The cold morning light of the Jiuzhou Borderlands broke across the newly paved granite highway. It cast long, sharp shadows from the eighty golden-armored Imperial Arbitrators standing in rigid formation.
At the head of the royal war-galleon’s gangplank, the crimson-robed official sneered. His lips curled in high-born disdain as he gazed down at Class 404’s battered camp. His gaze swept over the muddy flatbed wagon, the wooden tool chests held together with iron wire. The five students clad in oil-stained denim overalls and scuffed work boots. He tapped the jagged crimson execution token against his palm with a dry, rhythmic clack.
“Look at this pathetic rabble,” the official drawled. His voice carried clearly across the quiet granite highway. “A ragtag band of country grease-monkeys playing at martial arts with shovels, brass valves, and blacksmith hammers. Do you truly believe that tricking a few low-tier border beasts grants you the right to walk among the gods of the central empire?”
The official tossed the crimson execution token into the dirt at Frank’s boots. “By the decree of Grand Imperial Prince Yan Wuji, you have been entered into the death-bracket of the Nine-Dragon Coliseum,” the official sneered. “Pack your funeral shrouds, country bumpkins. The elite royal academies of the Conferred Empire—prodigies who cultivate nine-turn royal dragon qi—will grind your little vocational trade school into bloody fertilizer within the first three breaths of the opening round!”
