Shinji Matou at Your Service

In the early years of this new century, on the first day of spring, a delegation was organized by the upper echelons of the Clock Tower and the first batch of exchange students for a one-year term. Shinji was one of them.

However, he did not move with the main group, and even his entry method bypassed customs, directly crossing the national border. This was not illegal entry, nor smuggling; the official delegation had completed the entry procedures long ago, and the authorities were aware of and tacitly approved this behavior.

On one of the most famous mountains, the Eastern Peak, two men, one tall and one short, climbed a rarely visited unnamed cliff.

"Master, is it here?"

The taller man, relying on his height and length, was the first to climb the cliff. He was a young man around 25 years old, with features that could be described in eight words: clear brows and bright eyes, tiger back and bear waist. The former described his face, the latter his build. This seemingly contradictory style merged harmoniously in him, without seeming abrupt.

"Yes, it's here. Your master has been practicing on Taishan since childhood. You can't find anyone more familiar with Taishan in the country."

The shorter man, although slower, moved more easily, clearly still reserving strength. This was an elderly man of indistinguishable age, with white hair, and a wrinkle-free face. His most striking feature was his arms, which hung naturally and extended past his knees, giving a strange impression.

"Is there anything special around here?"

The young man looked around with a puzzled expression.

"No."

The old man shook his head.

"Then why choose this place?"

The young man couldn't understand.

"It's not a border, nor a necessary route to Beijing, the path is difficult, and apart from being concealed, it has no advantages. But if it's about concealment, there are many more suitable places. I don't get it."

"I don't get it either."

The old man walked to the edge of the cliff, casting his gaze towards the East Sea below.

"Maybe it's to show strength. Our relationship with the West involves both cooperation and competition. You've seen the materials sent down, what do you think of those Western young magus?"

"Very strong, all elites."

The young man answered honestly.

"That's right, each one of them is an heir to an ancient family, with a status comparable to yours. Do you think the Clock Tower sent these outstanding young people here just to learn?"

"I get it, they are the Clock Tower's business card."

"Exactly, and our business card is you. How about it? Do you have confidence?"

"Of course, a martial artist does not fear challenges. Rest assured, Master, I will show the prowess of God Fist Style."

Hearing his disciple's response, the old man laughed heartily, "That's the spirit. The times have changed, perpetual modesty and restraint are no longer desirable. Strength is determined by fists—what do you say, special envoy of the Clock Tower?"

"Huh?"

"Stop dawdling, quickly translate."

"Oh—"

The young man cleared his throat and switched languages. His task was to translate, as few of the older generation spoke English, and this was even rarer in the mysterious world. The younger generation, under official cultivation, had become proficient in foreign languages, and this young man was among the best. In the mundane world, he was a master's student in the English Department of a well-known university, and his authentic London accent earned the praise of many foreign friends.

"What do you think?"

"I think the elder is right."

A stranger's voice came from below the cliff. It was in standard Mandarin, no less. The young man wasn't even sure if his own Mandarin was more standard than this voice's.

Now things were getting interesting: an eastern person speaking with a London accent, and an envoy from England speaking Mandarin. Both the elder and the young man were at a loss for words. No one knew how proficient this envoy was. What if he could only say that one sentence?

"..."

"..."

Fortunately, the awkward silence lasted only a few seconds before being broken by someone rising from below the cliff.

Dressed in black, the figure hovered in mid-air, carrying a large backpack. This feat alone made both the elder and the young man look at him with new eyes. Flying magecraft was a high-level skill no matter where you were.

More shocking, however, were the envoy's physical traits: black hair, black eyes, and a height comparable to the elder's. That would have been fine; there were short people in the West too, such as the modern emperor Napoleon. But this envoy was exceedingly young—not an old monster pretending to be young, but genuinely young. With the elder's expertise in martial arts, he could immediately tell from the envoy's vigorous energy and unique vitality that he was indeed young. Once that youthful vitality is lost, it never returns.

The Western envoy clasped his hands in greeting to the two of them and said, in a voice matching his appearance, "I apologize for keeping you waiting."

"No problem, no problem, we just arrived as well," the elder waved his hand.

"May I ask for your name?"

The young envoy landed and clasped his hands again.

"Sixth-generation successor of the Qi family's God Fist Style, Ji Lin."

"Seventh-generation successor, Zhang Puzhuo. How should we address the envoy?"

"Shinji Matou."

The young envoy clasped his hands for the third time, and the naturalness of his gesture gave Ji Lin and Zhang Puzhuo a strong sense of dissonance.

"You... are really an envoy from the Clock Tower?"