The Imperial Fist Temple Martial Arts Tournament!

"Sebas, go find a place for us to stay; I'll go register."

Thanks to the "helpful" directions from a passerby, Selene quickly found the Empire's bulletin board. Seeing the latest announcement about the Royal Fist Temple Martial Arts Tournament posted there, she couldn't help but get excited.

Just when I was worrying about how to get my foot in the door, here it is!

Soon enough, Selene and Sebas arrived at the tournament registration area, which was housed in a massive building resembling a Roman coliseum.

After passing through the reception hall, Selene made her way to the registration desk, where the place was bustling with people. The Martial Arts Tournament had drawn a massive crowd, including some merchant caravans—busy as a beehive. Besides the spectators, there were plenty of contestants from the Royal Fist Temple and the military.

The remaining participants, judging by their varied attire, seemed to be local elites from different parts of the Empire.

It looks like the rewards for this tournament must be quite substantial!

"Get out of here... Look at you, so scrawny! And you want to join the tournament?! Get lost... uh..." The burly, yellow-faced man in charge of registration was busy berating a skinny youth when he suddenly noticed Selene approaching. The sight of her standing out from the crowd made him stop mid-sentence.

"...My apologies, milady—I mean, sir. Please, this way." The burly man had initially intended to address her as "miss," but seeing Selene's silver armor, he quickly corrected himself.

After all, as a rough and tough guy who had climbed to his current position through sheer grit, he knew better than to cross someone who clearly exuded nobility. Judging by her armor, she must be here to compete, so calling her "miss" wouldn't be appropriate.

"How can I assist you, my lord?" Ignoring the grumbling from the commoners, the burly man immediately escorted Selene to the front of the line. As for cutting in line—who would dare complain?

Selene didn't answer right away. She glanced at the retreating figure of the skinny youth and asked, "Why wasn't he allowed to participate? According to the public announcement, any citizen of the Empire is eligible, right?"

Hearing this, the burly man sighed and explained, "Ah, you see, sir, folks like him... they don't stand a chance in this tournament. But it's not just about pity. He's likely sent by a local underground gambling ring. They enter these scrawny guys to skew the odds or boost certain contestants' betting rates for a surprise payout."

"And our job here, aside from handling the registrations, is to prevent and filter out this kind of thing... That's all I can say, sir."

"I see." Selene nodded in understanding. It seemed that no world was without its clever schemers. The tournament hadn't even started, and under-the-table dealings were already in motion.

At least the Empire still had diligent warriors like this, likely because Minister Chouri hadn't yet retired, and the old emperor was still alive. Once Honest rose to power, the Empire would surely spiral into destruction.

"Please sign me up."

"Right away, sir!"

Watching the burly man's large hands, which were almost as big as fans, delicately handle the small pen and fill out the registration form, Selene couldn't help but find the contrast amusing.

"All done, sir. Here's your registration form." After stamping the final seal, the burly man respectfully handed the form to Selene.

"Oh, thank you." Taking the form, Selene stood to leave but then had a sudden thought. "By the way, I didn't catch your name."

"Gensa."

"Got it. I'll remember you. Until we meet again."

...

With the registration form in hand, Selene was now entitled to watch the tournament matches at the coliseum, which would begin in two days.

Following the instructions on the form, Selene made her way to the spectator area within the coliseum.

After passing through a long corridor, Selene was immediately drawn to the roar of the crowd—one match had just ended.

Inside the enormous Roman-style coliseum, the spectator seats were arranged in four levels, circling the arena below. The central eastern section featured a grand viewing box, while the higher the seating level, the greater the wealth or status of its occupants.

Selene's seat was on the third level, reserved for contestants.

As she settled into her seat, the next match was already starting.

The first contestant introduced by the referee was a young man with a fierce aura.

Anyone familiar with the scene would recognize that this youth was no ordinary fighter. Although his face was concealed, his deep, dark eyes missed nothing. His knees were slightly bent as he walked, and his feet landed softly, as if ready to pounce like a leopard at any moment.

This was the stance of someone trained in the dark arts!

His opponent, on the other hand, was dressed in the classic training garb of the Royal Fist Temple. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he was strapping on a pair of brass knuckles, his sharp eyes scanning his surroundings, alert to even the slightest movement.

"Begin!"

At the referee's signal, the young man with the dark aura immediately threw several smoke bombs, shrouding the arena in mist.

Watching this, Selene couldn't help but feel a sense of déjà vu—it was reminiscent of the Silent Killing Technique used by the Mist Ninjas.

Suddenly, a faint sound came from behind the Royal Fist Temple fighter. To an ordinary person, it would have been imperceptible, but to these martial artists, it was like a thunderclap. The fighter whirled around, adopting a defensive stance!

But he only saw a small throwing knife embedded in the ground behind him.

A trap!

Clang!

The Royal Fist Temple fighter's heart skipped a beat, and he quickly turned back around, but it was too late. He felt the cold bite of a blade slice across his throat! Instinctively, he swung his right arm while simultaneously launching himself backward, using his legs and waist to propel himself like an arrow!

Swish!

In the blink of an eye, the fighter had retreated three meters, but a burning pain now radiated from his throat—a half-inch deep wound ran across his neck.

Had he reacted even a fraction of a second slower, his carotid artery and windpipe would have been slashed!

"Do you want to continue? You're already..."

The Royal Fist Temple fighter looked over to see the young man standing where he had just been, holding a short blade about two inches long, its tip stained with a hint of red.

"Continue!"