Chapter 96: Kindred Spirits: Two Women Seek Together

In France, An Yinuo and Lin Weiwei just missed encountering Song Mo.

The two women unexpectedly met at the airport.

They stared at each other.

An Yinuo's sweet, lovely gaze met Lin Weiwei's, dressed in black stockings and exuding a commanding aura—no words were needed; they both instantly understood why the other was here.

How ironic… uh, kindred spirits?

By all logic, these two should have been rivals, yet they unexpectedly got along harmoniously and silently agreed to travel together to the United States.

Where in the United States?

Based on the timestamp of Song Mo's social media post and the flight he took, both women independently chose New York.

How to find Song Mo?

This didn't seem difficult.

Both An Yinuo and Lin Weiwei felt a confidence—or perhaps a premonition—that Song Mo would never settle for mediocrity.

When had he ever traveled abroad without achieving something astonishing?

Just like last time, when he went to France, stunned Paris, and became famous worldwide.

An outstanding man stands out like a crane among chickens; his presence is easily noticed.

An Yinuo felt a strong urge: she longed to see the moment Song Mo succeeded, when his seemingly calm and humble eyes—actually hiding an air of supreme arrogance and nobility—casually swept the crowd and suddenly landed on her.

It would be fascinating.

And it would surely surprise Song Mo.

She couldn't help stealing glances at Lin Weiwei beside her—just what thoughts was this Lin Family heiress harboring?

Song Mo had shown her no favor, so he likely rejected Lin Weiwei just as harshly; seeing Lin Weiwei, An Yinuo felt an inexplicable sense of relief.

When one succeeds, one doesn't want company; but when one becomes a loser, having a fellow loser beside you can comfort the soul.

…

The Martial Arts Tournament officially began.

It was an extremely formal, extremely strict, and extremely lavish competition.

Formality lay in its legality: the tournament had received official approval from local government authorities and recognition from the World Martial Artists Association.

Strictness lay in its process: an extremely meticulous screening system ensured no frauds reached the arena, guaranteeing every Combat was a thrilling, highly realistic duel.

Lavishness lay in the prizes: Song Mo had outright become a spendthrift—anyone who passed the screening and qualified for the match would receive at least a Consolation Prize of $5,000.

Above that was the Outstanding Achievement Award, worth $50,000.

Should anyone defeat Song Mo, the full $5 million prize would be awarded.

Such generosity didn't just attract Martial Dao practitioners—it drew countless mercenaries and outlaws flooding in.

Assassins, mercenaries, underground bare-knuckle fighters, thugs…

A chaotic crowd surged forward, all drawn by the $5 million prize.

As the saying goes: "Men die for wealth, birds perish for food"—this was precisely the case.

Song Mo stood atop the arena in a pristine white Martial Dao uniform, wearing an iron mask, his bearing majestic like a pine clinging to a cliffside.

He carried an unmistakable air of dignity and unyielding pride.

Yet he was not ostentatious.

In such a setting, wearing white was not a wise choice—during combat, the garment would easily become stained.

It would look unsightly.

But,

He was undeniably handsome.

Director Zhao served as referee.

On the viewing platform sat dozens: half were combatants and Martial Dao practitioners invited by Bruce; the other half were industry insiders known to Director Zhao, along with news reporters and editors.

The rest were spectators; today being the first day of the tournament, attendance wasn't massive, yet it still qualified as "a sea of people."

Especially near the core area—the best vantage point for viewing the arena—crowds stood densely packed.

The rules of the Martial Arts Tournament were simple.

There were no rules.

Out of humanitarian concern, Song Mo still urged participants not to kill, to hold back their strength—but everyone still had to sign a Life and Death Contract.

The first competitor was a massive white man, bulging with muscle; when he saw Song Mo on the arena, his initial unease vanished, replaced entirely by contempt.

He radiated absolute confidence, certain of victory.

How could this skinny, yellow-skinned monkey be his opponent?

In height and weight, he utterly dwarfed Song Mo; his hard-earned muscles were his greatest assurance.

After stepping onto the arena, the white behemoth began taunting.

"Yellow-skinned monkey? I thought you actually had some skill, but you look like a weakling—did your family starve you?"

"Online claims you know kung fu? Ridiculous!"

"A fraud!"

"I'll show you that in the real world, height and weight are absolute advantages—slender men can never defeat strong, muscular ones!"

Song Mo's expression remained cold; he glanced at the behemoth once.

He casually told Bruce:

"Take away his participation prize."

The tournament had another rule: except for the $5 million prize for defeating Song Mo, all other prize interpretations rested solely with Song Mo.

No one objected to this proposal.

Because the other prize money was added on the spur of the moment by Song Mo, since he was the one paying, it was naturally up to him to decide the rules.

As the white, burly giant walked up, Song Mo could tell that his footsteps were extremely unsteady—plenty of raw strength, but no technique.

In the eyes of someone who practiced martial arts, this was like an adult tying both his own hands behind his back before fighting others—basically delivering himself as a freebie.

In Song Mo's eyes, it was even more like an ignorant child.

Director Zhao blew two sharp whistles, sternly rebuked the white giant, and only then announced that the martial contest officially began.

And the white burly giant, upon hearing the whistle that signaled the start of the contest, gradually suppressed the disdain in his eyes, and the expression on his face grew serious.

After all, this was a grand prize of five million US dollars!

It could not be taken lightly!

So, in the very next instant, he felt an immense force strike his chest; before he could react at all, his entire body had already crashed down beneath the ring.

"Next."

Song Mo's ice-cold, merciless voice rang out.

His gaze never once gathered on the white burly giant—as if the man were nothing more than an ant, not even worthy of holding Song Mo's attention for a single instant.

This scene could be said to have greatly pleased the martial artists in the stands, who felt immensely satisfied.

Song Mo was Bruce's teacher, and they all respected the strength Song Mo had displayed; seeing Song Mo be looked down upon naturally made their anger impossible to contain.

The martial contest continued.

"Next."

"Next."

"…"

(End of this chapter)