Yichen had never seen his father like this—calm, cold, calculating.
Not the weeping madman they all remembered. Not the husk that wasted away in silence for years. This… was someone else entirely.
Someone dangerous.
And he didn't know whether to be afraid… or proud.
Two hours passed.
The arena was alive with chaos. Roaring voices rose like thunder as spectators packed the stands shoulder to shoulder. Trumpets blared. Flags whipped in the breeze. The air carried the scent of sweat, metal, and festival spice.
The Festival of the Strongest had begun.
Feng Yun sat beside Yichen in the center stands, both unnoticed. But his eyes weren't on the combatants. No—they were fixed higher.
On the royal box.
Behind glass windows above the masses sat three ornate chairs. The central throne rose slightly above the others, polished to glint under the sun.
And seated on it was a man whose face mirrored Feng Yun's—only twisted with age, power, and a cruel, jagged scar across his cheek.
"My younger brother," Feng Yun muttered under his breath. "Still pretending to be king."
To the king's left sat Council Minister Van—once Feng Yun's dearest friend. To the right, his former general, the man who had once sworn loyalty until death.
All traitors.
A silver-haired man with a long beard walked into the arena's center, his voice booming through amplifying runes.
"Welcome, citizens of the realm, to this decade's Festival of the Strongest!"
The audience erupted in applause. Cheers bounced off the stone walls.
"I am Shin, champion of the last tournament. By order of our noble king, I shall serve as your referee and host."
He turned and bowed toward the royal box.
"I now ask His Majesty to bless this sacred event with his approval."
All eyes turned upward.
King Feng Han slowly raised his hand—and clapped once.
The crowd answered with thunderous applause.
"Let the tournament… begin!"
The first three matches blurred by in a whirl of shouts and clashing steel. The crowd cheered for every blow, every spell, every dramatic finish.
Then came the fourth match.
Shin stepped forward again, holding a wooden token.
"Next," he announced, "Riyal, the prodigy of the Arcane Academy! Mortal Path—Tenth Stage!"
Gasps followed. A lean young man with sharp silver hair entered the arena, spinning his wand with effortless flair.
He bowed low with a flourish, drinking in the audience's adoration.
"That's the genius from Rover Academy!"
"He reached Stage Ten at twenty!"
"Didn't he cast a First Circle spell with just one hand?!"
Cheers shook the stadium. Riyal soaked it in, confident and cocky.
Shin looked at the second token.
His expression froze.
Eyes flicked nervously toward the royal box.
"…And his opponent," he said at last, voice quieter, "a swordsman. Mortal Path—Fifth Stage."
A pause.
He exhaled. "Feng Yun."
A silence swept the stands like a crashing wave.
Then whispers.
"Feng Yun? Isn't that the old king's name?"
"No… that's our king's older brother! The one who fell into a coma!"
"Didn't they say he was dead?!"
Heads turned in unison toward the royal box.
King Feng Han's face twisted in fury.
"What is this?! He's supposed to be dead!"
He turned sharply toward Minister Van. "You swore the assassin succeeded!"
Van dropped to one knee. "F-forgive me, my king… he never returned. I assumed—"
"You assumed wrong."
The general leaned in close. "My lord. Eyes are watching. If we panic, we lose control. Do something—fast."
Feng Han clenched his fists.
"Then I'll kill him on this very stage."
He stood.
"From this moment," he declared, "I revoke the ancestral law: 'Slaying your opponent results in death.' From now on—killing is allowed."
Gasps rang through the arena.
Van's face paled. "My king, that law—your forefathers carved it into the foundation stones of the arena—"
"Shut up!" Han roared. "This is your fault. He dies today—no matter the cost."
But then—
The crowd cheered.
"LONG LIVE OUR GLORIOUS KING!"
Their praise rang out louder than the law they'd just lost.
In the box, all three traitors were stunned.
But on the field… Feng Yun simply stood. Unmoved. Unblinking. A shadow with eyes.
His face showed no emotion. But in his mind, his trap had just sprung.
"They think they've cornered me," he thought. "West, east, north, south… all their moves fall into my hands. But they forgot—I wrote the map they're following."
Riyal, meanwhile, was growing impatient.
He twirled his wand again and called out, "You… Are you really the former king?"
Feng Yun stepped into the arena.
Black robes rustled in the breeze. A long katana, unsheathed, glimmered like blood in moonlight.
He said nothing.
"I asked you a question," Riyal pressed, wand raised.
Feng Yun looked at him—finally—and spoke, voice calm as winter.
"And if I am?"
Riyal's expression sharpened. "Then I'll make sure I'm the last thing you ever see."
A pause.
Then, a smirk ghosted across Feng Yun's face.
He chuckled softly—just loud enough for the closest onlookers to hear.
"Hahaha… People don't flinch when others die. But pinch them? That's when they cry foul."
The crowd quieted again.
Even Riyal faltered.
Then, slowly, the mage lifted his wand—more cautiously now.
And Feng Yun lowered his blade… just an inch.
Ready.