Afternoons, however, took on a decidedly... different flavor.
Cloud would lead Commander Zuo and Baobao in "team coordination training" with Mai, Andy, Robert, and the others.
"Commander Zuo! Don't draw your blade the moment we start! This is sparring! SPARRING!" Cloud clung to Commander Zuo's leg, desperately preventing him from unsheathing that demon-slaying Spring-Autumn blade.
"Baobao! Put down the cleaver! Robert is NOT an ingredient! Yes, he looks tender and well-marbled, but I promise he doesn't taste good!"
Then Cloud had to sprint over to stop Baobao from attempting to "gut and fillet" Robert.
Commander Zuo's face remained deadly serious. He simply could not comprehend what "holding back" meant. In his world, drawing a weapon meant killing an enemy. Period.
Baobao tilted her head, staring at everyone with vacant curiosity, seemingly pondering why these people fought without weapons and never buried anyone afterward.
The entire training ground descended into absolute chaos thanks to these two "cross-dimensional" participants.
But the results were... surprisingly excellent.
Under the oppressive weight of Commander Zuo's murderous aura, Mai and Andy's combat instincts sharpened dramatically.
And after sparring with Baobao's unpredictable, utterly rule-defying "Eighteen Burial Techniques," Robert's prized "Flying Swallow" footwork became even more elusive and agile.
As for Cloud, he gradually discovered how to mold this "team of misfits" into a cohesive unit amidst all the mayhem.
...
The drums of KOF 94 had begun to sound.
Rome, Italy.
The Eternal City seemed to have awakened from its slumber of ages. The air thrummed with an energy utterly distinct from its ancient atmosphere—a blazing, scorching fighting spirit.
The Colosseum, that magnificent ruin that had witnessed countless gladiators fight to the death, had been transformed under the mysterious organizer "R's" financial might, reborn with a new and heart-pounding vitality.
A transparent dome now covered the massive circular arena, shielding it from the elements.
At the center, a colossal stage bristling with modern technology had been erected.
Surrounding the ring, dozens of giant LED screens looped promotional footage for "The King of Fighters 94"—a burning fist, radiating power and beauty.
The circular seating was packed to capacity.
Fighting enthusiasts, gamblers, information brokers, and talent scouts from major organizations around the world crammed the venue until not even water could leak through.
Camera flashes sparkled like daytime stars. The clicking of shutters and tidal waves of chatter merged into a heatwave that threatened to melt the entire arena.
...
Backstage, Competitor Rest Area.
Here, the atmosphere was the polar opposite of the crowd's frenzy—heavy, tense, thick with the smell of gunpowder.
Fighters with powerful auras and razor-sharp gazes gathered in small groups, some meditating with closed eyes, others warming up, all maintaining wary distances from one another.
The air itself pressed down with the weight of "the strong," making even breathing slightly difficult.
Among these "immortals," Cloud's team stood out with their... unique aesthetic.
Cloud wore a custom-tailored black combat outfit, looking appropriately heroic—fitting for a fighter's image.
To his left, Commander Zuo stood in his crimson Flying Fish uniform, Spring-Autumn blade at his waist, arms crossed, eyes closed, radiating an iron-blooded aura that screamed "All of you are traitors and rebels."
Several burly men who'd considered approaching for small talk silently detoured around him.
To Cloud's right, Baobao wore a loose panda-themed hoodie complete with cute panda ears on the hood.
She was squatting in a corner, licking a lollipop while her pure, innocent eyes curiously examined all these "strangely dressed" people. She muttered in her Sichuan dialect:
"Dummy-heads... why do people here dress even weirder than me...?"
The three of them standing together—one looking like a martial arts master here to challenge dojos, one like an imperial agent here to make arrests, and one like an airheaded girl on a school trip.
The dissonance was maxed out.
"Look..." Cloud eyed his two wildly mismatched teammates, feeling immense pressure.
"Commander Zuo, could you maybe put the blade away for now? This is a fighting tournament, not a house raid. And Baobao, could you stop staring at that seven-foot-tall fat guy? He's going to think you want to bury him."
Commander Zuo slowly opened his eyes and replied coolly: "My blade is my life. It cannot leave my side. As for those people... merely cattle marked for slaughter. Nothing to fear."
Baobao tilted her head and answered earnestly: "Boss, that fatty... looks meaty. Thick fat layer. If I buried him, the dirt probably wouldn't collapse."
Cloud: "..."
He felt less like he was here for KOF and more like he was running a daycare—with two "advanced placement" problem children.
Just then, a commotion erupted at the rest area entrance as a team radiating iron and gunpowder strode in.
Leading them was a one-eyed man wearing a red beret, powerfully built, his gaze sharp as a hawk's.
Behind him followed two equally imposing men exuding military discipline—one wearing a blue headband, the other sunglasses, both with cold expressions.
[Electronic Announcement: Ikari Warriors have arrived! Captain: Heidern, commander of a mercenary unit, master of assassination techniques! Members: Ralf Jones, the mercenary known as 'One-Punch Man'! Clark Still, the cool-headed grappling specialist!]
"It's Heidern's mercenary squad!" someone whispered in awe.
Cloud narrowed his eyes.
All three men carried the thick stench of blood—clearly real soldiers who'd crawled out of mountains of corpses.
Especially Heidern. Cloud's Mind's Eye could sense the incredibly restrained yet lethally potent power coiled within him.
"Interesting." Commander Zuo's gaze also settled on Heidern, a rare flicker of battle-hunger crossing his eyes.
He recognized a kindred spirit—that killing intent forged on the razor's edge between life and death.