Chapter Sixty-One: The Swift, Ruthless, and Precise Javelin

At first, the spectators in the stands only jeered at the unfolding events with a sense of amusement—over ten Spartan warriors and seven Spartan athletes were all chasing Yan Luo across the field.

But soon, everyone sensed that something was amiss.

“So fast!”

Yan Luo’s speed was astonishing! On the running track, he was leaving everyone else in the dust, widening the distance between himself and his pursuers with every stride. The track was 192 meters long, and by the time he reached the end, he had left his chasers nearly a hundred meters behind.

“What a remarkable sprint!”

Within the Olympic judges’ panel, one judge couldn’t help but exclaim in admiration, “The outcome of a race depends on power, leg strength, body weight, even running form. Look at that foreigner—his figure is tall and lean, naturally lighter than the other athletes, with strong, powerful legs. Each stride unleashes an explosive burst of muscle, propelling him forward in great bounds! And his running posture, the swing of his arms and legs—absolutely pleasing to the eye, a perfect blend of strength and grace!”

After running a distance, Yan Luo stopped and glanced back at his pursuers.

He felt a surge of intense emotion:

Anger +2, +2…

Within the Emotionless Puppet, this emotion continued to rise. Seeing that his pursuers were closing in, Yan Luo started running again. After several rounds of this cat-and-mouse chase, the seven Spartan athletes were all panting for breath, while the warriors, weighed down by spears and shields, were so exhausted that their tongues lolled out like tired dogs.

“Clap, clap, clap…” Some spectators in the stands began to applaud. In the Olympic Games, after all, the foot race was the most important event—without question!

“Stop chasing!” Realizing that once Yan Luo started running, the distance between them would instantly widen, the captain of the Spartan guards shouted, “Use your javelins!”

Every Spartan male was trained in javelin-throwing from childhood; nearly every man in Sparta was an expert, let alone the royal guards! In the film “300,” Leonidas nearly killed Xerxes with a single throw, altering the course of history.

At this moment, Yan Luo stopped and turned to see more than ten Spartan warriors raising their spears.

Seeing this, he quickly removed his Sage’s title and set the “Emotion Masks” in his hair to “Joy,” boosting his agility by ten percent and making his body light and nimble.

At the same time, a wave of joy filled his heart.

“Whoosh!”

A sharp whistle sliced through the air. Yan Luo immediately crouched down; a javelin shot just above his head.

“Missed!”

Buoyed by this joyful emotion, Yan Luo flashed a smile at the Spartans as he dodged successfully. The warriors, now seething with anger, hurled their spears in rapid succession. Javelin after javelin tore through the air, but Yan Luo dodged left and right, even rolling across the ground, evading them all.

“Haha… you can’t hit me, you can’t hit me!” Hands on his hips, Yan Luo twisted his body gleefully. The sight nearly drove the Spartans mad with rage. Yet, they couldn’t catch him, and now all their spears had been thrown—just then, the seven Spartan athletes arrived, carrying several baskets.

Each basket was filled with javelins—the very equipment used in the pentathlon’s javelin event.

“Keep going, kill him!”

“Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!”

Fourteen guards and seven athletes—a total of twenty-one people—launched a volley of javelins at Yan Luo. Witnessing this from the VIP box, Wang Dongwei and Zhu Xiaoyong felt their hearts leap into their throats. The audience fell silent, the tension so thick it was suffocating—this was truly a perilous moment.

The javelins came down like a rain of arrows!

But for Yan Luo, there was little real danger. Javelins are not arrows; their size and weight make them slower in flight. With abilities far surpassing ordinary men, full concentration, and a ten percent agility boost from his mask, he dodged them with ease.

“I jump to the left, I jump to the right… Well? What can you do to me?” Yan Luo taunted, both out of genuine delight and to harvest more “anger” from his pursuers. This strategy proved highly effective—seeing all their javelins dodged and hearing his jeers, the Spartans trembled with rage. The captain, in particular, was so furious that smoke seemed to spout from his nostrils like a Spanish fighting bull.

“Die!”

“This is Sparta!”

The captain seized a javelin. His thick, powerful muscles swelled, veins bulging along his arms, his face twisted into a terrifying mask of fury, as if channeling all his strength and rage into this one throw.

A low hum split the air as the javelin flew, leaving a white streak in its wake and shrieking like a fighter jet.

Yan Luo, in the midst of dodging, nearly met with disaster: he had no time to jump aside. He thrust his hands forward and caught the javelin. The impact burned his palms, the friction tearing open great swathes of skin, blood streaming down—but he managed to grip the javelin tightly.

A wave of gasps and amazed exclamations swept the audience as they saw him clutching the javelin, its tip pressed just over his heart—one inch more, and it would have pierced his chest.

Yan Luo reversed the javelin, glanced at his bleeding hands, then looked toward the distant Spartans. Gripping the javelin tightly, he raised his arm, leaned back, his spine arching into a great bow. The muscles of his waist, legs, and arms all tensed, gathering every ounce of strength.

“Take it back!”

The high priest, pale-faced after examining the corpse of the Spartan king, saw this from the VIP box, as did Wang Dongwei, Zhu Xiaoyong, and every spectator in the stands. The javelin howled through the air, tracing a beautiful arc.

Ten meters, twenty meters—the momentum did not wane. Forty meters, fifty meters…

All eyes were fixed on the descending javelin. The Spartan captain’s eyes widened, terror flooding his gaze. He tried to flee, but the javelin, after flying over sixty meters, crashed down and struck him squarely between the shoulder blades.

His body was pierced in an instant; he fell face-first, the javelin driving him into the earth and nailing him dead to the ground.

The entire stadium fell silent. The audience held its breath, unable to utter a sound. The overwhelming shock froze every emotion, as if time itself had slowed and even the sound of breathing was stilled.

“What a throw!”

After a long pause, a voice of admiration rose from the judges’ panel, shattering the silence: “To throw a javelin well, one must be fast, fierce, and accurate! The power behind that throw, the speed in flight, the absolute precision—it’s simply unbelievable! Just the beauty of its arc across the sky makes it the finest throw I’ve witnessed in decades of competition. A perfect throw!”

As the voice echoed, the Olympic stadium seemed to come alive—the audience erupted in a tidal wave of cheers and applause, shaking the very heavens.