The technicians stepped in and flinched as the speakers burst with thuds, like stones beating drums under a sudden squall.

They steadied like reeds after wind, thinking these two girls had quirky tastes, then smiled and moved to the bed to massage Yekase and Ling Yi’s legs.

This bathhouse city was ninety-nine percent funded by the Sinister Organization, a black river feeding bright lanterns, yet its lower staff were ordinary citizens without any special privilege.

That was the life for most who never stepped into the inner world: without teeth for the feast, they picked crumbs like sparrows at a roadside stall.

Yekase had bitten deep into dividends; her research gear and funding lay muddy, like moonlight reflected in a well fouled by boots.

Lately she even plotted to rob the Organization’s warehouses, a rusted saber hung in a museum, branded as a relic of a bygone era.

Her newest excuse drifted like thin incense: use the enemy’s strength to strike the enemy, guerrilla fog and thorn hedges.

“Mm… ow-ow-ow!”

A sharp ache flared behind her scapula like a hawk’s talon, snapping Yekase’s self-hypnosis.

The technician had started pinching acupoints near her shoulder, fingers like needles finding hidden springs.

“Miss, your skin’s smooth as polished jade, and your muscles even—just a bit stiff, like chilled bamboo.”

“Ah-haha…” Her laugh fluttered like a paper fan in humid air.

Then another acupoint sank under pressure, like a pebble pressed into wet sand.

“—Tss?!” The hiss rose like a kettle over charcoal.

Yekase, the iron-blooded daredevil who once fell a hundred meters and only grunted through fractures, now yelped as slender hands toyed with her like strings on a zither, her cries mixing shy notes and pain, a little boat tossing in crossed winds.

Wait—where’s Ling Yi? Why isn’t she crying out, like a bell missing its tongue?

Yekase rode the sour-sweet ache and shifted her gaze; Ling Yi lounged like a bathhouse elder, letting hands roam without a twitch, eyes savoring the film like warm tea.

“…Uh?” Her doubt fluttered like a moth at a lamp.

“I’ve never seen a girl this flexible and healthy—like a willow after rain!” the technician working on Ling Yi exclaimed.

“This one’s a bit sub-healthy, like clay left in shade. Do you sit in one posture too long?” came the sharp review behind Yekase.

“Uh, not really. It’s just when inspiration flares I—ugh—sit till results pop—ee!—like chasing fireflies till dawn… that’s all…”

“Doc, you’re not cutting it,” Ling Yi fanned the flames, voice smooth as oil over embers.

What a joke? Yekase’s body had been marinated inside and out in the purest Flash Energy from the Causal Horizon, like meat steeped in lightning brine.

Residuals still shimmered within her, sparks under ash; how, in barely a month, were her limbs stiff again?

Were her habits such a black hole that even premium tonic Flash Energy couldn’t save her? She sifted memories like dry grains through her fingers…

It was true, a cold pebble dropping into the heart’s well.

Half resigned, Yekase let herself feel the self-inflicted pain, like standing under a drizzle she’d called herself.

The ordeal stretched for two hours like dusk lengthening; the technician patted loose her calves, then lifted her small frame and set her into a tub that rose from the floor like a moon from earth.

The steaming brown medicinal soup drew a soft sigh from her; she sank her shoulders in, bread into warm broth.

As the technician left, she warned about bathing again after the tonic soak or else this and that; Yekase let the words drift like smoke, not catching a single line.

“Feels like bitterness finally washed sweet, like winter yielding to plum blossoms…”

“Or like finishing torture in hell and finally getting dropped into the oil pot?”

“Ling Yi, you’re getting a bit two-faced and prickly lately, shade wrapped in frost.”

Yekase started missing the first, clueless Ling Yi, a cub bumping into trees; now, when the Sinister Organization strutted, she drew her blade and charged like storm rain.

Back then she’d open with heavy style—fire blade and a blunt “chop”—now gone like summer thunder beyond the hills.

She now kites for at least three minutes with floating turrets and aerial maneuvers, swallows teasing a hawk across a bright sky.

Then she swaps to the water blade, drops two clones like mirages, fakes the kite, then swaps back—fire blade, “chop”—hammer after feints.

[Wanna learn? I’ll teach you.]

On screen, the movie drifted into its final scene, a tide easing to shore.

The protagonist, now a martial master, spared an enemy and lifted his gaze to the far sky like a crane gliding to cloud.

“Ah. This scene, that line—too classic,” Yekase breathed, nostalgia like warm tea in the chest.

Her hand broke the water like a fish, tapping the floating virtual panel; she closed the movie and switched to TV.

The sports channel carried a match, drums rolling before rain.

A man and a woman faced each other in a wide arena, still as statues under noon sun.

They held that silence for five minutes, tension stretched like a bowstring.

“What’s this show?” The question rose like a bubble.

Yekase glanced at the banners around the floor and answered, “Fist Wish. Organizations send fighters to battle for prize money, a biannual tournament—spring and autumn. This one’s at Twin Towers City’s dome.”

“They just throw fighters in? Aren’t they afraid their trump cards get bared like roots after rain?”

“Let it show. Even if you skip, rivals won’t pivot elsewhere. Better to send your hardest hitter and spear the purse.”

“Once the money lands, you boost gear or grease allies—solid lifts for mid and small outfits, bricks stacked into walls.”

“What about the big ones?” Her voice tilted like a restless kite.

“Big ones have decks like forests; they play how they want. Some pro fighters barely touch real battle, drifting toward athletes under stadium lights.”

By the way, this international event’s hosted by Shadow Curtain International, with the clunky translated name “Fist Wish”… nobody actually rushes in with bare fists, names like ill-fitted armor.

Ling Yi nodded, looking totally lost like a sparrow pecking a clock, then turned back to the 158-inch screen.

[Alright, our opening bout features Bowman of Dading Heavy Industries versus Xiaoyuan of Eternal Green Pages! We also have last tournament’s champion, Luzhixing of Swordforging Manor, as our guest! Miss Lu, say hi!]

[Morning.] The word fell like a pebble into a pond.

The voice sounded terse, a blade edge without gloss. Wait, it was four in the afternoon—dropping a deadpan “Morning.” Maybe straight-faced funny?

[Miss Lu, thoughts on today’s match?]

[Don’t know them.] The reply was flint, a spark without flame.

[…Ahem! Bowman is a new recruit this year for Dading Heavy Industries. He’s massive, paired with their famously high-power single-soldier armor. Expect a ruckus!]

“Dading, huh…” The name tolled like a heavy bell.

Yekase thought of Triple Calamity; that Ma Wei wore a Dading base chassis too, though heavily Frankensteined, a crab fitted with rockets.

“I haven’t watched much. Are they strong?” Her question drifted like smoke.

“Hard to say. Their fighters don’t fight to win; they advertise the season’s new armor. If the suit’s weak, they bow out early; if it’s fierce, they’re fierce.”

The camera settled on Bowman, a boxer-like fighter in blazing red armor, exposed like a lobster shell under noon sun.

“—Hey?!” “That’s plagiarism! I’m suing!” Yekase slapped the table, palm cracking like thunder.

Any armor-savvy eye could spot it: from form to layout, a crude knockoff of Kagari, a shadow tracing fire with a shaky hand.

They’d even modded the edges, ramping exposure and stuffing latex flourishes; if a woman wore it now, the broadcast might cut to black like a storm eating the sky.

The shot lingered low on Bowman’s back; two ergonomic symmetric curved soft plates bore Dading’s logo, twin moons stamped on muscle.

Because of that, Dading got nicknamed “Big Butt Industries,” graffiti on mountains for all to see.

But who wants a man’s big butt on prime time, a pumpkin plopped in a shrine?

A tide of boos rolled from the stands, waves slapping a cliff face.

Thankfully the paid logo close-up ended; the camera flowed to the other fighter like a river rounding stone.

She looked mid-twenties, short-haired, in a frilled pale-pink blouse and jeans, more mall stroll than brawl, cherry petals over asphalt.

Though she carried a straight blade sheathed, her overall look said she wasn’t hungry to win, a picnic after rain.

[And now, representing Eternal Green Pages, Xiaoyuan! For this battle-hardened legend, we need no intro. Let’s see what unfolds!] Curtains rose like dawn.

“Doc, give me the rundown!” Ling Yi’s eyes glinted like frost on wire.

“Xiaoyuan enters every tournament. Her strongest ability is immortality—not an application of Infinite Power, but an innate, still-unresearched superpower.”

“Huh? Then isn’t she invincible?” Her surprise leaped like a carp breaching river.

“Hard to say,” Yekase shook her head, wind brushing reeds. “She tilts fast, throws fights when behind, then swings wild. She’s streaky—top to bottom like cliffs. Chaos decides.”

Her backer, Eternal Green Pages, is an old, tiny, secretive group. They study time and space, practice Alchemy, and fund themselves by selling alchemical products, bottles of trapped dawn lining quiet shelves.

Alchemy burns money like dry leaves. They crave prize funds but aren’t strong, so they pull height from short grass: send their sole hitter, Xiaoyuan, to roll dice twice a year.

Pairing these two for the opener was deliberate: Dading’s win-or-lose by new product versus Xiaoyuan’s luck-driven chaos. Unpredictable shapes draw eyes like moths to lanterns.

They warmed up on the spot, breath steaming like horses; the start ticked down, numbers falling like stones.

[Three, two, one—fight!]

Xiaoyuan snapped into god-mode; after a single Celestial Speech, dozens of lights flared like meteors, turning into searing fire needles at Bowman. Her straight blade—no, she never drew it—its scabbard blazed azure and rushed for his head like an icy river’s ram.

“Ha!” Bowman crossed his arms, a shield of crossed oaks; the needles peppered his armor, burning char-black scars across its red shell.

Then he met her scabbard head-on—bronze tongue wreathed in flame against armor. The recoil kicked both back two steps, springs snapping under load.

Yekase, calm as a still lake, said, “That opener whiffed. Xiaoyuan’s about to throw it.”

“Huh? That fast?” Her disbelief pricked like a palm full of needles.

Ling Yi gets antsy when her fire blade fails, but not that broken; those spells did mark Bowman’s armor, scorch on bark under sun!

Under Ling Yi’s incredulous stare, Xiaoyuan wore a “wanna go home” face and planted her straight blade in the ground like a fence stake.

[Before-the-Throne—Trial—]

She drawled the skill name like smoke from a brazier curling to rafters.

“What’s that?” The question fluttered like a sparrow under eaves.

“It draws a circle around herself, chalk on stone. The locked enemy can’t leave; outsiders can’t enter, a warded courtyard under moonlight.”

“…Huh?” In a solo arena match, a lock like that is rain on a river—what’s the point?

“No point. That’s why she’s tossing the match,” Yekase sighed, wind through chimes on a quiet porch.