"The next battle begins with the drawing of lots."
"The drawing is over, the next battle is on the 35th."
After the words fell, both camps fell into a brief silence.
But after a brief silence, both sides began to gear up.
The next battle begins.
"Number thirty-five."
"After waiting for so long, it's finally my turn."
"Gone."
Origin Continent Here, as a gentle voice came out, a figure slowly walked out of the crowd.
It was a middle-aged man with a medium to thin build, wearing a Coarse Cloth Tunic that had been washed out.
The color is somewhere between gray and brown, and it's hard to tell which color it was originally.
The collar of the cloth coat has frayed edges, and the cuffs have a circle of fine stitches, which are neatly mended.
There is a Grass Rope tied around his waist, and a half-cut pen is pinned to the rope. The barrel of the pen is dark and dark, and most of the hair on the tip of the pen has fallen away, as if it has been used for many years.
On his feet he wore a pair of straw sandals, the soles of which were worn very thin.
You can almost feel the texture of the stone bricks on your toes, and the instep is covered with calluses and cracked lines.
His face has a Vicissitudes look that has been repeatedly washed away by the years.
The cheekbones are slightly high, the cheeks are slightly sunken, and the skin is dark yellow and covered with fine lines.
The wrinkles at the end of the eyes are like water wrinkled by the wind, one layer on top of another.
His eyebrows are gray and black, thick and messy, and there is a deep vertical line between his eyebrows, like the traces left by years of frowning.
He has a short beard on his chin, which is gray-white and not neatly groomed, with a few strands sticking up at the corners of his mouth.
His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils were dark brown, and there were two thick groups of blue-black under his eyes, as if he hadn't slept peacefully for a long time.
But his eyes were very quiet.
That kind of tranquility is not a natural tranquility, it is a tranquility that slowly settles down after experiencing too many things and is polished by countless sleepless nights.
Those dark brown eyes looked at people without any sharpness, but with a heavy weight.
Like an old book that has been turned over countless times, the cover has been worn away, but every word inside is clear.
His hair was tied back with a piece of cloth.
The strip of cloth was so gray that its original color could not be seen, and it was tied in a loose knot.
The bunch of Half-Gray, Half-White long hair behind his head fluttered gently in the wind.
The hair is fluffy and dry, like a reed tassel that has been blown by the autumn wind for too long.
In his hand he held a roll of Jade Slip.
Jade Slip is about one foot long and three inches wide. It is bluish white in color and has a warm luster on its surface.
The body of the slip is engraved with densely packed small characters. The characters are extremely old, with complex and weird strokes, like some kind of High Antiquity character that has been lost.
The edges of Jade Slip were rubbed smooth and rounded by him. It can be seen that he has turned over this volume of Jade Slip countless times.
He holds Jade Slip in a very casual manner, with his fingers naturally folded together, like holding an old book that he has read thousands of times. A tacit understanding has been formed between his fingers and Jade Slip.
He walked up to Arena step by step, his straw sandals making almost no sound when stepping on the stone bricks.
The cloth was fluttering gently in the wind, and the long gray hair on the back of his head was floating silently.
There was no breath leaking from his body, and he was as quiet as an old piece of wood forgotten in a corner.
"Fellow Daoist Chaos Ancient Clan, please come up quickly."
"I am weak and should not stand on Arena for too long."
The middle-aged man held Jade Slip and said softly.
His tone was very gentle, making people feel like they were taking a breath of spring breeze.