Chapter Sixty-Four: The Race

Yan Luo lay on his bed, quietly resting. During the day, after winning the pentathlon, he had been awarded the title for champion of the first major event of the Olympics, but he chose to forgo it. The title of Olympic Champion, naturally, was an ordinary-level honor. Its effect was that, when worn, it allowed him to designate a sport and thereby gain a skill related to it—if Yan Luo chose “running,” he would receive the skill “Sprint”; if he chose “long jump,” he would gain “Great Leap.” It was, all in all, a decent title.

However, Yan Luo already possessed the “Bronze-level Mighty Warrior” title, and in one world, only one ordinary-level title could be claimed. To give up the passive gene for basic staff technique just for a single skill was a poor bargain.

Fragments lingered in his consciousness. After being paraded around the arena by a group of judges, he had harvested a wealth of powerful emotions—excitement, fervor, reverence, and other such positive feelings. Unfortunately, attempts to fuse them into a persona mask had all failed, but his collection of Heroic Soul Mask fragments had now reached 52%, a respectable accumulation.

Truthfully, as far as Yan Luo was concerned, this world could already be concluded. Yet performance in the inner world would affect the final settlement, and winning a few more championships could only help. The athletes’ quarters were off-limits to others—meant to ensure Olympians could rest undisturbed—so as Yan Luo maintained his vigilance alone, he waited for night to fall. Tomorrow was the second day of competition, the third day of the Games.

On this day, the sprint, boxing, wrestling, and the mixed combat would all be held—four events in total.

A particular title came to Yan Luo’s mind: I Am Legend: Win more than five championships.

Could this be a legendary-level title? If so, he could swap out “Sage,” which had little practical use except for suppressing emotions.

As Yan Luo rested and pondered, outside the world was in uproar. The day’s events had been nothing short of shocking: the King of Sparta had been killed by a discus. While deaths at the Olympics were not unheard of, the deceased was a king—no less, the king of one of the most powerful city-states in all Greece! The priests were at a loss; by rights, handing Yan Luo over to Sparta was the most prudent course, but all of Sparta’s warriors had been utterly defeated, and this young man’s feats had won over the crowds. No one could punish an Olympic champion—not during the Games, at least.

Sparta’s warriors and athletes had left Olympia, effectively conceding. They could not bear to remain after losing their king, their captain of the guard, and suffering a humiliating 20-versus-1 defeat—an unprecedented disgrace in Spartan history.

Some Athenians departed as well, eager to deliver news of Archidamos II’s death, and to adjust their diplomatic strategies accordingly.

The spectators, unconcerned with politics, simply wished to revel in the spectacle of the Games. The unexpected twists of the pentathlon—the death of the Spartan king, Yan Luo’s one-against-twenty feat—were enough to set their hearts ablaze.

Yan Luo’s name was on everyone’s lips, and the tale spread quickly. By nightfall, the entire city-state of Olympia and even neighboring Isthri knew that this year’s Olympics had produced a figure reminiscent of a demigod hero: as beautiful as Achilles, as mighty as Heracles.

As for the athletes from dozens of Greek city-states, a tremendous pressure weighed upon them.

And so, a tumultuous day passed…

The next day arrived.

“Oh! Oh! Yan Luo! Yan Luo!” As Yan Luo stepped onto the Olympic field, a thunderous cheer erupted. The other athletes’ hearts were uneasy—this was a foreigner, competing only by virtue of his honorary citizenship in Athens. Who among these mighty Greeks didn’t yearn for the crowd’s adulation? And yet, their cheers now belonged not to a Greek, but to a stranger.

“Next is the sprint! Athletes, prepare yourselves.”

Few knew Yan Luo had entered every event—a handful of officials, and some men from Arcadia and Menisia; the news had not spread. So, when he appeared at the sprint groupings, many athletes were seized by despair.

You have received powerful emotions:
Resignation +1
Despair +1

Yesterday, Yan Luo had left the Spartans nearly a hundred meters behind on the 192-meter track! At the Olympics, only victory brings glory—there are no silver or bronze medals here. His astonishing performance had extinguished the will of several competitors. It wasn’t cowardice; after all, it might be called courage for a dog to challenge a wolf, but to fight a lion is simply courting humiliation.

A large number of athletes withdrew from the sprint.

The judges exchanged glances. They had planned to organize heats, but with so many dropping out, only ten competitors remained—enough for a single race.

Still, those with the courage to remain were the finest among the athletes.

“Look, that’s Polyxys of Campania, last year’s sprint champion!”

“And there’s Antisthes the Argive—they say he runs faster than a hound!”

“Wait, who’s that short fellow?”

Even in this era, broad-shouldered Westerners were rarely taller than 1.65 meters, but at the Olympics, most Greek warriors stood at least 1.7 meters. Among them, the short youth, barely 1.5 meters tall, was as conspicuous as a crane among chickens.

“That’s Conon of Thessaly—he’s unmatched in speed and agility!”

A judge, introducing the ten athletes to the dignitaries’ box, directed the nine others and Yan Luo to the starting line.

The judge raised a long flute to his lips.

A single note sounded.

At the signal, all ten athletes burst into motion. Yan Luo was unfamiliar with starting at a flute’s note, and lacking formal training, his start was a full second late.

Antisthes, nicknamed “the Argive Hound,” tore down the track like a wild dog unleashed, tongue lolling, face contorted with effort. He had come to the Games with only one goal: the championship—and of all Argos’ competitors, only he had any hope of winning. Yan Luo’s performance under Spartan pursuit had left him in despair, yet he refused to withdraw—he would give everything.

A 192-meter sprint is half again as long as the hundred meters; a longer distance gives more time to make up for a poor start. Yan Luo stretched his legs and ran with all his might, overtaking several runners within thirty meters.

“So fast!” Some had witnessed his speed yesterday, but to feel it firsthand today filled them with awe—he was like the wind, sweeping past in a blur.

Yan Luo sprinted at full force.

The mask above his head was set to “Fury,” his blood surging, oxygen consumption fueling his strength. In truth, speed was not solely a matter of agility—agility governed flexibility, but power was just as essential to velocity.

Each of his strides was forceful, the ground’s rebound propelling him forward.

“What?” Antisthes, the Hound, found himself overtaken—by the short Conon! That little man ran so fast? Before he could fully register his surprise, another passed him—Polyxys, last year’s champion! Gritting his teeth, Antisthes tried to summon every ounce of strength, but then yet another overtook him.

And this one was faster—Yan Luo!

“Oh!” The crowd roared. Yan Luo’s stride, the swing of his arms, the play of muscle in his legs—it was all a joy to behold. Despite his late start, he swiftly passed the others; soon, only two remained ahead.

No—only one.

Conon, the short youth, was overtaken as well. He stopped in his tracks, his dream of winning the sprint and proving that a man of small stature could triumph over the strong dissolving before his eyes.

“It’s over…”

“He’s catching up!” Polyxys, last year’s champion, ran with everything he had. Beside him, Yan Luo surged forward. “No, I can’t lose—I’m the champion!” In that instant, a fire blazed in Polyxys’s heart; under the self-hypnosis of his spirit, he drew forth more power from his body.

Yet...

He discovered, in despair, that no matter how much strength he summoned, the gap between himself and Yan Luo only widened.