Chapter 99: Have Some Confidence—Grandmaster Zhang Could Clear This Even with a Dog Tied to His Belt!
The cafeteria wasn’t too crowded, and the people inside seemed fairly well-mannered.
Since those who couldn’t secure a takeout slot could still eat inside, no one was in too much of a hurry. Everyone maintained a semblance of decorum.
But the supermarket was a different story. Even before opening time, fights had already broken out in the line.
Everyone knew that unless they secured a spot near the front, they wouldn’t get any vegetarian food.
Only 80 people could take their meals to-go. Anyone beyond that number might as well not bother.
Even those ranked in the 60s or 70s weren’t sure if they’d make the cut.
So, they pushed forward, leading to inevitable shoving and collisions.
The chosen ones caught in the chaos had it rough.
Those at the back of the line took advantage of the disorder to surge forward, while those at the front struggled to hold their ground.
All semblance of order had vanished—it was pure chaos.
Thankfully, this round’s participants were physically robust.
Otherwise, in such a crushing tide of bodies, weaker individuals might have been trampled to death.
“Hey, take it easy! Who’s yanking my pants?!”
Jones cursed under his breath. Originally in the 50s, he’d been shoved all the way to the back.
But luck was a fickle thing—when it came, no one could stop it.
A burly man ahead of him bulldozed through the crowd, pushing others aside.
Jones, sharp as ever (after all, he had earned an S-rank clearance before), quickly latched onto the man’s back, riding the wave all the way up to the teens in line.
Abe Hirohira and the old monk, both formidable in their own right, had no trouble holding their positions around 10th place.
Abe even wore a smug expression, as if this level of difficulty was child’s play to him.
“Two hours of waiting, and you think you can push me out? Please. If a bunch of ordinary people could dislodge me, I might as well resign as the head exorcist of Sakura Country!”
At exactly 12:00 PM, the supermarket doors swung open, and the crowd stampeded inside, scrambling to grab whatever they could.
Nearly 200 people flooded in, sweeping through the aisles like a swarm of locusts.
It had to be said—Miller was truly a strategist among the chosen ones.
There was one critical detail many overlooked:
Being first inside only gave you a few extra seconds to shop.
What really mattered was being among the first 80 to check out—that was the only way to secure takeout.
After all, you couldn’t eat inside the supermarket, and freshness had to be maintained.
Sure, there were probably tastier options on the shelves, but right now, anyone picky about flavor might end up with nothing at all.
Miller, leveraging his solid physique, dashed straight for the nearest shelves and grabbed whatever he could.
Call it the “Eagle Country tradition of zero-dollar shopping.”
When it came to supermarket rushes, Eagle Country chosen ones had a certain… knack.
Some viewers practically ached to jump in and help him loot.
Decades of real-world experience had honed their skills to perfection.
Miller, who’d entered in 20th place, was the 7th to check out.
He paid attention to every detail.
At the register, he immediately asked the cashier (who wore a work badge) to inspect his items for freshness and replace any questionable ones.
The rules only specified “staff”—it didn’t have to be a server. Anyone with a badge counted.
Miller didn’t grab much—just enough for the day.
Taking more risked missing the checkout cutoff.
Most chosen ones were sharp enough to secure vegetarian food within the 80-slot limit.
This round showcased the overwhelming advantage of superhumans.
Their sheer power made it impossible for them to fail at something this basic.
As for the strategists stuck at the back of the line? By the time they got in, most slots were gone.
The front shelves had been stripped bare, forcing them to desperately scour the back aisles—or even pick through trampled food on the floor.
But even those who failed to secure vegetarian food weren’t foolish enough to eat inside the supermarket.
Violating Supermarket Rule #2 was, by all accounts, a death sentence.
Their only options now were to:
-
Wait outside and try to buy or barter with tenants who’d gotten extra.
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Resort to violence.
Killing tenants didn’t break any rules.
How they did it was up to them.
Even those who’d secured food had to stay alert.
Desperate tenants might try to steal from them—perhaps even as part of their own rules.
The smarter chosen ones hid most of their haul under their clothes before leaving.
Carrying an empty bag looked suspicious, so they stuffed a token amount inside.
All to avoid the predatory stares of those who’d come up empty-handed.
Strategies varied wildly in this round.
Some who’d gotten vegetarian food regrouped with their partners, hoping they’d secured meat.
Success meant smooth sailing—this round was cleared.
Those without partners, or whose partners had failed, pivoted to Plan B:
Take their vegetarian food into the cafeteria.
The cafeteria rules never said outside food was forbidden.
This was a high-stakes game, and only the sharpest survived.
They remembered Supermarket Rule #5:
“If dining in the cafeteria, ensure you exit before closing time.”
Combined with Cafeteria Rule #4:
“To avoid waste, patrons who leave uneaten meat will be penalized.”
The solution? Order the smallest meat portion possible, then choke it down with their vegetarian stash.
The real pros did this right at the cafeteria entrance.
No time to chew—survival was the priority.
Once those doors closed, anyone left inside was doomed.
This was no time for recklessness.
Abe Hirohira’s partner had come through, securing meat for him.
After hours of hunger and waiting, he could finally eat.
His choice of dining spot was deliberate.
Apartment Rule #1 stated:
“There is no edible food in your room.”
Bringing food inside might mean it became the cat’s property.
To avoid breaking this rule—and to dodge the hallway motion-sensor lights—he couldn’t eat near the supermarket either.
So, he settled under an awning beside the cafeteria.
The sight was almost pitiful.
The once-revered head exorcist of Sakura Country, who’d once dined on lavish meals served by attendants (taking one bite before moving to the next dish), now huddled in the rain, scarfing down fast food.
The old monk, a lifelong ascetic, had no such qualms. He simply found a safe corner and ate.
Miller wasn’t so lucky. His partner had flaked, forcing him to sprint into the cafeteria, shovel food into his mouth, and bolt—all in under ten seconds.
Digestion could wait. Filling his stomach was the priority.
Jones? He never even found a partner.
His assigned tenant had tasked him with carrying a stone to the rooftop and dropping it on a passerby in blue-and-white at a specific time.
Many chosen ones completed this mission.
But Jones missed, hitting the woman behind his target instead.
So, he was one of the few without backup.
By the time he got his vegetarian food and raced to the cafeteria—
It was already closed.
“It’s only 12:30! Since when does the cafeteria give just thirty minutes for lunch?!”
Those who’d wolfed down their meals in seconds were absolute geniuses.
Anyone who took time to sit, chew, and savor was doomed.
“I’m dead…”
Jones was in despair. He didn’t even know who had meat.
How could he steal without a target?
His delay in the supermarket—plus the long trek to the cafeteria—had cost him dearly.
Just as hope faded, a tenant approached him.
“No meat? I bought extra but can’t finish it. Leaving food uneaten brings punishment—could you help me out?”
It was the very man he’d failed to kill earlier—the one in blue-and-white.
This was sheer dumb luck.
The tenant who’d ordered the hit had actually hired two assassins:
Jones, and the woman behind the target.
Jones’ accidental kill of the woman meant the real target survived.
Now, with the woman’s death fresh in his mind, the man had lost his appetite.
So, he handed his leftovers to Jones.
Sure, it was secondhand food—but the sheer audacity of his luck left audiences speechless.
The real nail-biter was the Nordic Snow Country’s chosen one in Room 4-7.
He’d tailed a female tenant who’d secured meat, ambushed her, and fought for twenty brutal rounds before finally killing her.
Both were injured, the floor splattered with blood—impossible to tell whose was whose.
The battle was savage, but the food restored some of his strength.
Yet, back home, Nordic Snow Country’s “virtuous” viewers condemned him.
“How dare he attack a woman?! A monster!”
Outraged citizens even petitioned to deport him.
The thought of such violence-prone men in their country terrified them.
And unbelievably, the petition gained traction.
If the Nordic chosen one knew his life-or-death struggle had branded him a demon back home, he’d probably be thrilled.
“Finally—a way out of this hellhole!”
Surviving and getting exiled? A true two-for-one deal.
This round pushed most chosen ones to their limits, demanding both wit and courage.
Screens worldwide showed heart-pounding battles for survival, each meal hard-won.
Except for one nation.
Dragon Country’s audience was practically yawning.
While others fought tooth and nail, Zhang Yangqing had solved the problem with a single sentence—without lifting a finger.
Now, he lounged in Old Smokey’s room, waiting for the man to serve him a gourmet meal.
After all, Old Smokey had spent the morning working at the supermarket. Grabbing food was the least he could do.
There was one key detail: Only supermarket staff knew which vegetarian items were safe.
As an employee, Old Smokey had access to the freshest ingredients—no need to fight the crowds.
Zhang Yangqing now understood why the landlord spared him:
Old Smokey was a master chef.
The table before them groaned under the weight of exquisite appetizers—each dish a feast for the senses.
To please his celestial roommate, Old Smokey had even pulled out his family’s secret recipe: ancestral-style grilled meat.
The sizzling skewers glistened, fat dripping down charred edges, the aroma intoxicating.
One whiff was enough to make saliva flood the mouth.
Even Zhang Yangqing gave an approving nod.
(Grandmaster’s Seal of Approval.jpg)
The meat, perfectly seared over charcoal, was crispy outside yet tender within. A dusting of spice elevated it to divine levels.
Every bite sent waves of heat and flavor crashing through the senses, the richness lingering long after swallowing.
If this were a cooking show, Zhang might’ve ripped his shirt off in ecstasy.
He was loving it—but viewers at home were dying of envy.
Their plain steamed buns suddenly tasted like cardboard.
The contrast was ridiculous.
“Other chosen ones are eating in the rain or force-feeding themselves like geese. The Nordic guy fought for his life, covered in blood, just for one bite. Meanwhile, Zhang’s basically on vacation!”
“Seriously, just let me in there. I might be useless in clearing stages, but I’ll happily eat his leftovers!”
“Zhang’s too OP. I’m a total noob, but even I could clear this if he carried me.”
“Have some confidence—Grandmaster Zhang could clear this even with a dog tied to his belt!”
“Who’d have thought he’d breeze through this round without breaking a single rule? Smooth as butter.”
“Smooth? More like effortless. One sentence, and boom—problem solved.”
“Think we can vote him into the next Strange Trial too? Just sit back and relax.”
“Careful. He might lightning-bolt you after this.”
“Worth it. Sacrifice me for the greater good.”
“Damn. That’s some next-level dedication.”
“You guys are already planning for the next trial? It’s only Day 2!”
“You doubt he’ll clear this?”
“My bad, bro. I’ll think bigger!”
Back in the Strange Trial, after his feast, Zhang Yangqing finally got down to business.
“Tell me,” he asked Old Smokey, “do you know anything about a burned-down building nearby?”
