The roar of the crowd had not yet faded when the referee raised his hand for silence. The announcent cut through the din like a blade:
"Next bout—the Masters’ duel."
Excitent rippled through the stands. The masters would fight in pairs, matched by the whim of random draw. First to face each other: Julian Cardill of the Cardill Martial Arts Academy versus Helio of the Zen Warriors.
Julian entered the ring first. His robes were immaculate, his every step polished, radiating the arrogance of a man who had spent his life adored, feared, and obeyed. Though ti had etched faint lines on his face, his movents carried the sharp precision of decades of relentless discipline. His eyes swept the arena like a sovereign surveying his court, daring anyone to question his supremacy.
But when the referee spoke the na Helio, Julian faltered. His chest tightened with unease.
Helio.
He had not expected to hear that na ever again. Helio Bandor—the man thought long dead, erased from history two decades ago. A ghost, buried under scandal and disgrace. Surely, it couldn’t be him.
Julian had been standing for so ti in the center of the ring, but his opponent was still not around. He held his stance, smug at first when no opponent appeared. Perhaps, he thought, Helio had fled rather than face him. The referee began a countdown toward default victory.
The referee started on a countdown but when was down to three, Jethru stepped into the arena with quiet gravity, clad in a simple white tunic and trousers, a crimson sash bound at his waist. His fra was broad, his shoulders unbowed, his presence steady as stone. Ti had not diminished him—it had forged him. Where Julian burned with vanity, Jethru radiated stillness, like a mountain unmoved by storm.
Julian’s eyes widened, disbelief flooding him. "It is you!"
Jethru’s voice rang out, firm as iron. "Heh. You didn’t expect , did you, Julian? You’ve squatted on a title that isn’t yours for too long. It’s ti to vacate it—and return what never belonged to you."
Julian sneered, though unease lingered in his eyes. "Still arrogant as ever, Helio Bandor."
"And you," Jethru shot back, his gaze unflinching, "are still as despicable as the day you betrayed your master. Samuel treated you as a son, yet you stabbed him in the back and seized what was his."
Julian’s lips tightened. Does he know?
The crowd stirred restlessly. They could not hear the words exchanged, but confusion rippled through them. Why had the bout not begun? What bound these two masters in such obvious loathing?
Then Jethru raised his voice, clear and carrying across the entire arena.
"Twenty-five years ago, you—my brother—branded Helio Bandor a fraud. You accused him of swallowing strength-enhancing pills, and by that lie you stole his victory, his honor, and his life. Today, let the people witness the truth."
King Heimdal was silently watching the scene unfold. No wonder that man looked familiar.
A murmur swept through the arena, like wind over dry leaves. Old mories resurfaced, stories whispered of the tournant long ago, where Helio’s victory had co not through skill, but through sches.
Helio was branded a fraud, accused of swallowing strength-enhancing pills, and was sentenced to death. So had thought him dead. Others had thought him disgraced. Now, soone stood up for him.
Now, the past had clawed its way back into the present. The people wandered if Jethru ndel was Helio’s fried and he was trying to clear his na and avenge him.
The crowd’s noise ebbed into breathless silence.
Julian’s sneer returned, though sweat glistened faintly on his brow. "Finally, you crawl back from whatever hole you’ve been hiding in. Will you claim again that you never took the pill? Or do you think your disciple’s victory lends you borrowed honor?
Jethru’s eyes narrowed, his tone calm, but forged of iron. "I never needed false strength. And today—before all—I’ll show the truth you feared twenty-five years ago."
The gong struck.
Julian moved first, swift as a striking serpent. His palm lashed toward Jethru’s chest, raw force rippling the air. Jethru t it head-on—forearm against palm—the impact cracking like thunder, dust spiraling up from the ground. The stands rattled with the shockwave.
Strike t counter. Palm t fist. Kicks were blocked. The arena shook with every clash.
Julian’s style was sharp, cutting—his strikes a chain ant to overwhelm, every move ant to prove superiority.
But Jethru’s movents flowed like water over stone, absorbing, redirecting, punishing overreach. He did not match Julian’s fury blow for blow—he outlasted it, dismantling it piece by piece.
"Still hiding behind defense?" Julian spat, sweat beading his brow. He lunged, driving a knee toward Jethru’s ribs.
Jethru shifted, caught the strike, and with a twist of his hips hurled Julian across the ring. The man hit the dirt hard, rolling back to his feet with a snarl.
The crowd gasped—Julian, thrown like a novice?
Julian bared his teeth, fury flashing. He struck again, faster, harder, his hands blurring as he unleashed his ultimate techniques. His palms descended like hamr blows, each one a strike that could shatter stone.
Jethru rooted himself, his aura shifting. His movents slowed, then sharpened—every deflection exact, every counter absolute. He drew Julian into his rhythm, and then—when the opening ca—he struck.
His fist drove into Julian’s chest with the weight of an avalanche. While he was Lara’s master, he also learned a few tricks from her, especially about mixed martial arts.
The sound cracked like thunder. Julian staggered back, breath exploding from his lungs.
The crowd erupted.
Julian clutched at his chest, disbelief flooding his eyes. "No... impossible. Without... enhancent, no man could..." His words choked in his throat as he crumpled to his knees, the fight knocked the breath out of him as surely as the pride that had fueled him.
The referee raised his hand. "The victor—Helio!"
The arena roared. Decades of doubt were shattered in an instant. Jethru stood tall, chest rising and falling, his gaze sweeping the crowd. Not triumph, not arrogance—only vindication, pure and hard-earned.
Lara, still bandaged and bruised, watched from the sidelines, her heart swelling. She had won her battle—but her master had won his war.
Julian’s head hung, hatred burning in the hollow of his defeat. The stain of false accusation no longer weighed on Jethru. The score, twenty-five years old, was finally settled.
But it was only the beginning. He would take back what the Cardills stole from his master one by one.
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