"Let's go. Sebas, you find us a place to stay. I'm going to sign up."
Thanks to some "helpful" passersby, Selene soon found the Imperial bulletin board. The newest posting announced the Imperial Fist Martial Tournament—and the moment she read it, her excitement spiked.
Perfect timing!
Before long, Selene and Sebas arrived at the tournament's registration site—a massive structure resembling an ancient Roman coliseum.
After passing through the reception hall, Selene reached the registration area, which was packed to the brim. The tournament had drawn countless participants—soldiers from the Imperial Fist, military officers, mercenaries, and even caravans of merchants. The streets outside were jammed with traffic, and the place was swarming with hopefuls and spectators alike.
Just by glancing at the various outfits, Selene could tell many of the contestants were elite fighters from all across the Empire.
Seems the rewards for this tournament must be quite something...
"Get out of here! You think a twig like you can compete in the tournament? Scram before—uh..." The registrar, a burly, yellow-faced man, had just finished shouting at a scrawny boy when he noticed Selene approaching.
"...Forgive me, my lady—ah, my lord! This way, please!" He had nearly called her "miss," but seeing her revealing yet authoritative attire, he immediately changed his tone.
He was no fool. The only reason a rough man like him had climbed to this position was because he knew how to read people. And this striking noblewoman practically radiated authority. He couldn't afford to offend her.
"May I ask your purpose here, my lady?" he said, quickly ushering Selene to the front of the line. As for whether anyone would complain about the queue being cut—no one dared.
Selene didn't answer immediately. Instead, her gaze followed the retreating figure of the boy the registrar had driven away. "Why couldn't he participate? According to the posted rules, anyone within the Empire can join, can't they?"
At that, the man sighed. "You're right, my lady—but those types... they never know their limits. That one's probably a pawn from a gambling ring. They send weaklings like him to join just to manipulate betting odds and rake in profits through match-fixing."
"Our duty, aside from handling registration, is also to screen out that kind of interference. But... that's as much as I'm allowed to say."
"I see." Selene nodded, amused. So even here, corruption and scheming thrive. Some things never change between worlds. The tournament hadn't even started, and the shady dealings were already underway.
Still, the fact that the Empire had so many dedicated soldiers working earnestly meant one thing—the old emperor still lived, and Minister Chouri hadn't yet retired. The rot hadn't reached its peak. But once Honest rose to power, the Empire's collapse would be inevitable.
"Sign me up," Selene said casually.
"At once!"
The registrar grabbed a pen—comically tiny in his massive hand—and began to write furiously. Watching a two-meter-tall giant with hands the size of shovels handle a delicate pen made Selene suppress a chuckle.
What is this, threading a needle?
"All done, my lord. Here's your official tournament pass," the man said, stamping the document and handing it to her with great respect.
"Thank you." Selene took it, then paused before leaving. "By the way, what's your name?"
"Kinshasa."
"Hmm. I'll remember that. Perhaps we'll meet again."
...
With her registration complete, Selene learned from the instructions that she could freely enter the coliseum to observe ongoing matches before the official tournament began in two days.
Following a guide, she entered the arena's massive spectator stands.
As she stepped through the long corridor, a wave of roaring cheers reached her ears. A match had just concluded.
The coliseum was immense—built in the classic circular Roman style. The central fighting pit was surrounded by four tiers of seating, arranged in ascending rows that circled the arena. At the eastern side stood an enormous private viewing box, decorated lavishly for Imperial officials and nobles.
The higher the seating level, the greater the wealth and status of those who occupied it. Selene now sat in the third-tier section, reserved exclusively for registered participants.
After settling into her seat, she didn't have to wait long for the next match to begin.
As the referee introduced the fighters, a young man with a cold, ruthless air stepped into the arena first.
Anyone with a trained eye could tell immediately—this youth was no ordinary fighter. Though his face was partially obscured, the darkness in his eyes hinted at sharp vigilance. Every slight movement was calculated, predatory. His knees bent subtly as he walked, each step landing on the balls of his feet first—ready to spring forward like a hunting leopard at any moment.
That stance... he's an assassin.
His opponent, in contrast, was unmistakably a disciple of the Imperial Fist. Broad-shouldered and muscular, he wore the temple's signature martial attire. His hands, wrapped in bandages, clenched as he fitted a pair of brass knuckles over his fingers. His piercing gaze betrayed absolute focus—he wouldn't allow the slightest motion from his opponent to escape his notice.
"Begin!"
The instant the referee gave the signal, the assassin-like youth tossed several smoke bombs onto the ground. In a heartbeat, the arena filled with dense, swirling mist.
Seeing this, Selene couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. That looks familiar... kind of like the Hiding in Mist Technique from the Kirigakure.
Suddenly—a faint sound came from behind the Imperial Fist. To ordinary people, it would've been inaudible, but to a martial artist's ears, it was deafening. He spun around instantly, muscles tense, taking a defensive stance.
But all he saw was a small throwing knife, embedded in the ground where he had stood moments earlier.
A trap! he realized instantly.
Clang!
His instincts screamed danger. He pivoted again—but it was already too late. A flash of silver swept past his throat, faster than his eyes could follow. Without thinking, he threw up his right arm, his body reacting purely on muscle memory. His waist and legs tensed as he kicked backward, launching himself away like an arrow.
Whoosh!
In that split second, he retreated several meters—but a burning pain flared across his neck. A shallow, half-inch-deep gash stretched across his throat.
Had his reaction been just a fraction of a second slower—barely 0.01 seconds—his artery and windpipe would have been severed clean through.
"You still want to continue? You almost—"
The voice came from the mist.
Turning toward it, the Imperial Fist fighter saw the assassin now standing exactly where he himself had been moments before—holding a short dagger no more than two inches long, its tip glistening with a thin trace of blood.
"Continue!" the temple fighter growled through clenched teeth.