There were three groups surrounding Kong Simon and Fei Fei—plain to see.
Lan Grace counted—eleven men and women.
As Zhao Qingyan had said, fools were few among those who had made it this far. With eleven decent opponents, the two's end was obvious.
Passing by—and with no lack of nutrient solution—neither Lan Grace nor Zhao Qingyan had any intention of intervening.
After a day together, the two had built a basic tacit understanding. One look, and they knew what the other was thinking.
Zhao Qingyan picked a big tree nearby. She drove the three‑foot sword into the trunk, stepped onto it, and sprang up—then sat leisurely on a branch—ready to be a spectator.
Lan Grace didn't have Zhao's lightness skills. She thought: if she clung with hands and feet and scrabbled up, even if she managed, the look of it would do her image no good.
So she looked around, found a rock to sit on, and said to those about to start, "Carry on. We're just passing—watching."
Their reaction made the three groups breathes easier.
The tense standoff melted at once.
All three knew it—if they dawdled and someone stronger than Zhao Qingyan turned up, that someone might not be as disinterested.
As for Lan Grace—her Waste Star garb, and that blackened skin—her identity was obvious.
Though she had come with Zhao Qingyan, no one counted her. She had already been universally ignored.
Many‑against‑two—the brawl began as soon as someone said the word. Before the exam, the little spherical robots had collected everyone's space‑storage gear—but that didn't stop people who liked to carry weapons.
For example, a few daggers; or a few laser swords.
And even if you hadn't brought one, you could snatch one mid‑fight—take the nutrient solution, switch off the signal button, and pocket the loser's weapon.
So among the two hundred‑odd who had reached the jungle region, almost everyone had a weapon in hand.
Even Lan Grace, walking with Zhao Qingyan, had picked up an alloy‑forged dagger as a self‑defence piece.
As a dual‑A in physique and mental power, Kong Simon was very fast. But when the fight truly started, his shortcomings were obvious to Lan Grace.
She had watched her share of wuxia dramas and kung‑fu films. She might not fight—but she had an eye.
Kong Simon's body metrics were good—but his fighting wasn't. No technique; when he attacked, he flailed. His defence was an improvised scramble.
Though all had weapons, they remembered this was an entrance exam. Blows were pulled. Injuries were inevitable, but no one dared go for the kill—lest they cause a death and face Alliance law.
Kong Simon's ability to take a hit was decent. He picked up cuts and bruises—but nothing too serious.
Fei Fei's fighting prowess, however, was far weaker than Kong Simon's. From the outset he ducked behind Kong Simon—just as he had told Lan earlier: his strength was lacking—he was only "with" Kong Simon.
Taken together, the so‑called melee ended in under ten minutes.
Kong Simon was stripped of his weapon; his nutrient solution taken.
Because of the fight, his white tailcoat had been torn in several places; the only words were: wretched sight.
Even so, after dividing up the nutrient solution, the winners still couldn't resist a few cheap shots. "We told you—hand over the nutrient and we won't fight."
Across from them, a short boy with chestnut hair in a white, short combat suit looked at Fei Fei, thought a moment, and hesitated. "You look familiar."
At that, the boy who had seemed gentle and harmless grew sharp‑eyed in an instant.
It lasted only a moment. Fei Fei smoothed out those emotions that did not suit his air so fast that almost no one saw.
Almost—Lan Grace caught it perfectly.
She marvelled—appearances deceived indeed.
Who would have guessed the gentle, harmless big boy was not simple at all?
From that glance alone, Lan Grace could tell: he was no ordinary person.
Unlike Zhao Qingyan's famed open strength, someone like Fei Fei—thirteen or fourteen at most, still half a boy—hid deeper than anyone.
It was this type who was most dangerous at critical moments.
His talk of "following Kong Simon" now seemed likely a ploy—using the conspicuous chuunibyou as a lightning rod to better hide himself.
Fei Fei smiled and brushed a hand over his face. "I must have a common face?"
He showed not the slightest humility of the robbed.
Compared to Kong Simon's iron face, Fei Fei acted as if losing his