Frost Cloud King, Angel King, Hundred Consecutive Victories

One month later.

Slaughter Arena.

The referee's voice echoed through the vast, empty arena with a mechanical, numb tone: "Seventy-eighth match—winner—Frost Cloud King."

A few people sat scattered in the stands, too listless to even cheer.

It wasn't that the matches weren't exciting; they were simply numb to it.

For the past month, they had watched with their own eyes as that six-year-old child won match after match, from start to finish, without a single exception.

No matter who the opponent was—be it a cold-blooded desperado or a powerful soul master—in front of Luo Yun, it was always a matter of one sword strike.

One strike.

No more, no less.

Someone had kept count: of Luo Yun's seventy-eight matches, seventy-one had ended with a single strike. The remaining seven took two, not because the opponents were too strong, but because he had intentionally missed the mark on the first strike to observe their reactions.

Once he had seen enough, the second strike ended the fight.

Someone in the stands yawned, stood up, and left.

No point in watching; it was boring.

The result was always the same anyway.

Luo Yun walked off the arena floor, his Moon Eclipse Sword already sheathed, not a single drop of blood staining his robes.

His face remained completely expressionless.

As he passed the registration desk, the short, stout man stood up proactively, bowing his waist and offering a bronze plaque with both hands.

"Lord Frost Cloud King, this is your seventy-eighth victory plaque."

Luo Yun took the plaque, didn't even glance at it, tucked it into his robes, and walked away without looking back.

The stout man watched him leave, wiped the sweat from his forehead, sat back down in his chair, and let out a long sigh.

He had worked here for twenty years and had never seen a monster like this.

No, not just never seen—he hadn't even heard of one.

How many powerhouses had Slaughter City produced in the last hundred years? Yet not one was like this child.

From start to finish, he won with such ease, never once injured, his opponents never even having time to react.

He flipped through the registration book to the Frost Cloud King's record, his finger lingering on the "78-0" line before he closed the book and shut his eyes.

Twenty-two matches left.

Once those twenty-two matches were finished, this God of Slaughter would be leaving.

He both hoped for that day to come quickly and feared that once it did, the Slaughter Arena would never be lively again.

On the other side, at the arena's other exit, a golden figure emerged.

Qian Renxue wore a white combat suit, her long golden hair tied back, revealing a smooth forehead and delicate features.

Fifty-six matches.

Her record was fifty-six matches, undefeated.

The people of Slaughter City had given Qian Renxue a title.

Angel King.

A golden longsword, holy radiance, decisive in slaughter, never leaving a survivor.

Some said she was a messenger from the God Realm descended to earth; others said she wasn't human at all, but an angel reincarnated.

Various rumors circulated through Slaughter City, none of them entirely right, yet none entirely wrong.

Qian Renxue stepped out of the arena, her azure eyes sweeping across the street, searching the crowd for a moment before pulling her gaze back.

She didn't see the little guy.

The corners of her mouth curved slightly, and she turned to walk in the opposite direction.

On the streets of Slaughter City, two pieces of news spread as if they had grown wings.

"Frost Cloud King has seventy-eight consecutive wins!"

"Angel King has fifty-six consecutive wins too!"

"Where on earth did these two Gods of Slaughter pop out from?"

"I heard the Frost Cloud King is only six years old."

"Six? Are you joking?"

"I'd be a fool to lie to you. I saw it with my own eyes—he's only this tall, wears black clothes, and carries a purple-black sword. One strike per person, never needs a second."

"...Damn it, is this place even meant for us to survive in?"

No one dared to go to the Slaughter Arena anymore.

It wasn't that they didn't want to; they were simply too afraid.

With the Frost Cloud King and the Angel King, both Gods of Slaughter, presiding over the arena, anyone who stepped up was merely walking to their death.

In the past, some still harbored a glimmer of wishful thinking.

What if?

What if the child wasn't in good form today?

What if I could survive the first sword strike?

What if he made a mistake?

But after seventy-eight matches, no one held onto such delusions anymore.

Seventy-eight matches, seven hundred and two people, seven hundred and two corpses.

There were no "what ifs."

The Slaughter Arena began to see empty slots.

The number of people signing up dwindled, until one day, not a single person registered.

The short, stout man sat at the registration desk, staring at the blank ledger in a daze for a long while before sighing, rising to find the person in charge of the arena.

That very night, the law enforcement team of the Slaughter City began rounding people up.

Those wandering the streets, drinking in taverns, gambling in dens, or cowering in corners just to survive.

As long as they weren't the Frost Cloud King or the Angel King, they were all dragged out from every corner by the law enforcement team, hauled to the arena registration desk, and forced to sign up.

"On what grounds are you arresting me? I'm not signing up!"

"Not signing up? Fine, go tell that to the King of Slaughter."

"...I'll sign up."

"What's your name?"

"...Zhang San."

"Martial Soul?"

"...A hoe."

"A hoe Martial Soul dares to come to the Slaughter City? You dare lie to me, you bastard!"

The entire Slaughter City was filled with complaints, but not a single person dared to resist.

The law enforcement team represented the will of the King of Slaughter; here, the King of Slaughter was heaven itself.

Another month later.

Slaughter Arena.

The referee's voice echoed through the empty arena, carrying a sense of relief: "The winner of the one-hundredth match is the Frost Cloud King!"

The stands were silent for a moment, then erupted into thunderous cheers.

They weren't cheering for Luo Yun; they were cheering for themselves.

It was over.

It was finally over.

This God of Slaughter had finally finished his one hundred matches.

From this day on, they would no longer have to worry about being dragged off to their deaths by the law enforcement team.

They would no longer have to take a detour whenever they saw that small, black-clad figure on the street.

They would no longer have to dream of that purple-black sword every single night.

In the stands, some wept, some laughed, some hugged each other while crying and laughing, and some knelt on the ground, howling at the sky.

The scene didn't look like a competition; it looked like a major festival.

Luo Yun stood in the center of the arena, the Moon Eclipse Sword hanging by his side, blood dripping from the tip onto the dark red stone floor.

He looked at the reveling crowd in the stands, his face devoid of any expression.

One hundred matches, finished.

In his mind, two voices did not sound.

This meant the third trial was not yet complete.

The Hell Road was the true test.

Luo Yun sheathed the Moon Eclipse Sword and turned to walk out of the arena.

As he passed the registration desk, the short, stout man held a golden medal in both hands, respectfully offering it to him.

"Lord Frost Cloud King, this is your Hundred Victory Gold Medal. The King of Slaughter will personally open the Hell Road for you within three days."

Luo Yun took the gold medal, glanced at it, tucked it into his robes, and walked away without looking back.

He had only taken a few steps when Qian Renxue emerged from the other exit of the arena.

Her hundred victories had come two matches after Luo Yun's, but she had also completed them within this month.