The registration hall buzzed with activity as practitioners of traditional dicine from across the country gathered, their formal robes creating a sea of varying colors and insignias. Elder Harding and I approached the registration desk, but I couldn't ignore the dismissive glances and hushed whispers directed our way.
"Old Harding and so nobody," one elderly practitioner muttered just loud enough for us to hear. "Why does he even bother coming back year after year?"
Another chid in with a smirk. "Thirteenth ti's the charm, perhaps?"
Their laughter grated on my nerves, but Elder Harding simply kept walking, his face a mask of practiced indifference. The slight slump in his shoulders, however, told everything.
"You don't have to tolerate that," I said quietly.
He gave a weary smile. "Save your energy for battles that matter, Liam. I've weathered worse storms than the hot air of old n."
When we reached the registration desk, a young man in an expensive suit looked up from his phone with undisguised boredom. His naplate read "Mr. Leif - Conference Coordinator."
"Nas?" he asked without bothering to stand.
"Anthony Harding and Liam Knight," Elder Harding replied politely.
Mr. Leif's eyes flickered with recognition at Elder Harding's na. Not respect – recognition. He pulled out a form and slid it across the desk.
"Fill this out, Mr. Harding. Sa as every year."
He then turned to with a dismissive glance. "And you? First-tir? Let guess – apprentice?"
"Colleague," I corrected.
His eyebrows rose. "Right. Well, you'll need recomndation letters from three established practitioners to even apply as an observer. Do you have those?"
Before I could respond, Elder Harding intervened. "Mr. Knight is my guest. I'm vouching for him personally."
Leif sighed as if we were wasting his precious ti. "One recomndation isn't enough. Rules are rules." The smirk on his face told he was enjoying this petty display of power.
I leaned forward slightly. "Are you certain those rules apply to everyone, or just to those without the right connections?"
His eyes narrowed. "Listen, I don't make the rules. If you have a problem—"
"Is there an issue here?"
The new voice ca from behind us, smooth as silk but cold as ice. I turned to see a tall, thin man in his fifties, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit with a traditional dicine guild pin prominently displayed.
Recognition hit imdiately. Desmond Davenport. The corrupt doctor I'd humiliated at the hospital less than a week ago.
His eyes found mine, and for a mont, surprise registered on his face before a calculating smile spread across his features.
"Well, well. Liam Knight. What an unexpected... pleasure."
Leif imdiately stood up, his deanor transforming from bored bureaucrat to eager subordinate. "Dr. Davenport! No issue at all. Just explaining the registration requirents to these gentlen."
"I see." Davenport's eyes never left mine. "And Mr. Knight here wants to participate in our prestigious conference?"
Elder Harding stepped forward. "Dr. Davenport, I'm sponsoring Mr. Knight. His skills—"
"Anthony, please," Davenport cut him off with a dismissive wave. "Your... reputation precedes you. Your sponsorship hardly carries weight here."
He picked up my application form, examining it with theatrical scrutiny. "Liam Knight... No formal training, no recognized lineage, no published works. Interesting."
Without warning, he tore the form in half, then again, letting the pieces flutter to the desk. The f%ul.l- s.e!ri^e%s- is h$o!st$ed! on My Vi#r^tu$al# L@ibr#a-ry@ E#mpire$,! k.n^o&wn@ as *..
"Unqualified," he declared, voice dripping with satisfaction.
My jaw tightened. "On what grounds?"
"On the grounds that I say so," Davenport replied coolly. "As chairman of the selection committee, I have final authority over who participates."
The room had grown quiet. Other practitioners watched with undisguised interest, so with sympathy, others with cruel amusent.
"This is a personal vendetta," I stated flatly. "You're abusing your position because I exposed your corruption at the hospital."
Davenport's smile didn't falter, but his eyes hardened. "Careful with such accusations, Mr. Knight. Defamation is a serious matter."
He turned to address the onlookers. "This young man thinks traditional dicine is sothing anyone can practice without proper training or respect for our traditions. He represents everything that's wrong with modern attitudes toward our ancient art."
Several older practitioners nodded in agreent, eager to align themselves with soone of Davenport's stature.
He turned back to . "However, I'm not unreasonable. If you truly wish to participate..."
Here it cos, I thought.
"...you can beg."
The silence in the room deepened.
"Excuse ?" I said, though I'd heard him perfectly well.
"Kneel and beg for the privilege of attending this conference." Davenport's voice carried throughout the hall. "Demonstrate the humility that a true practitioner of traditional dicine should possess."
Elder Harding stepped forward, his face flushed with anger. "This is outrageous! Desmond, you've gone too far—"
"It's alright, Elder Harding," I said, my voice calm despite the anger churning in my gut.
I looked Davenport directly in the eyes. "I won't be kneeling today or any other day, Dr. Davenport. Not for you, not for anyone."
"Then you won't be participating," he replied smoothly. "Such a sha to co all this way for nothing."
I turned to Elder Harding. "Let's go. This isn't worth our ti."
As we began to walk away, my phone rang. I normally would have ignored it, but sothing compelled to check the screen. The na "Ari Steele" flashed on the display.
"One mont," I said to Elder Harding, stepping aside to take the call.
"Mr. Knight," Ari's crisp voice ca through the line. "I understand you're at the Traditional dicine Conference registration."
I blinked in surprise. "How did you—"
"Information is my business," she cut smoothly. "I also understand Dr. Davenport is causing difficulties."
I glanced over at Davenport, who was watching with smug satisfaction. "That's putting it mildly."
"Check your email. I've just sent you confirmation of your direct admission to the conference finals. The Steele Corporation is a major sponsor this year, and we're entitled to nominate one participant of our choosing. That participant is you."
I couldn't help but laugh softly. "Perfect timing, Ms. Steele."
"I prefer to be punctual in all things, Mr. Knight. Good luck."
The call ended, and I imdiately checked my email. There it was—official confirmation of my status as a finalist in the Traditional dicine Competition, bearing the Steele Corporation logo and the signature of the conference's executive director.
I walked back to Davenport, whose expression of triumph was about to be short-lived.
"Changed your mind about kneeling?" he asked with a smirk.
I held up my phone, displaying the email. "I'm sorry, I don't need to beg you. Because I have been admitted."
The color drained from Davenport's face as he snatched the phone from my hand, his eyes widening as he read the confirmation.
"This is impossible," he stamred. "This must be forged."
Mr. Leif peered at the screen and swallowed hard. "Sir, that's a legitimate corporate sponsorship nomination. It overrides the standard application process."
I took my phone back, enjoying the stunned silence that had fallen over the room. "I believe you have a badge for , Mr. Leif? After all, rules are rules."
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