He was perhaps the most famous and deadliest master assassin of Albion Continent in recent millennia.
In his previous lifetime, he had come from a secluded ancient clan, and had the blood of both ancient elves and incubi in his veins. The Odin clan had always been closely associated with the assassin profession for generations. As the eldest son of his generation, Tyron showed remarkable talent from childhood and received intense training from Bluebell, the largest assassin organization in the world.
It only took him twenty years to become Bluebell's biggest trump card.
As a master assassin, he was familiar to all the powerful forces and noble families. A panic-stricken investigation into his background and expertise led to the discovery that he was a rare, mixed-race offspring, and a world-renowned assassin who inspired both reverence and despair.
He was like the burning devil lord of the abyss. Everyone knew that he was guarding Bluebell, and knew that they would be able to eradicate the assassin organization if they pulled him out, but nobody dared to go forth and probe for his exact location.
As a half-elf, this master assassin's six senses were extremely sharp, and his combat ability was powerful and unparalleled. As a half-incubus, he was also good at camouflage and stealth. There was nowhere in the world that he couldn't get to if he wanted to; he was a deadly enigma, and legends said that as soon as one saw his face clearly, they would either die for him, or die in his hands, or perhaps even willingly stretch out their necks and wait for death.
Tyron Odin was a non-believer, so his soul wandered in the wilderness after his death and was captured countless times by various gods from all kinds of pantheons.
He was unwilling to become the 'Undying Immortal' (a laudatory title for a dead soul), and was even less willing to become any god's chosen one, so he entered a deal with the God of Slaughter.
He worked for the God of Slaughter for six hundred years in exchange for his soul's freedom. He would not have to enter the mortal's reincarnation cycle, nor would he enter any god's realm. Rather, he would be able to enter a place in time or space where life could come into being, and obtain a completely new life there.
During these six hundred years, he experienced being a mere nobody, watching from the sidelines with indifferent eyes as the world changed, dynasties rising and falling. He laughed arrogantly at the princes for that very reason, and looked disdainfully at the people who were struggling for their lives. He also experienced how it felt to obtain divine will as an incandescent angel who fell into the mundane world, tossing and turning over a vast land that spanned millions of hectares, wielding a double-edged sword in his hands as he killed princes and generals alike, massacring entire armies by himself. His heart was as cold as iron for that very reason, having become accustomed to seeing the boundary between life and death, blood and fire.
Time passed by in an indistinct blur during this period.
Tyron Odin was once again awakened from his deep slumber. This time, he could not sense the God of Slaughter's will, but he heard a familiar, indifferent mechanical voice:
"The task has begun. Kill all competitors in the field, and obtain both the qualifications to enter the semi-finals and hidden bonus points. Competitor number 419, your current number of kills is: 0."
After listening to these few short sentences, Tyron slowly opened his eyes.
He saw that he was in an environment similar to the ancient Roman colosseum. Positioned in the center was a huge ring-shaped fire pit, and four stone bridges spanned the fire pit and led to a circular platform that was suspended in the middle. He and the remaining 99 people stood around the fire pit. They each wore a mask, and had a digital code hanging over their heads – presumably, Tyron also appeared like this.
The audience outside were shouting one after the other, and there was a mix of screams, whistles, and even fireworks exploding in the sky.
All of this had just begun, but several people around Tyron had already started to fight each other.
Tyron indifferently avoided his opponent's sneak attack and quickly inspected the weapons hidden in his tactical belt: a pair of daggers, twenty flying knives, two poison pouches, and a coil of steel wire.
...
Chaoyang Alliance's A Class Golden League, commonly known as 'E-Sport's A League' was currently holding their 1170th event, and this fight was the last free-for-all battle before the semi-finals.
The entire competition was held in the virtual world. Because of this, there were people in the audience who were wearing ancient styled clothing, or carrying laser swords, or holding young dragons and calling them their children; there were too many such cases to count.
The commentator was passionately calling out: "The situation for our players has already turned into a chaotic mess! Well, we can see that the first cooperative battle group has already been assembled on the northern bridge. There are seventeen people in the group, and they are currently killing off the loners! Oh, are they going to dominate the game? Will they be able to do as they like?"
The audience were all squabbling, and some were hushed by others. Everyone was staring fixedly at the venue or the live broadcast screens – they basically had no way to watch so many sporadic battles at the same time at all.
Sixteen live broadcast screens were constantly tracking and switching amongst the players. Amongst them, the assistant in charge of screen 9 was being warned by the director behind her: "Don't just stare at number 419!"
The broadcast screen assistant repeatedly apologized, but less than two minutes after cutting off the screen, she once again found her gaze involuntarily glued to player #419.
#419, Tyron, was currently harvesting lives in the midst of a chaotic group fight.
He didn't rush in directly, and merely wandered around at the edges of the fight. But he was like a shadow that used a light touch and was impossible to guard against as he stole away the lives of the individuals, the stragglers who were dying; the players who were busy slaughtering did not notice him at all, and it was this feature of his that did not invite attention that made others feel their hair stand on end.
He was like a God of Death as he harvested lives without fear. But nobody saw this God of Death; the players were still ignorant as they seemed to fall into a huge net of darkness that left no trace while giving them nowhere to hide.
"Why hasn't anyone discovered him yet?"
The broadcast screen assistant's eyes did not move away from the screen as she put down the controller, shuddered, and wondered aloud.
Behind her, the director who had originally been about to lose his temper raised his head, looked over, and simply placed his hand on her shoulder, forgetting that he had intended to smack it.
It was because, at this moment, Tyron had just flipped his hand and lightly pushed his dagger into his opponent's abdomen, and then curled up and turned in front of him, gracefully spinning around to avoid being splashed by the spraying blood.
Under the mask, his slightly narrowed, dark golden eyes flashed for just a moment in front of the camera before darting away.
He was incomparably lethal, yet also mesmerizing beyond compare.
Bystanders had no way of judging whether their intense heartbeats were caused by extreme fear, or extreme amazement
"..."
The assistant and the director both had their heads raised as they watched, and their mouths unconsciously fell open at the same time.
The lives of the players in this group fight had already been decimated to the point where only a few people were left fighting. Someone seemed to have finally discovered something and all the hairs on his body stood on end as he cautiously looked around.
But Tyron had already left, and was heading for another fight.
He flew past the fires, his movements more flexible than swallows shuttling about during a rainstorm, more graceful and relaxed than fish swimming in spring water; occasionally, he would spin around as though taking a casual walk through a courtyard, using his daggers to easily draw out a sad but beautiful blood colored arc as he ended the life of an opponent. This cruel picture was so beautiful that it was hard for viewers to believe their eyes.
The No. 9 live broadcast screen had already become firmly fixed on his body.
The assistant couldn't even bear to blink. She reached out a hand and grabbed blindly at the air for a beat, her finger dipping into hot coffee, but she didn't even notice as she continued to feel around until she found a bag of potato chips.
She kept her gaze on the screen and ate two potato chips, then blankly offered them to the director next to her.
The director was also watching the screen, and he instinctively felt around for a good while before finding a chip to stick into his mouth, completely forgetting what he had been doing.
Suddenly, the assistant muttered again, "Why hasn't anyone discovered him?"
The director's face was also full of confusion, dazedly shaking his head like a wooden chicken.
Suddenly, a mage flying in midair found Tyron's figure.
He carefully raised his altitude, then chanted incantations and aimed a Magic Bolt that blotted out the sky towards Tyron's back.
But Tyron didn't even turn his head. His figure lowered, and then he suddenly disappeared from the ground.
The camera followed his figure as he flew speedily in mid-air. Tyron was like a sharp arrow, and in the moment where nobody had yet responded, he climbed up into the air and executed a perfect attack against the mage.
The light of magic flashed, and the mage's Magic Shield came into play.
But it was also at this moment that the dagger in Tyron's hand seemed to turn into two beautiful dragons. And revolving around this magic light, a swift and unparalleled offensive broke out.
After a series of attacks that were as violent attacks that sounded like steel and iron clashing together, the mage's Magic Shield broke apart!
The mage had already finished chanting a Banishing Charm, and a series of resistance ripples were already heading Tyron's way.
In this instant, Tyron took the initiative and kicked out with a leg, sending the unprotected mage flying. He hit the semi-transparent barrier for the arena with a loud ringing sound.
The mage suddenly had his life reduced, and he pulled himself off the barrier in panic, panting as he looked around. But he could not find Tyron's figure.
Abruptly, the mage felt an incredibly terrifying chill wash over his body, freezing all the blood from the top of his head downwards, until the ends of every nerve were trembling.
He instinctively looked up, just in time to see a flash of falling light as it arrived, landing like a cold star between his eyebrows. It was the sharp edge of Tyron's blade as it sentenced him to his death.
Two seconds later.
Tyron rolled lightly, counteracting the impact of his landing and once again disappeared amidst the smoke.
At the same time, the mage's body finally landed on the ground from mid-air and disappeared in a flash of white light.
In front of the screen, the director sucked in a breath of cold air. He had only just realized that he had instinctively held his breath, and had almost suffocated.
He moved his stiff neck slightly to relieve the tension, and it was then that he heard a sudden surge in the sounds of breathing around him as everyone fearfully recalled the scene that had occurred just now.
The entire broadcasting room was quiet, and even the audience stands were silent. There was not a single person that dared to breathe loudly at all.
It was only now that sighs of surprise and praise rang out one after another.
In order to determine the overall situation, he raised his head and looked up at the big screen. This time, he almost fainted: there were a total of sixteen live screens, and nine of them were unexpectedly firmly stuck onto player #419's figure!
Amongst them, there were not only those that captured the situation around player #419; there were also special close-ups, and even one that was chasing after the thighs that were encased in form-fitting pants that had been exposed when his clothing shifted as he flew.
....