Chapter Fifty-Five: Registration

“We believe you, of course we do, hahaha...”
Wang Dongwei and Zhu Xiaoyong quickly forced broad smiles, awkward yet polite. “Hahaha... ha, ha... ha...”
Under Yan Luo’s calm gaze, their laughter grew weaker and slower, until the smiles faded altogether.
A heavy silence fell.

“I was joking,” Yan Luo reiterated once more.

“Yes, joking, we understand,” the two nodded earnestly.

Without a word, Yan Luo switched the bronze-level warrior title above his head to “Sage,” ensuring he would remain in sage mode. Even if strong emotions surged, he could maintain utter calm, his heart as still as water, with not a ripple disturbing his composure.

“So, let’s discuss whether there’s a way to avoid competing naked.”

In sage mode, Yan Luo’s face was expressionless, and his voice utterly flat. “Competing naked is just too humiliating. Just thinking about it is unbearable. Such a disgusting kind of contest.”

Wang Dongwei: “...”

Zhu Xiaoyong: “...”

Yet another silence.

Yan Luo pondered aloud, “I have a bold idea. The Olympic naked events only forbid clothing, but there’s no rule against wearing masks, is there? We could use masks to cover our faces. That way, people can see our bodies, but not our faces... wouldn’t that prevent the shame?”

You feel a surge of emotion:

Shock +1
Shock +1

Silence continued, the air as heavy as if it had solidified.

After a long pause, Wang Dongwei spoke.
“There is a certain merit to that idea,” he reflected, searching for the most tactful words. “Um... Yan Luo, why don’t you sign up, and help register me and Fatty for the chariot race as well... As for which events you want to enter, do what you can—just participating will fulfill the main mission, anyway.”

“I need some time to myself as well, to think seriously about how to avoid competing nude... Ordinary methods won't work, and what we did in Athens won’t do either... This is tough.”

Maintaining sage mode, Yan Luo left.

Olympia stood at the confluence of the Alpheus and Cladeus rivers—a natural harbor. From within the city-state, one could see the distant sea, blue as a gemstone, so beautiful it could steal one's breath away.

It was Olympic season. The city was crowded and chaotic, everyone in high spirits for the festival that came only once every four years, an air of joy suffusing the streets.

Yan Luo walked the streets in sage mode, his face utterly blank, his pupils unmoving, a mask of shifting emotions tilted on his head, black and white striped shirt, black jeans, Asian features and fair skin—utterly out of place in this setting.

From passersby he learned the way to registration.

The Olympic Games were held to honor and please Zeus, king of the gods. Originally just one day, the addition of events had stretched the competitions to three days, and with opening and closing ceremonies, it now spanned five. The registration point was inside a temple of Hermes.

Hermes was messenger of the gods, one of the twelve Olympians.

Though not as grand as Athens’ Parthenon, the temple had its own Greek character: a majestic hall of stone columns and roof, with a statue of a man holding a serpent staff and wearing winged sandals at the entrance—Hermes himself.

Temples were supposed to be solemn places, and Greeks held a mix of fear and reverence for the gods. But Hermes, patron of commerce, travel, athletics, debate, even thieves, was known for his kindness toward humanity and close ties to mortal affairs.

So, people here seemed unconcerned with strict reverence.

In the center of the temple stood a wooden table, surrounded by a crowd—Greek men, nearly naked but for loincloths, bodies as sculpted as ancient statues!

Greeks of the era revered nudity and physical strength. Under slavery, the nobility and some wealthy freemen enjoyed material security. Most male citizens trained at the gymnasia—ancient forerunners of modern gyms. Those of poor physique might be considered low-born, at worst even enslaved.

With a culture of “fitness for all,” and the Olympics gathering the elite of Greece, it was no wonder every man here was powerfully built. Yan Luo felt as if he’d stepped into a scene from the film “300 Spartans.”

There were ten men in all.

Underwear did not exist in this era; the loincloth was the only undergarment. Ten burly men, almost entirely naked save for this minimal covering, radiated a potent masculine aura that hit like a physical force.

Yan Luo saw two of the muscle-men clasping hands in the center.

Yes, they were “shaking hands.”

In the everyday world, many have played the “strong handshake” game in their youth—gripping someone’s hand and squeezing until it hurts... sometimes ending up the one being squeezed, howling in pain instead. In reality, American presidents are famed for their powerful handshakes; Japanese prime ministers have fallen victim, while Canada’s young prime minister, prepared in advance, matched the grip. The French president responded with an equally strong counter-grip, even refusing to let go when the American president tried to break free...

On either side of the table, two right hands gripped each other tightly. One belonged to a young man of about twenty-five, with a fierce face, hooked nose, sharp triangular eyes glinting coldly, lips thick and teeth protruding.

His muscles looked as if they’d been pumped full of steroids—if not quite on par with Schwarzenegger or The Rock, then at the very limit of normal human potential.

The other was a middle-aged man in his forties, with features hinting at Viking ancestry—marked by a thick beard like a future Norse pirate, and equally robust physique, a true strongman.

Their clasped hands bulged with veins, arms corded with blood vessels as if about to burst. Their flushed faces, iron-straight spines, and flexing muscles radiated an almost explosive vitality.

The other men split into two camps, cheering for their champions, so eager they looked ready to jump in themselves.

In this primal clash of strength, the young man’s face grew redder, his eyes bloodshot, teeth clenched so tightly they grated audibly, the bones of his hand grinding together. Across from him, the middle-aged man’s strained face broke into a knowing, mocking smile.

After several minutes of deadlock, the young man’s chest heaved with ragged breaths, his body beginning to tremble.

“Hahahaha... Cornelus, it seems your strength still falls short—you can’t even match an old man like me. With that little bit of muscle, you’d dare dream of winning the Olympic crown? Arcadian champions are nothing but cowards!”

The middle-aged strongman released his grip and mercilessly mocked his opponent.

“Felicius, you men of Messenia shouldn’t get too full of yourselves! The Olympics aren’t won on brute strength alone! You’ll never take the youth’s crown, and Messenia will never bring home the sacred olive wreath!”

Fueled by testosterone and the pride of their city-states, the nearly naked strongmen glared at each other, chest to chest, sparks flying, on the verge of a fierce collision.

“Excuse me, could I interrupt for a moment?”

Yan Luo spoke up.

With a swish, all ten muscle-bound men turned as one, their burning gazes fixing on him.