Chapter Seventy-Three: The Competition Ends

On the arena, blinding lights poured down like a scorching noon sun, stretching Du Yu’s shadow long across the floor. The clanging of the bell announced the end of the third round. Du Yu dragged his exhausted body, staggering as he made his way to the contestants’ bench.

His breathing was labored, sweat streaming from his brow in torrents and soaking his clothes. The deafening cheers seemed to come from a distant world; in Du Yu’s ears, only his own ragged breaths remained. He slumped onto the chair, his eyes unfocused, as if the entire world were spinning.

“Du Yu, hang in there. Try to finish him with your ultimate move in the fourth round.” Zhao Nan’s voice was full of urgency and concern. He pressed a cold towel to Du Yu’s face, hoping to bring him back to his senses.

During martial tournaments, the use of any drugs to restore spiritual power or stamina was strictly forbidden; only primitive methods were allowed—cold towels, plain water. Du Yu turned his head, gazing at Zhao Nan’s greasy face. His lips parted, but every word felt distant, as if muffled behind a thick veil of mist.

Du Yu’s gaze slipped past Zhao Nan’s shoulder, landing on the entrance to the contestants’ tunnel. Bai Yujing stood there—had the crisis outside the arena been resolved? The question flickered through his mind and vanished.

Du Yu felt his body teetering on the brink of collapse. His mind was so drained it could barely hold a single thought. The only thing keeping him upright was sheer force of will. If he couldn’t seize this moment today, he might never get another chance like this.

Ding ding!

The bell for the fourth round rang out. Du Yu braced his hands on his knees and forced himself upright, every step feeling as though he were walking on knife blades, pain radiating from the soles of his feet through his entire body. Still, he gritted his teeth and strode toward the center of the arena.

At the referee’s whistle, Tiger lunged forward like an untiring beast. Black fighters were known for their natural advantages in martial arts—not an empty boast, but a fact: they recovered quickly and could take a beating. In world-class fighting tournaments, most championship belts had been claimed by black fighters. And not just among the rank and file—even at the pinnacle, the man hailed as the world’s greatest martial artist was a black man from the American Superhero League, code-named Deep Sea Titan.

Thanks to his innate physical gifts, Tiger was far more dangerous than Du Yu with the same wounds. Du Yu had no chance to counterattack; all he could do was protect his vital spots and endure Tiger’s fierce assault.

He kept retreating, step by step, until he was forced to the edge of the arena. Tiger, growing ever more confident, pressed his advantage relentlessly, his fists and feet raining down in a storm that left Du Yu barely able to stay on his feet, his upper body crushed against the ropes.

The ropes’ elastic tension wrapped him tight, as though he were a wild beast trapped in a net.

Now!

A sharp gleam flashed in Du Yu’s eyes. He suddenly lifted his leg and landed a precise kick to Tiger’s abdomen.

Bang!

Tiger grunted, stumbling back a step. Du Yu seized the fleeting chance, using the ropes’ recoil to hurl himself forward. His fist shot out like lightning, striking Tiger’s kidney with a force beyond his current limits.

“Aah!”

Tiger let out a howl of agony, as if his kidney had been shattered by the blow. Before he could regain his footing, Du Yu’s leg lashed out like a steel whip, smashing into Tiger’s temple. Tiger’s head jerked violently to the side as he spat a mouthful of blood.

Du Yu didn’t pause for an instant. Two heavy punches followed like meteors, slamming into Tiger’s temple in quick succession, the air itself seeming to burst with invisible shockwaves.

Tiger’s face twisted in pain, his body tracing an arc through the air before crashing to the mat, foam bubbling from his mouth.

The cameras captured every instant—Du Yu’s desperate counterattack was broadcast in crystal clarity before the entire audience.

Du Yu’s fans erupted, their cheers crashing over the arena like a tidal wave. The referee rushed over and began the count: “One, two, three... ten!”

Tiger showed no sign of regaining consciousness.

The referee blew his whistle, declaring the match over, and quickly produced two single-use healing talismans, pressing them to Du Yu and Tiger’s bodies.

Medical staff rushed to the ring and carried Tiger away. The referee raised Du Yu’s right hand and proclaimed in a loud voice, “The champion of this martial arts tournament is Du Yu!”

“Yeah!”

The crowd below screamed and howled, some waving flags, others pounding their chests in regret for not betting on Du Yu.

A beautiful woman in a costume cut so short it was nearly a swimsuit walked onto the stage and fastened the gilded championship belt around Du Yu’s waist. She fluttered her lashes, trying to catch his eye, but her efforts were wasted.

Du Yu simply tipped back his head, accepting the crowd’s acclaim, then turned resolutely and stepped down from the ring.

Tears glimmered in Zhao Nan’s single eye as he choked out, “Congratulations, Du Yu.”

“You’ve worked hard all this time, kid.”

Du Yu was eighty-seven years old now; calling the forty-five-year-old Zhao Nan a kid was only natural.

Zhao Nan wiped his tears away and walked with him toward the contestants’ tunnel.

Bai Yujing gazed at Du Yu’s battered but unbowed figure and smiled. “Congratulations on your victory.”

“Coming from someone of your stature, that sounds a bit like sarcasm,” Du Yu replied frankly.

No one knew his own situation better than he did. For all his fame and tens of thousands of die-hard fans, once he joined the Myriad Beasts Sect, he’d be just one more fourth-tier spiritualist among many. Bai Yujing before him was someone he would have to look up to for a long time to come.

Bai Yujing shrugged. “People always imagine the road they haven’t walked is lined with flowers. I’m no different.”

“Is that so? I hope one day I can walk the path you’re on now and see for myself whether it’s lined with flowers—or something else,” Du Yu replied with a wry smile.

Bai Yujing smiled and offered his heartfelt blessing. “I hope you do.”

With that, he glanced at the contestants’ tunnel across the way, sensing something amiss. “Excuse me, I have something to attend to.”

“All right.”

Zhao Nan pulled out his phone and marked the order as complete. There was no longer any need to worry about Du Yu’s safety; the Myriad Beasts Sect’s name alone offered protection. Anyone who dared harm Du Yu or himself would answer to the sect. After all, the disciples of the sect had loved ones of their own.

Bai Yujing slipped away into the corridor.

…

Meanwhile, in the other contestants’ tunnel, Tiger lay on a stretcher. Thanks to his formidable physique, he quickly regained consciousness. He stared up at the ceiling and the nurses at his sides, his pupils suddenly dilating.

“How could I lose to a yellow-skinned monkey?!”

Tiger roared in English, his voice brimming with fury.

The nurses couldn’t understand him; all they could do was try to calm him. “Please, sir, don’t move around.”

But Tiger wouldn’t listen. Rage erupted inside him like a volcano. He suddenly sat up and swung a fist at a nurse’s head, as if to vent his anger in blood.

Bang!

A slender hand appeared out of nowhere, effortlessly catching Tiger’s punch.

The nurse screamed, letting go of the stretcher and shielding Bai Yujing with her body. The other three medical staff dropped the stretcher in panic, slipping behind Bai Yujing for protection, cursing the brute under their breath.