“Next.” Oron’s voice rang out, signaling the continuation of the drawing after Jermaine finished his turn.
“I’ll go.”
At that moment, George stomped forward and aggressively shoved a martial artist away as he reached into the black box.
The martial artist who had been shoved frowned and looked up at George’s burly bear-like frame. Despite the intimidation, he suppressed his anger.
Although a martial artist’s strength couldn’t be judged by their size, George’s imposing presence was undeniable.
After rummaging inside the box for a few seconds, George pulled out a glass ball. But before anyone could see the number inside, he crushed it with his powerful grip.
The ball shattered with a sharp crack, and fragments scattered across the floor.
He looked at the fragments in his hand and burst into laughter. His eyes glinted with malice as he turned to Jermaine.
He said sinisterly, “Jermaine, huh? Unlucky bastard, you’ll have one hell of a day. Look at this.” He showed him the metal disc, which displayed “30.”
Jermaine’s number was 3, and George’s was 30. According to the pairing rules, they were set to face off in the third match.
“Hmph! We’ll see who’s the unlucky one,” Jermaine replied coldly. “I’ve killed countless brutes like you. All brawn and no brains. You’re nothing but a walking pile of trash.”
Being tall and bulky had proven useless against his blade. No matter how big or strong, it made no difference. Those brutes, who sacrificed speed and agility for sheer power, were no threat to him.
“A walking pile of trash?” Instead of getting angry, George laughed heartily, though his eyes were filled with deadly intent. “We’ll see if you’re still laughing after I turn you into a meat pie.”
“Stop yapping! Let’s settle this in the battle ring.” Jermaine scoffed and walked away from the ring.
George grinned sinisterly, like a predator sizing up its prey.
“Next,” Oron said.
As long as no rules were broken and no trouble was caused, he didn’t care if someone used a few harsh words, shouted insults, or spat at each other.
Soon, one contestant after another stepped up to draw their numbers. Some made a show of it, while others kept their draws discreet.
A few proudly flaunted their numbers, while others hid them. They were wary of giving away any tactical advantages. After all, knowing an opponent’s details in advance could provide a strategic advantage or be used against them.
Smart contestants kept their numbers hidden after the draw. Only those confident in their skills and untroubled by any tricks would reveal them.
For example, Glenn and Fenley, who ranked among the top on the Heavenly Immortals list, were almost certain to reach the top eight as long as they didn’t face each other too early.
Dustin drew the number “8”, and he would fight in the eighth match. It was in the middle of the lineup-neither advantageous nor disadvantageous- but he wasn’t concerned about that.
According to the pairing rules, his opponent would be number 25. If his memory served him right, that was Bill.
Dustin’s gaze drifted toward Bill, who was casually toying with a glass ball. The ball had a metal disc in the center with the number “25” engraved on it.
“Interesting.” Dustin smirked. Despite having fought many battles, he had never faced a vampire before.
He figured that Bill, with his aristocratic lineage, was likely to be formidable. It would be an excellent chance to test his skills against a vampire elite and understand their abilities. This way, he would be prepared for future encounters with powerful vampires.
“Hmm?” Bill seemed to sense something. He looked up and locked eyes with Dustin.
“Kid, don’t tell me you’re my opponent?” His eyes narrowed as he sized up Dustin from a distance.
He sneered and added, “Let me just say you’re as good as dead. And don’t think I’ll make it easy for you. I plan to enjoy every moment of your suffering.”
“Idiot,” Dustin responded coolly before heading back to his seat. He hated dealing with people who ran their mouths before the fight started.
Those who couldn’t gauge their opponents’ strength and only knew how to talk trash were a dime a dozen. It was a miracle that this kind of mindless chatterbox still survived.
“Kid, you better watch out!” Dustin’s dismissive attitude had Bill gritting his teeth in fury.
After getting thrashed by Fenley the night before and then blasted by Oron’s Stormcraft earlier, Bill was seething with rage. His frustration had reached a boiling point.
He was determined to vent all his anger on Dustin. Plus, he wanted every martial artist from Dragonmarsh to witness the true power of the vampires.
“The draw is over. Contestants, please return to your seat.” Once everyone had finished drawing their numbers, Oron spoke again.
He continued, “Now, I’ll explain the rules. This tournament is for martial arts sparring and skill exchange. Combat is ruthless. Once you enter the battle ring, your fate is at the mercy of destiny.
“There are no restrictions in today’s matches. Anyone who concedes or falls off the ring will lose.
“I would like to advise everyone that although winning and losing matter, your life is even more precious. If you find yourself overmatched, conceding might be the wisest choice.
“Without further ado, let’s start the first match. Contestant number one and contestant number 32, please step up to the ring.”
