Everyone stared slack-jawed at the stage where the expressionless man slowly lowered his finger, their brains collectively blue-screening.
What... what the hell just happened?!
That Eastern man could teleport AND strike pressure points? His finger could glow?!
Was this a fighting tournament or a cultivation convention?!
"Dragon Nation Team, Commander Zuo, wins!"
Even the announcer's voice trembled.
Commander Zuo stepped off the stage with the same blank expression he'd worn throughout, as if he'd merely crushed an ant underfoot.
"Round two! Dragon Nation Team, Feng Baobao, versus Congo Team, Obameyang!"
In the arena's eerie silence, Baobao skipped onto the stage carrying her cleaver and rolling pin, bouncing along like she didn't have a care in the world.
Her opponent Obameyang had been thoroughly traumatized by Commander Zuo's supernatural technique. His face was pale, his legs weak and trembling.
He looked at the vacant-eyed girl before him—she seemed so harmless, practically domesticated.
Thank god, he thought with slight relief. At least this one looks normal.
Then he watched as Baobao pulled a small bag of flour from her pocket, sprinkled it on the ground, and patted it down—apparently for... traction?
Next, she began using that wickedly sharp cleaver to trim her fingernails. Right there. In front of everyone.
Obameyang: "..."
What the actual hell kind of fighting style is this?!
"Begin!"
The bell rang. Obameyang roared to psych himself up and launched a rapid combination of punches at Baobao!
Baobao didn't even look up, still focused on her manicure.
The instant his fist was about to connect with her face, she moved.
Her body bent backward at an angle that completely defied human anatomy—almost creepy, like she had no bones at all—narrowly dodging the punch.
Simultaneously, her cleaver flicked upward in a casual arc!
Shing!
A flash of cold steel!
Obameyang felt his scalp go cold. A tuft of curly hair drifted gently to the ground.
His soul nearly left his body. He scrambled backward.
Baobao slowly straightened up, tilted her head, and stared at him with those empty eyes. In a soft, emotionless Sichuan dialect, she said:
"Dummy. You interrupted my manicure. You're... gonna have a bad time."
He couldn't understand a word she said, but the killing intent—pure, undiluted, without a trace of impurity—made Obameyang's blood run cold.
The next second, Baobao moved.
Her footwork had no pattern, no rhythm—it was almost staggering, like a drunk stumbling around.
But this completely illogical movement made every single one of Obameyang's attacks miss!
He felt like he was punching cotton. He had power but couldn't use it.
"Awei's Eighteen Styles!"
Baobao's figure flickered like a ghost, closing the distance instantly.
The cleaver and rolling pin transformed into the deadliest weapons in her hands!
Slapping with the blade's spine, smashing with the handle, jabbing with the rolling pin, whacking with it...
Every attack was absolutely... shameless!
Targeting knees, elbows, the groin—every vulnerable joint!
"AARGH—! UNGH—! AAAH—!"
Screams echoed across the stage.
Obameyang was completely overwhelmed by Baobao's "street thug fighting style" that defied all conventional logic. He was flustered, panicked, utterly pathetic.
His proud tribal martial arts looked like a child's game against her.
Finally, Baobao seemed to get bored.
She found an opening, and her cleaver sliced in at a tricky angle, penetrating his defenses. Then... she slapped him across the face with the flat of the blade. Hard. Clean. Decisive.
SLAP!
The crisp sound echoed through the entire arena.
Obameyang spun around two and a half times on the spot, stars exploding in his vision, before collapsing straight as a board. A clear imprint of the cleaver—complete with the "Wang Mazi" brand marking—was stamped on his face.
Another... another total domination!
If Commander Zuo's victory inspired awe and fear through his supernatural "immortal arts"...
Then Baobao's victory was absurd and baffling through pure, back-to-basics, completely incomprehensible "street smarts"!
The spectator area had erupted into chaos.
"What... what the hell kind of monsters ARE these?!" Terry's eyes nearly popped out of his skull.
"That girl's techniques... I... I can't understand any of them! There's no trace of any martial school—it's pure... combat instinct!" Ryo Sakazaki, a martial arts master, found his understanding of the world shaken for the first time.
Mai Shiranui and Yuri Sakazaki's mouths hung open, unable to close.
They'd expected Cloud's teammates to be strong, but they never imagined... this ridiculously, unscientifically strong!
"Cloud... you bastard, what kind of 'VIP gacha server' did you pull these two bugs from?!" Mai muttered to herself.
With that, Dragon Nation Team won both matches, clinching victory early.
Their captain Cloud's own fight had been relatively straightforward by comparison.
When Cloud and his teammates stepped off the stage, they were met with dead silence and the stares of every fighter—looks reserved for prehistoric monsters.
"Dark horse? Where did this dark horse come from?!"
That was the thought in everyone's mind.
And from this moment on, "Dragon Nation Team" transformed from an unknown "tourist squad" into the most mysterious, most bizarre dark horse of the entire KOF 94 tournament!
After several rounds of intense (and clothing-destructive) preliminaries, the KOF 94 tournament finally entered the highly anticipated Round of 16.
Everyone standing here had fought their way up from around the world as elite fighters. Each team represented the highest honor of their nation or martial school.
...
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