No! I don't want to be a Super Necromancer!

Three minutes later, the match was over.

Team Fat Fox had advanced.

The crowd was still wheezing with laughter as the losing team was dragged off muttering about rabid raccoons and culinary abuse.

The announcer cleared his throat, voice high and shaky from trying not to laugh. "A-And with that… Team Fat Fox advances to Round Two."

Someone in the audience yelled, "THEY JUST SCRATCHED THEIR WAY TO VICTORY!"

"IS THIS WHO'S SUPPOSED TO FIGHT EUROPE?!"

"ARE WE FLINGING PEOPLE AT FRANCE NOW?!"

And yet… they had won.

And not just once. No, somehow, through the pure power of chaos, misdirection, and Fatty's surprisingly accurate throwing arm, Team Fat Fox kept advancing.

Round Two: Team Fat Fox vs. Team Bone Cutter (Southern Martial Academy Duo)

The next team wore black and red armor, spiked shoulder plates, and carried double axes.

"We've studied your tactics," one of them sneered. "That yeeting nonsense won't work on us."

"Aw," Fatty grinned, already picking Elly up like a discus. "That's cute."

The referee hadn't even finished saying "BEGIN" before Elly was airborne.

Next to her was a flying frying pan which Fatty had also flung at the same time.

The axemen crossed weapons, ready for impact—only for Elly to flip mid-flight and bounce off Fatty's flying frying pan, redirecting like a fuzzy cannonball.

She landed on the second fighter's helmet, spun in place like a Beyblade, and sent him flying out of the ring while shouting, "Scratch of a Thousand Regrets!"

Fatty followed up by chucking a smoke bomb (that he definitely wasn't allowed to have) and yelling, "NOW, WIGGLE EVASION TECHNIQUE!"

In the confusion, Elly slapped the remaining opponent with a banana peel she swore was enchanted.

It wasn't. But it worked.

Winner: Team Fat Fox

Round Three: Team Fat Fox vs. The Sky Lotus Sisters (Twin Wind Mages from Golden River Sect)

Two elegant girls floated into the arena on matching lotus platforms, wind swirling around them, pink petals shimmering in the light.

"Let's handle this with grace," the elder sister said softly. "Like dancers."

"Agreed," her twin replied, floating higher.

Fatty blinked. "How do we scratch things… in the air?"

"Throw me higher," Elly grinned.

"Say no more."

With a heroic spin, Fatty chucked Elly upward like a grenade of chaos. She didn't stop until she landed on one of the lotus platforms, breaking the serene aura instantly.

"EeeEEEYYYAHHHH!" she shrieked, tackling both wind mages mid-air and rolling them into a giggling, tangled mess of robes, petals, and mild head trauma.

One judge accidentally snorted into his teacup.

Winner: Team Fat Fox

Semifinals: Team Fat Fox vs. Team Crimson Shield (B-Rank War College Grads)

"They're serious now," Damien warned, watching from the stands. "That guy once stopped a truck using only his shield."

Fatty nodded solemnly, pulling out a frying pan again. "We all bring what we're good at."

This time, the shield-user stood front and center, his partner behind him, casting long-range spells. A solid defense, perfect formation. Textbook.

Too bad they hadn't studied fox physics.

Elly zig-zagged under the shield by digging into the ground and tunneling, popping up behind them like a mole with murder in her eyes.

"The fox is here!!" the caster screamed.

Elly grabbed him by the collar. "Surprise!"

Meanwhile, Fatty distracted the shield-user with heartfelt philosophical questions like, "Do you believe in love at first bun?"

WHACK. Pan to the head.

Winner: Team Fat Fox

Final Round: Team Fat Fox vs. War God College's Elite Mecha Duo: Team Twin Glory

The arena was packed.

Two pristine white mechas hovered in mid-air, glowing with polished energy cores, sleek plating glistening in the lights. Their pilots stood beside them in flawless uniforms, looking more offended than threatened.

"Are you seriously the final opponents?" one of them asked, blinking in disbelief. "Is this… satire?"

Fatty waved cheerfully. "Hi!"

"We are mecha lords of War God College!" shouted the other, scandalized. "You can't defeat us with antics!"

"Oh no," Elly whispered to Fatty. "They've activated full anime mode."

The announcer's voice boomed. "FINAL ROUND! BEGIN!"

The white mechas surged forward in formation—tight, elegant, deadly.

Fatty hurled Elly with a grunt, shouting, "SCRATCH MISSILE ALPHA!"

The mechas intercepted mid-air with photon shields, expecting her to bounce off.

She clung.

One of the mechas bucked wildly, flailing as Elly scrambled up its back like a sugar-high squirrel, yanking at cables and screaming, "I FOUND THE BUTTONS!"

The crowd screamed in laughter as sparks flew and the mecha spun in midair, crashing to the ground.

The second mecha turned to help—only for Fatty to sit on its foot and yell, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!"

A moment later, that mecha crashed too.

The dust cleared.

Team Fat Fox stood victorious.

The announcer was wheezing with laughter. "T-TEAM FAT FOX… WINS!"

Aftermath

Spectators stared down at the battlefield, their minds in varying states of denial, shock, and reluctant admiration.

One middle-aged military aide stood frozen, his clipboard trembling. "We're supposed to send them to fight Europe?" he muttered, pupils dilating. "We're scratching France. This is it. The end of military theory as we know it."

A student clutched a fox plushie to her chest, eyes wild with revelation. "We're not students anymore," she whispered. "We're potential projectiles. I need to stretch more. What if I get launched next?"

Near the judge's podium, one of the older referees leaned back in his chair, face pale. "I swear," he said hoarsely, "if we win this war with chaos and body throws, I'm quitting. I'm opening a noodle shop. No strategy. No physics. Just soup."

A nearby tactician slumped over a railing. "What do I even write in the report? 'Enemy combatants were neutralized via surprise aerial girl barrage followed by unconventional cooking utensil melee?' Is that a real sentence?!"

But despite the chaos, the scoreboard sparkled in all its irrefutable glory:

SINGLES CHAMPION: DAMIEN BLOODBANE

DUO CHAMPIONS: TEAM FAT FOX (Fatty Not-Fat and Elly Not-A-Fox)

The crowd tried to process what had just happened. An arena technician fainted. Someone proposed a theory that Fatty might secretly be an ancient throwing spirit from Taoist mythology.

Another student was overheard whispering, "I'm switching majors to projectile physics."

Up in the VIP balcony, a general pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, "For better or worse… they're ours."

Indeed.

The strongest solo and duo combatants of Beijing had been chosen.

One was a death-wielding prodigy with the smile of a polite god of slaughter.

The other two were a bun-shaped cannon and a mystery girl who weaponized scratching, hugs, and emotional instability.

And together…

They were going to represent Beijing.

God help Beijing.

And if they win the nationals… God help China.