is the key.

Knowing doesn't help, need to get the matter done and explode it at a proper time node.

An official occasion must be set for the Royal Court to express themselves; the Continent Martial Arts Competition, as one of the most popular spectacles of the Western Continent, is the perfect choice.

This is...pressuring the Emperor, forcing him not to touch Heaven Port. What boldness, do you dare to convict the Aran National Hero?

"Goddamn, am I the East Sea King? If this goes wrong, I'm going back to Summer Sunset Island."

Shadi straightforwardly shirked responsibility.

"Damn, I knew you didn't have a sense of the bigger picture. Is there any hero with the spirit to inherit my will?"

Liszt's tactical black face, asked the crowd, must be ready for the Emperor to go berserk.

The crowd all showed tactical black faces, no one responded, Heaven Port's dark will, perhaps it's better to stop here.

"A hero with the spirit of sweeping across the mountains and rivers, that must be me, Lady Fafna. I will inherit your legacy!"

Fafna crossed her arms, speaking righteous words.

Liszt was moved to tears, barely holding them back.

"Sister Faf...I feel your ambition, your domineering will, let the galaxy burn!"

Liszt spoke seriously.

At this very moment.

At the Continent Martial Arts Competition site, in the Royal Family's special seat.

Cicero's thoughts had already been pulled back to years as distant as last century.

...

...

...

Old Aran Capital.

The Silver Dragon was beheaded by the Emperor, chains sawed down the head, smashing through the city wall, scarlet blood like a dam bursting.

The sky was stained a blood-soaked ocher red, the hanging sun like a shattered branding iron, turned into dark red blotches by the smoke.

The Silver Dragon's blood flowed like a tsunami across the roads.

Burning buildings emitted thick smoke, every brick seam splattered with blood, every street of the capital churned into scorched earth by hooves and warboots, stepping on it produced the sticky sound of "person already dead."

The battle lines were like giant waves crashing against blood and flesh; the silver armor of the Royal City guards clashed with the black iron armor of the Aran rebels, the crushing crowds of people bursting with suppressed despair and deadly gloom.

The muffled sound of long swords piercing throats, the crisp crack of war axes splitting heads mixed with the dying screams, adhering to the smell of carnage, forming an impenetrable web of chilling killing intent.

"Too many short-sighted fools, like animals howling pointlessly and charging to their deaths, what use is that?"

That man blocked the main road to the court, a rider against a thousand.

Zote, in his prime.

The ten directions great destruction burst with bloodlight, terrifying magic energy seeped out of the armor, forming energy links like the solar magnetic rope structure on the sun.

The ominous aura of the Nameless Great Saber, the blood streaming from the slots like a great river.

Blood, decay, burnt stench.

Under his feet lay a sea of ash and bone.

The entire battlefield had no intact land, only layers of piled-up corpses forming undulating "mountains," the highest able to cover broken walls and ruins, even daylight couldn't penetrate the gaps between the body piles, casting dense ink-like shadows on the ground.

Blood had already flooded over Zote's ankles, his terrifying face showed a bloodthirsty intent, like a broken hell god crashing down on earth.

Ogne should be able to hold off the assault on the other side.

Zote thought this way, his gaze focused on the one-eyed soldier before him, the Nameless Great Saber pointed at Cicero.

"This will be the last suppression."

The Deputy Director of the Witch Hunting Secret Department, as if not human, merely a terrifying symbol, almost mechanical in his coldness, killing wasn't his goal, rather it was his instinct for existence.

All the people of Old Aran recognized themselves as mere prey in his woven blood net.

"You are correct, for you this is indeed the last time, whether in Soterlan Duke Territory or any other place, this kind of atrocious slaughter will never happen again."

Cicero showed no fear.

All the tragic outcomes induced by Aran Country's system converged here, debt-laden tenant farmers sent to die by the Lord's commands, refugees with wife and daughters killed by the Secret Department claiming false merits, those with ruined families.

All carried the will to overturn fate and die while being here.

"Atrocious...maybe it's wrong.

But history is never wrong!

Over two thousand years have proven this is the most effective way, it's nothing but another line on the list of criminals.

No one can...defy history."

Zote wielded his Nameless Great Saber, everything around reflected in black and white by the red light.

Came slashing towards Cicero.

...

...

...

"Uncle Cicero..."

In the Royal Family's special seat, Phoenix looked perplexed, clearly this matter was far beyond the scope of his abilities.

Yet Cicero had not come back to his senses for a long time.

"Uncle Cicero?"

Phoenix called out again.

Only when pain burst from the connection point of his leg prosthetic did Cicero regain focus.