145: Chapter 142 God, are you serious?
Yang Hang mentally brought up the matching interface for the Individual Sequence Contest.
He clicked "Match."
A flash of white light filled his vision.
——
White light.
Overwhelming white light surged from all directions, drowning out everything in his field of vision.
When the white light faded, Yang Hang was still lying on the lounge chair on the deck of his super luxurious Houseboat, surrounded by an endless black ocean.
It was not the real Magic Sea.
It was a battlefield simulated by the consciousness space of the Sequence War.
The sky was a uniform, ghastly white, like a firmament washed with bleach; there was no sun, no clouds, and the light source shone evenly from all directions.
The seawater beneath his feet was a deep, ink-black, undisturbed by waves, reflecting the ghastly white sky and creating an eerie black-and-white contrast.
And the super luxurious Houseboat beneath him had been completely manifested.
The three-hundred-meter deep-gray hull sat quietly on the black sea surface, with six gun turrets pointing silently at the sky. The facilities on the deck were fully equipped, and even the Bionic Maid was standing at the cabin door.
Even the barrel of the main gun, "Heaven's Punishment," was faintly reflecting the white light.
Yang Hang lowered his head and glanced at his left wrist.
The watch was there.
It had been completely manifested. The heart rate number on the screen was pulsating—though, of course, the heart rate here was a virtual value simulated by consciousness. The words "magic sea compass" lay quietly in the function list.
Very good.
He looked up, casting his gaze into the distance.
At the edge of the black sea, a small black dot was slowly approaching.
That was the opponent's Houseboat.
It was a medium-sized warship of the Silver Grade. The hull was about twenty-something meters long, covered in a light blue energy shield on its metal shell, with a small ram mounted on the bow. Compared to Yang Hang's three-hundred-meter giant ship, it was like a loach parked next to a whale.
Yang Hang swept his gaze over it.
The magic sea compass, already carved into his flesh, operated automatically.
A light blue information panel appeared in the Void Realm before him, and all of the opponent's data was presented in full:
[Name: Michael Carter]
[Age: 38]
[Faction: Stars and Stripes]
[Talent: Iron Blade Incarnation (Silver Grade) — Arms can transform into high-hardness metal blades; hardness is positively correlated with one's own Qi and blood value]
[Essence: 23/30]
[Qi: 28/30]
[Spirit: 19/25]
[Health Points: 269/283]
[Status: Mild fatigue (suggest resting for 2 hours to recover), old injury on the right shoulder (does not affect combat)]
[Estimated Lifespan: 71 years (based on current status)]
[Item List: Silver Grade Warship × 1, Bronze Grade Protective Armor × 1, Rotten Wood Class Supply Pack × 3, karma points balance: 68]
[Note: Cause and Effect Fate Platform visitor system user]
A Silver Grade Survivor.
Among the Essence, Qi, and Spirit values, the values for Essence and Qi were the highest, maxing out at 30, indicating that he was a combatant inclined toward melee fighting. The Iron Blade Incarnation talent itself confirmed this—transforming arms into blades for close-quarters slashing; simple and brutal.
Yang Hang's gaze fell on the note "Cause and Effect Fate Platform visitor system user," and he nodded slightly.
He was a Survivor from an alien civilization staying at the Fate Platform.
It was best not to use himself to test the magic sea compass functions of the watch; another Survivor would be better, more in line with the principle of sample similarity for experiments.
This alien civilization Survivor.
He was just right for testing.
The medium-sized warship opposite had sailed to a position less than two hundred meters from Yang Hang's giant ship.
On the warship's deck, a burly middle-aged man was standing at the bow. He had a bronze complexion, a crew cut, and a hideous scar on his left cheek running from his cheekbone to his jaw, as if it had been slashed hard by some Sharp Weapon. He was wearing a gray-black Bronze Grade protective armor, his arms exposed, muscles knotted.
A pair of light brown eyes were staring fixedly ahead.
Then he saw Yang Hang's ship clearly.
Those eyes narrowed slightly at first, then slowly widened.
The fierce expression on his face froze.
"..."
Michael Carter stood motionless, his gaze sweeping from the bow of the giant ship to the stern, scanning for a full five seconds.
Three hundred meters.
Six gun turrets.
The barrel of the main gun, "Heaven's Punishment," was thick enough for a person to crawl into.
He turned his head, glanced at the twenty-something-meter Silver Grade warship beneath his feet, and then turned back, looking at the three-hundred-meter gray behemoth.
The expression on his face changed from fierce to blank.
And from blank, it slowly changed into a bitterness of hopelessness.
"Fuck..." he cursed under his breath.
"My luck." He shook his head and cursed again, "God, are you serious? Matching me with this kind of thing for the first match tonight?"
He stared at that giant ship, his mind quickly flipping through the information he had seen in the Fate Platform visitor system.
This level of super luxurious warship was the only one that had appeared on the surface of the entire Magic Sea.
It was the Renaissance of the Yanhuang Civilization's official organization, the Revival Society, belonging to that Yanhuang leader named Zheng Yuanshan.
Michael could not see the Survivor on the ship.
But judging from the appearance of this super luxurious Houseboat, it was quite different from the Renaissance he had seen in the videos.
It didn't look like the flagship of that Revival Society leader.
Then it must be another top-tier Survivor from an unknown civilization who possessed a super luxurious warship.
If it were the Renaissance, he might have considered surrendering on the spot.
It wasn't that he was afraid of death—after all, it was a virtual consciousness space, and if he died, he would just exit the match—but the Revival Society was, after all, the largest official organization of the Yanhuang Civilization, and Zheng Yuanshan was the number two leader.
Leaving a good impression on the other party in the virtual space might mean the Fate Platform would open up more functions for them, the alien civilization visitors, in the future, right?
Although the Fate Platform belonged to the Fate Master, since the Revival Society was the largest organization of the Yanhuang Civilization, it was impossible for them to have no contact with the Fate Master at all.
It was a pity it wasn't.
Michael took a deep breath.
Regardless, it was a virtual space anyway.
He really wanted to see just how big the gap was between himself and a top-tier Survivor of this level.
"Come on."
He let out a low shout, the engine of the warship beneath his feet roared, the ram at the bow gleamed with a metallic luster, and the entire ship, like an arrow released from a bowstring, charged straight toward Yang Hang's giant ship.
Yang Hang lay on the lounge chair, watching that twenty-something-meter warship charge over without hesitation.
He didn't move.
One hundred fifty meters.
One hundred meters.
Fifty meters.
Michael's arms began to change.
The surface of his skin gleamed with a silver-gray metallic luster, his muscle lines were replaced by hard alloy patterns, his fingers were pressed together, and the edges of his palms were sharp as blades.
His two arms, from the elbow down, completely transformed into two nearly one-meter-long metal blades, reflecting a cold, chilling gleam in the white light.
Thirty meters.
Twenty meters.
He tensed his legs, preparing to jump onto the opponent's hull. With his Silver Grade physical fitness, a twenty-meter vertical distance was nothing.
Fifteen meters.
He bent his knees.
Ten meters—
An invisible force suddenly descended.
There was no warning.
No energy fluctuations, no sound, no light.
It was as if the air had suddenly solidified.
Michael Carter maintained his knee-bent, tensed posture, his entire body frozen in place, unable to move.
He couldn't exert any strength in his legs.
He couldn't exert any strength in his arms.
He couldn't turn his neck.
He couldn't bend his waist.
Even his fingers didn't budge.
Only his eyeballs could move.
He tried desperately to mobilize the Qi and blood in his body to activate his Iron Blade Incarnation talent, but that force seemed to be pressing down from every cell in his body simultaneously; it wasn't an external restraint, but rather—your body did not belong to you at this moment.
His face turned pale in an instant.
A hint of shock and doubt appeared on his fierce, scarred face.
What kind of ability was this?
He had been in the Magic Sea for fourteen days and had encountered various talents and various weapons; he had seen freezing, lightning strikes, and Poison Fog, but he had never encountered this kind of suppression—silent, unknown in origin, and one where he couldn't even conjure the thought of struggling.
Gold Tier powerhouse?