Wasteland Calendar Year Two, April 11.
As the second day's Elimination Round drew to a close, the fates of hundreds of millions more survivors changed.
As they say, some rejoiced while others grieved.
Those who successfully won all three rounds and qualified for the third day's qualifying matches naturally beamed with joy. Most of them had gained the attention of their respective territories and begun to rise above the ranks of ordinary people.
The players who lost the Elimination Round had no choice but to face reality once more.
They either prepared to venture deeper into the New Continent in search of opportunities, or suppressed their thoughts and continued working hard in their current territories.
Of course, there were exceptions.
Southern New Continent, Taihu Territory.
Beside a vast natural Freshwater Lake stood several hundred simply designed wooden houses.
The wooden houses appeared to be scattered haphazardly, but from above, one could discover that
the different houses formed mutually supporting angles. If enemies arrived, they could naturally create an organized and effective defensive formation.
At that moment, inside a relatively large wooden house in the center,
an imperceptible spatial distortion erupted. Fan Fuzheng's illusory body gradually solidified, immediately drawing the attention of everyone around him.
"Old Fan, the third round ended that quickly?"
A sturdy man with a bold, forthright face rose from the crowd. His speech carried an unmistakable northern accent.
"Wasn't that what I said? Since your first two rounds were so difficult, the last one would definitely be easier."
"Easy?" Fan Fuzheng froze for a moment, then smiled bitterly. "Old Zhan, I'm afraid I've disappointed you. I lost the third round!"
"Lost?" Old Zhan widened his eyes, clearly unable to believe it.
As the lord of Taihu Territory, he knew better than anyone just how capable Fan Fuzheng