Chapter Sixty: A Historic Discus

Hundreds of athletes, dozens of referees and priests, and twenty-four thousand spectators... In an instant, the Olympic stadium fell silent as a grave. Nearly everyone stood agape, mouths wide open, expressions frozen in disbelief.

It was as if time itself had ceased to flow across the entire sports arena, crystallizing into a single frame, a tableau named—

Astonishment!

You could feel the overwhelming emotion flooding the air: astonishment upon astonishment, again and again...

The emotionless puppet, able only to absorb the feelings nearby, quickly filled to capacity—one hundred points, all of them pure shock!

No one knew how long this moment lasted, until finally, a shout rang out across the plaza:

"His Majesty the King!"

A dozen men, clad only in underwear and red cloaks—even as spectators, they bore spears and shields on their backs, their muscles bulging—rushed toward the fallen figure.

Indeed, the man struck down by Yan Luo’s discus was none other than the current King of Sparta.

Not Leonidas from the "300 Spartans"—he was long dead—but Archidamus II.

It bears noting that Athens and Sparta were then locked in bitter hostility. One led the Delian League, the other the Peloponnesian League; tensions ran high, and were it not for the Olympic Games, which demanded even war be paused, battle likely would have already erupted.

Sparta, at this moment, commanded some thirty-five thousand infantry and cavalry—a staggering force, particularly for the West, not China. And every soldier was a Spartan; their strength bordered on the monstrous.

King Archidamus II came to the Olympics with grand ambitions: to expand Spartan influence, gather allies among the city-states, and, once the Games ended, to wage war against Athens. Never did he imagine that, seated in the VIP section, a discus thrown by Yan Luo would strike him squarely in the brow.

He who left for war, only to die before victory, a discus embedded in his skull, blood staining his robes.

"He's dead!"

A priest, trembling all over, raised a hand to probe, then paled as he confirmed what all already knew.

There was little need for words—anyone witnessing the scene could tell the Spartan king was beyond saving. With such a massive object lodged in his head, even the legendary Wang Chongyang with his innate martial arts could not have survived, let alone this king, merely a formidable man.

"Dead?"

Those familiar with the current Greek situation glanced at each other in shock, while the Athenian spectators could scarcely contain their joy.

The Athenian magistrate who led his city’s athletes to the Games—a man in his fifties—beamed, his wrinkles relaxing in delight, and could not help but exclaim:

"What a magnificent discus!"

With that praise, the audience seemed to awaken; the stadium erupted in buzzing discussion. Wang Dongwei and Zhu Xiaoyong, until now stupefied, shook themselves free from the overwhelming shock.

"Hiss..."

Wang Dongwei drew in a sharp breath, as if his teeth ached.

"Yan is amazing—even from such a distance, he managed to take someone down... Wait, was the victim the King of Sparta? That king’s fate is truly tragic... Wang? Wang?"

Zhu Xiaoyong noticed his teammate's grave expression, as if something monumental had just occurred.

"The wheels of history roll forward once more..."

He paused, then corrected himself. "No... This time, who knows where history will go..."

"You realize Athens and Sparta are about to clash! And both have their own factions of city-state followers. To put it simply, it's like Hongxing and Dongxing about to battle—one side led by Chen Haonan, the boss of Causeway Bay, the other by Yaoyang. Just as the fight is about to begin, a flying brick knocks Yaoyang flat."

"The Peloponnesian War lasted nearly thirty years! It broke Athens, ended Greece's democratic era, and the devastation of those three decades marked Greece's decline from glory."

Wang Dongwei laughed. "Pericles ought to thank Yan Luo. That discus alone will grant Athens decades more prosperity. Sparta, being ruled by oligarchs, will fall into infighting among its generals when the king dies. The balance of Europe has shifted."

"This is surely the most formidable discus throw in history!"

"Whoa!"

Zhu Xiaoyong blurted his astonishment, then asked, "Doesn’t this mean Yan is in danger, having killed the Spartan king?"

"Relax. We’re not in Sparta, but at the Olympics. Yan Luo can defeat hundreds in battle; a dozen Spartans won't kill him. By the time the news reaches Sparta, we’ll have returned to the real world."

"Enjoy the show!"

Witnessing such a historic event thrilled Wang Dongwei, a man of culture, though he regretted not being the one to throw the discus himself—he had merely participated in history, not shaped it.

Yan Luo’s emotionless puppet now held one hundred points, all from shock; single emotions could not merge the mask. Unlocking ten points, he donned the title of "Sage," and the overwhelming shock was subdued.

You felt powerful emotion:

Anger, anger, anger...

Yan Luo glanced around, realizing he was now surrounded by a group of naked men.

These were Spartan athletes.

Soon, ten points of anger filled up.

Ninety points shock, ten points anger—merge!

Within his consciousness, two beams of light converged, attempting to form a mask’s shadow. Yet—

Crack!

A crisp shattering sounded in his mind; the mask of personality fractured into shards, most dissolving into motes of light, though one large fragment—eighteen percent—remained.

Yan Luo looked at the men, trying hard to affect an innocent expression.

"I didn’t mean to..." he said.

"It was just a slip of the hand."

The air grew instantly heavy.

You felt powerful emotion:

Anger, anger, anger...

Yan Luo stood speechless, surrounded by the bare Spartans, their fury now even greater than before...

He decided to try again—he was here to compete, not to fight.

"I regret what happened as much as you do; we’re all men here, can’t we be a bit more magnanimous? Tell you what, when the Olympics end, let me treat you to dinner—Oriental cuisine: braised pork, sweet-and-sour ribs, mapo tofu. By the way, have vinegar and chili been invented yet?"

You felt powerful emotion:

Anger, anger, anger...

Yan Luo spoke sincerely, his manner friendly. "Look at this honest face, give me a break, will you?"

"Kill him!"

More than ten Spartan guards and seven naked athletes focused their hatred on Yan Luo; the other athletes had long since retreated. The Olympic arena now resembled a gladiator pit of ancient Rome.

"Violence won’t solve the problem!"

Seeing the situation turn dire, Yan Luo quipped as he bolted; two Spartans lunged at him, employing wrestling holds.

Slick with olive oil, Yan Luo slipped right out of their grasp and dashed onto the sprinting track. Spartan athletes and guards chased him desperately, and what began as a sporting event descended into chaos.

Some spectators stared in disbelief; others cheered loudly, eager for the turmoil to spread.