Tan Xiao returned to the rest lobby.

He saw no sign of Max and Ken—he didn’t know whether they’d been eliminated and sent home, or had simply died outright.

Tan Xiao pulled a medallion from his breast pocket, staring at it in puzzlement. He’d had this thing in his pocket and nearly forgotten all about it—but just now it had inexplicably come to mind.

【Friendship Medallion: You helped the princess find her lost golden ball, and have become her friend.】

Which game had he gotten this item from?

Tan Xiao turned it over in his mind and muttered to himself: “Got it… As the princess’s friend, I helped her clear the monster out of her castle, so she rewarded me with the king’s sword?”

He thought it over some more and decided his reasoning was quite sound. He gave himself a satisfied nod. “Yeah. That must be it.”

The rest lobby was nearly empty. Apart from him, there was a man resting in the far corner, his clothes spattered with blood—he’d been injured.

Tan Xiao didn’t see anyone else, so he walked over to the man and asked, “Hey, did you get the king’s sword?”

If he hadn’t, he should’ve been eliminated, or would still be mid-game.

The man raised his eyelids slightly, the ghost of a smile on his face. “Ah… I did. You too?”

“Got it.” Tan Xiao stretched his arms out in front of him like he was doing a chest expansion. “Wrapped it up without breaking a sweat—I wasn’t even at full strength.”

The man: “…”

Tan Xiao added: “Not sure when this is all going to end. None of my teammates have come out yet.”

The other man laughed coldly. “A bunch of weaklings? Don’t hold your breath.”

Tan Xiao glanced at him, and then, surprisingly, didn’t rise to anger. Instead, he turned and walked to the glowing square panel nearby, stopped in front of it, and sat down cross-legged—

He was going to wait.

Wait for his companions to come out.

—

The decisive arena.

Two throne-like chairs sat facing each other, each with a brilliant gemstone set into the top of its backrest.

On one side: a ruby. On the other: a sapphire.

Whether by coincidence or fate, Bai Youwei happened to be wearing a red dress today.

The wound in her abdomen poured forth blood, darkening a large patch of the red fabric, soaking it through, wet and spreading slowly outward, then trickling down her calves in a thin stream…

“Within the decisive arena, weapons other than the King’s Sword may not be used to attack your opponent, and no healing items of any kind may be used on yourself.” Tu Shenshi said calmly. “Both kings are surely already familiar with all the rules.”

“Perfectly.” Vilard smiled, and gently released his grip.

The longsword that had been embedded in Bai Youwei’s abdomen dissolved like phosphorescent particles flickering in the air, gradually dispersing and vanishing—leaving behind only the torn wound and the blood that continued to well up.

The scabbard, now, was empty.

“Six positions that can be attacked. The chest is the lethal point—your shield should be placed over your chest, shouldn’t it?” Vilard savored her wretched state, the corners of his mouth curling in an unsettling way. “But perhaps you anticipated this way of thinking on my part and deliberately set your shield somewhere else? Like… your legs? Those seemingly useless, ruined legs—could they be the part you care about most? Ah… so I was agonizing over the decision for quite some time. Which should I choose?”

Bai Youwei pressed her hand over the wound, watching him with cold eyes. “You chose the abdomen.”

“Mm, that was a good choice, wasn’t it?” Vilard tilted his head, his burned face twisted into pure grotesqueness. “The center and upper region of the abdomen won’t easily cause death, but pierce the liver or kidneys, and it becomes fatal. Even if your body’s self-healing ability is strong, right now—it must be agony, mustn’t it?”

Bai Youwei smiled coldly. The hand over her wound was now completely stained red.

Between them, the scabbard flickered once more. The sword hilt, embedded with its ruby, materialized before both of them.

Surprise crossed Vilard’s face.

Bai Youwei smiled again—cold, mocking, her eyes holding an emotion that defied easy naming.

She gripped the hilt and drew it out slowly, inch by inch, then leveled the blade at Vilard.

“What a pity for you. This time, it’s my turn—”