The Mysterious White-Haired Masked Woman

This time it was Zani's number. She took off her coat and threw it on the stool, gave Kexi a thumbs up, and strode onto the ring.

Her opponent was also a woman.

The woman looked to be in her thirties, with short red hair and an old scar running from her brow bone to her chin.

She had no weapon in her hand, but the knuckles of her hands were covered with thick calluses, clearly indicating that she was a master of martial arts.

The moment the referee yelled "start," the red-haired woman rushed over.

Her movements were so fast that most of the spectators in the stands only saw a blurry shadow.

Zani dodged the first punch to the side, then blocked the second, the bandage on her arm fluttering open from the force of the blow.

The two exchanged blows at high speed on the ring for nearly a minute. The sound of their punches landing was like a rapid drumbeat, which made the audience in the stands excited and cheered louder and louder.

Just as Zani found an opening and prepared to counterattack, the red-haired woman suddenly stumbled and swayed to the side.

Zani's fist was out of control, slamming solidly into the other person's shoulder.

The red-haired woman groaned, knelt on one knee, clutched her shoulder, and cold sweat poured down her forehead.

"I give up." She gritted her teeth, raising one hand, her voice clearly filled with resentment. "An old shoulder injury."

The referee stepped forward to confirm, then raised the flag and declared Zani the winner.

Zani stood there, stunned. She looked down at her fist, then at her kneeling opponent, and her lips twitched.

She stepped off the ring and returned to the waiting area, where Kexi greeted her with a "see?" look.

"Luck is also a part of ability," Kexi said earnestly.

Zani plopped down on the stool, nudged him aside, and rolled her eyes. "Come on. I've never had such a sloppy match in my life. Your opponent's old injury flared up, and yours was even more ridiculous—you tripped and knocked yourself out. It's embarrassing to even talk about."

"You need real strength to stand in the ring and wait for your opponent to trip and fall unconscious," Kexi said, crossing her legs with a completely calm expression. "Look at those people in the audience, why didn't they get a chance to wait for their opponent to stumble and fall unconscious? Because they didn't have the guts to stand up. We stood up, so we won. That's called 'the strong have good luck.'"

Zani opened her mouth, only to find that she couldn't refute it.

The atmosphere in the waiting area suddenly changed.

Everyone waiting to go on stage raised their heads in unison, their eyes all turning towards the entrance to the arena.

The cacophony of voices seemed to have been turned down, transforming from a clamor into whispers.

A woman stepped into the ring.

Her white hair was tied in a high ponytail, the ends of which reached her waist. Her face was covered with a dark veil, revealing only her eyes.

Those eyes were calm, without murderous intent or provocation, as calm as if they were looking at a landscape that wasn't particularly special.

But the weapon in her hand made Kexi's gaze stop.

It's neither a knife nor a sword. If I had to describe it, it's like a bowstring; I'd call it a bowstring sword, if I had to.

Kexi stared at the weapon, her brows furrowing.

He looks somewhat familiar.

I'm sure I've seen it somewhere before.

But I can't remember it for the time being.

Oh right, it seems he's missing a weapon. I remember there's a decent knife in the vault, but Carlotta definitely won't give it to him. He'll find a chance to steal it another day.

He was still racking his brains to recall when the fight had already begun in the ring.

The white-haired, masked woman's opponent was a burly man wielding two swords. The swords slashed down in a series of sharp, swift movements, creating a piercing sound as they cut through the air.

Some people in the stands cheered, but before the cheers had even faded, the burly man's twin swords flew out of his hand.

No one saw how she made her move.

With a humming sound, the stringed sword flashed, and the twin blades tumbled several times in the air before clattering twice into the floor.

The burly man looked down at his empty hands, then looked up at the woman in front of him who hadn't even changed her posture, and his Adam's apple bobbed.

I surrender.

Three moves. From start to finish, there are only three moves.

The stands were silent for a moment, then erupted in deafening cheers.

The significance of the 90-game winning streak is being redefined with each and every match.

Zani stood up.

"It's her." Zani clenched her fist. "It's this white-haired girl."

"Calm down, your injury—"

"A minor injury. I can't wait to spar with her." Zani had already started flexing her wrists, the joints cracking.

The loudspeaker came on.

When the matchup list for the next game was announced, Zani's smile widened to its maximum.

Her number matched the number of the white-haired, masked woman.

Zani strode into the ring, her steps as light as if she were going to a long-awaited date.

When the white-haired, masked woman saw her new opponent approach, she merely adjusted the angle of her grip slightly, a glint of surprise flashing in her eyes as she looked at Zani.

The referee's chop came down.

Zani made the first move.

She didn't choose to test the waters; she went all out from the start.

The right fist, imbued with Resonance Energy, aimed straight for the opponent's face, while the left leg simultaneously swept down towards the lower body, launching a simultaneous attack from above and below with an extremely fast rhythm.

The white-haired, masked woman took a half step back, her stringed sword humming as she deflected Zani's fist. Then, she spun around and slashed at Zani's left leg with the sword.

Zani retracted her leg and flipped backward, dodging the attack while simultaneously kicking her opponent's shoulder in mid-air.

The white-haired, masked woman dodged to the side, her stringed sword arcing through the air as it aimed straight for Zani's throat.

Zani blocked with her forearm, the bandages were cut by the bowstring, and shards scattered in the air.

She used the momentum to step back and regain her balance at the edge of the ring.

"Great!" Kexi slapped her thigh in the waiting area.

Dozens of rounds.

The two fighters' offense and defense on the ring were so fast that the audience in the stands could barely keep up.

Zani's punches and kicks grew heavier and heavier, each strike accompanied by a dull sonic boom, while the white-haired masked woman's string sword became increasingly cunning, with each attack angle more unpredictable than the last.

The stringed sword weaves a net in the air, sometimes tightening, sometimes loosening Zani dashes left and right within the net, but can never find a gap to break through.

Then, when Zani's right foot landed, her knee bent slightly.

The movement was so subtle that the audience in the stands wouldn't have noticed it at all.

But the white-haired, veiled woman noticed.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and the angle of her string sword changed instantly. Instead of attacking Zani's upper body, she pressed down entirely on her right leg.

Zani gritted her teeth and endured several rounds, but the sluggishness caused by the recurrence of her old injury could not be completely compensated for by willpower alone.

Her right foot was a beat slower. Just a beat slower.

The bowstring was already pressed against her neck.

Just one more inch forward, and you'll find the carotid artery.

"Your old wounds haven't healed," the white-haired, masked woman spoke, her voice muffled through the veil, but her tone was calm. "There's no need for you to die here."

Zani glanced down at the bowstring at her neck, then looked up and smiled at her opponent, "You won."