The crowd was tame, silent. Held under thumb under the reasoning of trying to impress their village’s leaders. They were packed together, close enough to be indistinguishable from a fresh box of pencils. When looking an individual, they would have their vision focused, primed to not miss a single detail, for they would not see such a scene for many years, if ever. Whatever’s about to come hasn’t even started yet, in the center of the stage, a podium supported a single man whose voice was endless. As if, right here, there would be a grand declaration for war against the whole of the world.

A sinister wind blew in, uninvited. Bringing tidings of the deepening chill of the night, during its caress over the skin. Segregation within the audience started between the villagers and Grittus clansmen; sitting above the rabble with their spotless clothes and stern expressions if one needed a better clue. The second division was between what clansmen would call an obvious—from the outer disciples to the inner, and, from the inners to the Chosen, who observed with their Elders in a special box with the best view of the stage.

Violet torches illuminated the four corners of the stage; chasing away the shadows, making them cling to the corners above and below for shelter. A tentative air polluted the scene, with both fandoms—a people bold, audacious and unafraid—the other, more reserved and keener to subtle differences that made their choice more personal. The two figures behind the Patriarch on the podium, meditated.

Chosen Two made many who thought and saw of him as the picture-perfect boy: A Patriarch’s son who’s had no roadblocks to hold him from the brightest possible future his destiny could hold. Where in life could he find something to impede that?

Some of the crowd swiveled their heads. The other boy, who for some reason, twitched and sweated a smidge, was that impediment. What’re the chances that Chosen Two’s greatest obstacle would be from the same clan, the same age, with history preceding them? Several among the crowd found it in the range from dramatic, to dismal. A smaller number within that—thought it to be the most amusing thing of all, Gihren was one of them.

He hadn’t seen his son since the Patriarch’s request. And his surprise when he heard the boy’s attitude had finally gotten the better of him, brought an invisible grin to him in his seat. Gihren was always aware of his Grisla’s talent being, unexpectedly, better than his own at his age. But to see it match, and, as of recent news—exceed the Patriarch’s offspring? It delivered a joy that managed to become the counterbalance to his ache. Still…

Gihren couldn’t help but worry.

The Patriarch’s speech, which mixed poeticism and modest sprinkles of authoritarianism with the latter being not for his clan or his villagers, but for the guests sitting in his field of vision. A reveal of a new Chosen was in part a celebration and, on the backhand a subtle show of strength.

The Jade Fate Sect, Riverwatch Valley, Suwei Hamlet, the Goldsilver Company, and others. Their lips pursed, Elders pretending with an air of delight, the Chosen juniors strung along as their future representatives at some point—they too, shared the same expressions as their predecessors but with less tact in concealment.

He couldn’t spare a thought of attention to this speech; one he had heard ad nauseum in different flavors and variations since he was a boy. Face so practiced for it his attention could drift and not an observer can say otherwise, which it did, better

The Patriarch raised a fist, “We have endured many trials to become what we are today. Lest not forget this fact in our journey, for each step we make in an era, the next trial is waiting on the horizon, waiting to swallow us all and send the craft back into the ocean from which we came…”

He thought he was imagining it, but with every period the Patriarch finished with. The man’s eyes, in a subtle-but-barely-concealed way, met Gihren’s.

“…When we reach for the heavens, we do everything we can to cling to the Path. The Path: Our journey, our philosophy, our everything. What we are, what we can become—is always tied to the Path. The two behind me, their Path is set for greater heights than many of you in the stands will reach, and there is no shame in it, for every man who inhabits this Earth, this Hannamith Island, is set for a journey that he alone, shares.”

“However, sometimes,” he stopped for a moment to wet his lips, “they may be… obstacles.” He locked eyes with only one soul there. And only that soul knew who.

A chill raced up his spine. He was compelled to break character, look past his wearisome Patriarch and take in his boy on stage. Grisla looked… the same, somewhat. He knew his child, like all parents do, the minor changes that many would miss, he knew of. There was something on Grisla’s mind as he locked in on his opponent just as the Patriarch did for him.

…He wouldn’t try anything against my boy, would he?

And if he would, what can Gihren do about it? That question was pushed down the well, sealed off and patted down on a check for potential leaks. Anything concerning this man made him bubble inside. He wouldn’t forgive him. Not in this life, or the next.

I didn’t even get a moment to tell him anything. And now this?

His own lack of power made him into what he is today. Preyed on by forces too great for him to overcome, and because of it, his wife was in a place he could never reach or find. What was he to do? Run out in a life-or-death battle in vengeance? That was a thing meant for stories and fairy tales. This is reality, and he was just a victim and example for the other families within the clan to heed. Grisla? He saw the boy’s potential early after his mother had vanished. In her wake a new hope glimmered. A hope for…

Revenge.

He’ll do anything to keep that alive. His Juva broiled just in case, as he averted his eyes away from his son and back to the smiling, wordy Patriarch, now at the final stretch of his talk.

Grisla opened his hands, closed them. Open, close; open, close. Even with a long inspection at the general normalness of his hand, he couldn’t shake whatever that feeling was. His resentment for Patriarch Meng came in a fast stroke—he had no choice but to end this scuffle with Xinrei quickly and head to the Doctor’s as soon as he could.

“A duel for supremacy is at hand! Chosen Two—Xinrei Grittus, crowned today, but he is not satisfied! He desires more, and so, our afterparty’s delayed for a new event! Challenging the first place, Grisla Orlith! Will he prove his hunger true? Or will the placement be reaffirmed?” A bit too sensational for Patriarch, but a few forgave it as a father’s excitement.

After that, the Patriarch himself came to the center, at the divide between Grisla’s and Xinrei’s side. “Victory will be decided by whomever concedes or who I judge to be unfit to continue battling. There will be no arguments against the decision. Hand-to-hand combat, so, Xinrei you’ll have to test out that weapon another time.”

Xinrei frowned, “But, father—”

“Show the clan you can claim what’s yours without a tool’s assistance. I have no doubts about you,” Patriarch Meng nodded, then turned, “I apologize Chosen One, but there will be some favoritism towards my son, I hope you understand.”

Grisla had to shove down a sneer, More than you think.

“Of course, my Patriarch. It’ll be additional distinction to beat the Patriarch’s favored.”

He offered a queer smile at that, disappearing after a blink.

The spear was tossed to an assistant who acted like what he held was the power switch for the sun itself. A working analogy, if either face trouble, then his life is forfeit. Xinrei’s knuckles popped and grinded as if a boot was on gravel. He hadn’t spared a glance to his father at all since his arrival on stage. The side of his mouth worked for him, while the ferocity that a boy of such age shouldn’t hold, was seeping out little by little. If it weren’t for the authority of the man between them, he would immediately pounce on Grisla without hesitation.

He’s serious about this, then.

Grisla’s body moved to its second-most natural state: The stance. He hadn’t practiced Earth shatters; Heaven quakes long, but neither has Xinrei. When it comes to the fist art, they’re both on equal levels. Barely managing to unleash the second strike perfectly.

Xinrei, who sucked his teeth mirrored his counterpart; The stance was held. “This is my day, Grisla,” he scowled.

“Maybe,” Grisla squinted. “Maybe not.”

“Ah, the enthusiasm of youth.” Patriarch Meng said. He raised his hand, looked to both sides, and—Nobody noticed, but his lips curved slightly upwards. At the end of his slice downwards, he shouted:

“Begin!”

In the stands…

“Mama,” A girl, who dressed in the Grittus clan’s colors, asked, “I can’t see! I can’t see!”

A wrinkled woman a seat over away from “Mama” in question, spoke. “You should be able to see just fine, child.”

“No! I can’t see! There’s nothing there!” The child pointed to the stage. “I can hear them, but there’s nothing!”

Had the child been maybe a year or two older, the woman’s rebuttal would’ve been spiked with rebuke, “You’re only about two months before you’re allowed to train, but you hear them, don’t you?”

The little girl nodded.

“They haven’t disappeared at all. They’re just moving very fast,” the Elder squinted, “A bit too fast for their level, but they’re geniuses, I suppose the rules don’t always apply. Anyway, don’t try to see them with your eyes, you’re not at that level yet. Let your senses guide you. Home in on their Juva, they’re not masking a single bit of it.”

Her mother gave a nod to her daughter; the little girl went back to the stage, hearing them. The claps of skin meeting skin; random fractures in the pavement made by the invisible, the ignorant and superstitious would think it the work of a poltergeist. The little girl tried using her immature spiritual sense to follow their trail, and her eyes moved in a lag. She was five steps behind, but slowly, but surely, she was coming close. Her vision skipped and followed the abrupt sounds made in the melee. An afterimage appeared.

“Oh!” She blinked.

Another afterimage—Xinrei blocked a kick. The afterimages of the two began to come to life, each blink capturing a new frame unseen before. Soon, as she focused harder, she didn’t need to blink anymore. The sounds matched their owners, the figures became clearer, and now— “I see it! Wow! Thank you Elder!” the little one managed a sort of informal bow, which earned a nod from the woman.

“No problem. However,” the Elder shot a snide eye to her mother, whose bothered face wanted to sweat like she was the one down there, “if someone had taught her this properly, you wouldn’t be so frustrated.”

“Please, forgive this one’s faulty teaching,” the girl’s mother managed a half-bow in her seat.

“Whatever,” the Elder said. “It seems like would be no point to her watching it; this battle’s decided.”

“How so?”

“Is it not obvious? The Orlith boy’s in trouble. His strikes are weak, with every exchange it seems as if that problem’s getting exacerbated every second. I don’t know what’s going on, but his cultivation…” she frowned, “is dropping like a stone.”

A shadow overhead, the owner screaming on his descent. Grisla threw himself into a roll. Xinrei pulled the heel of his boot out; the miniature crater will have to be patched up by the masons later.

“Heh, is this how the mighty Grisla Orlith fights? By running and dodging like a coward?”

“I told… you,” he sucked in air, “I’m not feeling too well.”

“Neither was I.” Xinrei growled, “You think it’s fun being second-best when a whole line of your forefathers has always taken first? It is my right to be Chosen One! Decided at birth, a destiny which bounds all descendants of me and my father’s line! And you… you’re the son of someone who dared to reach where he shouldn’t. Look what that got him!” He pointed to the stands. “Grisla, I do have respect for you—and would’ve considered you a Brother, but you’re an obstacle to my light!”

Xinrei let fly a new flurry of attacks, every one that was blocked forced Grisla back a step; Grisla sought a brief window for a counterattack—he received a lip-splitting punch as punishment. Xinrei stepped over the new bloodstain.

“You’ll win, just like that huh? Is honor meaningless to you?” He spat out the remainder.

“Whatever do you mean, Brother Grisla?” Xinrei innocently blinked. “I am fighting the greatest rival and opponent I’ve ever encountered right here, right now, in front of the whole of the clan and our vassals. Stepping over you means I’ll be reborn again; the carp jumping over the dragon’s gate, never to be burdened by its stressors as such. Or are you going to be a sore loser? Didn’t you hear the Patriarch? You’ll still be among us, just… not my better.”

Xinrei frowned a smidge. “Though, if what’s happening to you now is permanent, then…”

He gnashed his teeth, Pond-sucking Xinrei!

It was as if a hole had been punctured into a bucket, every time he gathered his Juva it would dissipate as soon as it gathered; it could be used, but it was like trying to hold water between his hands; managing that and keeping his awareness up against Xinrei was impossible. Worrying still, that the Juva he’s losing isn’t replenishing at the least, his body has been getting noticeably heavier with every breath.

Under my estimate, in two minutes I’ll be the equivalent of a third cycle. When that happens, the match is over. I don’t understand! Everything was fine before! Ever since I woke up things haven’t been the same! All I did was get home, take a nap and now this! What can I do, there must be something!

Xinrei didn’t give him long to consider, fist crossing space to hit him again. He retaliated, this time Xinrei couldn’t block and instead, swerved his face out of the way. Grisla’s speed shot him forward.

Xinrei twitched to move again, but—couldn’t, jerking where he stood. His eyes widened, “Grisla!”

The Chosen’s foot acted as if it was in a deadbolt. It was, by the effort of Grisla stomping it down with his own. Close enough to see the contours of the cheek, Grisla’s elbow went forward in a vicious assault. Even if Xinrei blocked, inertia would still carry his strike to the target of his choice—the crown of his nose. And as expected…

“Mo-motherless bastard!” Xinrei’s bloodshot eyes shot death at his foe, kicking him away. A blood river ran from his nose; droplets overlapping over Grisla’s. He looked at the hand stained with his fluids; eyes wavered to the crowd, who watched the son of heaven bleed. “You…” he muttered. “It’s always your fault.”

Xinrei’s Juva shot up, “Just. Die!”

Chosen One quivered.

Look at that! He’s emitting so much Juva it-it’s nearly visible! That’s unheard of below Houtian! It must be a breakthrough… but to be triggered by rage, is my luck that horrid?

Grisla pleaded, “Listen, Xinrei—”

He blacked out. When he woke, he found it a herculean effort to breathe. That mystery was answered quickly, as his vision saw an arm meeting his throat. Not only that he realized. His ribcage was assuredly in pieces; caved in from a fist too fast to see, too powerful to block. From a boy to who the word “restraint,” is not defined as of yet.

“Xinrei…” He grasped at the arm.

“Goodbye, Brother Grisla.”

The blackness at the corners of his vision crawled to the center. He was confident if they meet…

Xinrei and Grisla weren’t that far apart in height, additionally they both were still in their child bodies. His kicks certainly met the upper part of Xinrei’s chest. However, with a declining cultivation, and zero tricks up his sleeve, instinct kicked the boy out of the pilot’s seat. No longer Chosen One, or Grisla Orlith—

Just a panicking boy struggling for life.

His vision made sluggish steps to the stands; the Patriarch should be able to see this.

Where… is… Patri…arch.

Patriarch Meng, with his back facing the stands—smiled.

Behind him and further up, Gihren Orlith was seized and held down by not one, or two, or three, but four Elders and additionally one High Elder standing nearby. His mouth wide, eyes zeroed in on Grisla; tears wetting the edges.

Mother...

—If you ever fear for your life… then…

Xinrei blinked, “What are you muttering? Last words?”

“No, yours.” Grisla sneered. Both arms held onto Xinrei. “Jadewater… Han—

“Apologies, but it won’t be going down like that.” A voice said.