Chapter Nineteen: The Enigmatic Bronze Mask

It was a man wearing a bronze mask; judging by his build, he was certainly male and no longer young, clearly a senior member of the training camp. Whenever Yin Seventeen began his training, that figure would silently appear nearby, saying nothing, merely fixing his gaze upon him with an unwavering intensity.

Though the man never interfered nor showed any overt malice, being watched as if he were some rare beast left Yin Seventeen feeling uneasy. He had tried to strike up a conversation, but the masked man always ignored him, never uttering a single word in reply. With negotiations fruitless, Yin Seventeen could only resign himself to changing his training grounds. As for physically driving the man away, that remained nothing more than a fantasy; he had only recently mastered the foundational realm of awareness, while the other was clearly a veteran who had spent years in the camp—a confrontation would certainly not end in his favor.

Unfortunately, the masked man seemed determined to shadow him, and even after changing training sites eight or nine times, Yin Seventeen could not shake him off.

“Could he be sent by the Pope to monitor me?” Yin Seventeen wondered, glancing away as he tended the roasting fish.

But he quickly dismissed this suspicion. “If he were sent by the Pope, that would be far too foolish!” he muttered, carefully inspecting his fish. It was nearly done. He sprinkled a bit of salt and tasted his handiwork, pondering, “Were I the Pope, I would never have someone tail me so openly, but rather arrange for covert surveillance.”

Open monitoring only makes the target more vigilant and nervous, rendering any investigation fruitless; secret observation lowers their guard and makes gathering information far easier. Moreover, the Pope, adept in telepathy, had already perused his memories—there was no need for such a display.

So this man was certainly not the Pope’s agent.

“But if he isn’t sent by the Pope, why is he watching me so closely?” Yin Seventeen swallowed his fish, casting a puzzled glance at the stranger. He had done nothing extraordinary in the training camp, was merely an inconspicuous newcomer—there was no reason for someone to fixate on him like this.

“Perhaps, only when I can defeat him—or when he chooses to speak—will I learn the truth.”

With a helpless sigh, Yin Seventeen continued tidying up his roasted fish.

Days passed, training results accumulated, and Yin Seventeen’s progress was astonishing. Simple fishing exercises could no longer satisfy him. He changed his approach, beginning to practice defending the bait: he would drop limited bait into the water and use his speed to deflect every fish that tried to snatch it.

He demanded strict control from himself—while repelling the fish, he had to ensure his strength did not harm them. The fish were not as swift as he was, but their numbers were overwhelming. One after another, as he repelled one, two or three more would surge forward, forcing Yin Seventeen to increase his speed to prevent the bait from being “ambushed” and devoured.

He started with defending just one piece of bait, gradually increasing to two, three, four...

Two years later, he could simultaneously protect fifteen pieces of bait in the water, leaving the fish shoals yearning but unable to reach them.

By rough estimate, his speed now surpassed that of a normal boxer thirty-three times over, approaching the sonic speed of three hundred and forty meters per second.

To think that Owen, the senior from years ago, had laboriously trained for eight years and only reached twenty-five times a normal boxer's speed.

It was hard not to conclude that the idea of 'born equal' was nothing but a joke. Some people are forgotten by fate from the very beginning.

Yin Seventeen speculated that perhaps his body, rejuvenated in youth, had undergone some transformation—or perhaps he simply possessed that rare and extraordinary talent. Because of his unique constitution, he cultivated far more efficiently than most.

As his strength grew, the apprentice fighters who had once deliberately hindered him vanished quietly. They had only ever preyed on the weak.

Yet, though those troublesome sorts departed, one remained: the bronze-masked man who had watched him train for two years.

Rain or shine, the masked figure came daily to observe him. Yin Seventeen had thought that after ten days or a fortnight, the man would lose interest and leave, but unexpectedly, two years had passed without a change!

Had the man not kept silent and never interfered, Yin Seventeen might have grown accustomed, considering him nothing more than a statue.

“Hey, you’ve been watching me for two years now—what exactly do you want?” Yin Seventeen finished his training and approached the man, suspicious.

By now, only the official Saints and reserve Saints in the camp could match him. His curiosity could no longer be contained; he would have an answer, even if it required force.

Yet the bronze-masked man stood motionless, ignoring him as always.

“Still won’t speak?”

Yin Seventeen stared at him in surprise, then said, “Well… don’t blame me for being rude, then!”

With that, he stepped forward suddenly. In an instant, he crossed dozens of meters, arriving before the masked man and throwing a punch straight at his face.

But the man merely shifted slightly, evading what should have been an unavoidable blow.

“He actually dodged my punch?” Yin Seventeen’s pupils contracted at the sight.

To his knowledge, not everyone could achieve his level—breaking thirty times a normal boxer's speed was already considered extraordinary talent. Apprentice fighters approaching the speed of sound were rare throughout the camp’s history.

In other words, this bronze-masked man, who could evade his punch, must possess speed not much inferior to his own.

The blow missed; as they brushed past each other, Yin Seventeen slid more than ten meters under the force of his momentum, leaving two deep footprints before coming to a halt.

“Again!”

He tightened his fist and charged once more.

Locking onto the man’s location with his awareness, he unleashed dozens of punches in a flash, sealing off the left, right, and front.

Yet, just as his fists were about to strike, the masked man retreated lightly, effortlessly dodging the near-sonic blows.

His fists didn’t even graze the man’s clothing.

Yin Seventeen stopped, gazing deeply at the masked man before bowing his head. “I apologize for the offense, senior.”

Though brief, he had keenly sensed the cosmic energy pulsing within the man.

The masked man had ignited his cosmos, breaking the sonic barrier, thus easily evading his punches.

Clearly, he was not an apprentice fighter, but a reserve Saint—or perhaps even an official Saint.

Yin Seventeen had met his match.