"The draw for the next match begins."
As the announcement rang out, the contestants on both sides held their breath.
Especially those from the Origin Continent.
They had lost another match.
There were not many of them left.
They could not afford another loss.
They had to win every battle from here on.
The Chaos Ancient Clan had held the upper hand throughout the fighting, suppressing them on every front.
It was no ordinary suppression. They had been pinned down tight.
They had to find a way to turn the tables.
And there was only one way to do that: they could not lose another battle.
If they kept losing, there would truly be no hope of a comeback.
Their Third Heaven Quasi-Saint Realm fighters were the first echelon. As the first echelon, they absolutely could not finish with a defeat. They had to win.
This was not merely a matter of interests. It was a matter of pride.
For the sake of that pride, they could not lose the next match either.
If they lost, they would lose both face and substance.
They absolutely could not lose.
Victory was a must.
"Number seven fights next."
As the announcement rang out, the contestants on both sides waited in silence and watched.
Though they stood together, none of them knew the others' numbers.
If someone did not volunteer the information, no one else asked.
In other words, unless someone stepped forward of their own accord, the others had no way of knowing that person's number.
"I'm number seven."
A crisp voice rang out.
The others turned to look.
When they saw who it was, understanding dawned.
So it was her.
A woman in a long dress slowly stepped out of the group.
She emerged at an unhurried pace, wearing a pale