The Traditional dicine Association's grand hall stood before , its imposing marble columns and ornate oak doors designed to intimidate outsiders. I pushed through with Elder Foster at my side, his weathered face tight with anticipation. Inside, doctors and dical practitioners milled about in expensive robes, their conversations dropping to whispers as we entered.
"Look who finally decided to show up," a voice called out.
Desmond Davenport stood at the center of the room, surrounded by a circle of elders who parted like a curtain to reveal his smug face. His expensive silk robes rustled as he approached us, each step deliberate and asured.
"Liam Knight," he announced loudly, making sure everyone could hear. "Co to waste everyone's ti?"
I t his gaze evenly. "Actually, I'm here to compete in the finals."
My statent hung in the air for a mont before laughter erupted around the room. Desmond's face broke into a condescending smile.
"The finals?" he repeated, his voice dripping with mock surprise. "My dear boy, you seem confused. The competition begins with preliminary rounds, which you would know if you belonged here."
I shrugged. "I have direct entry to the finals."
The laughter grew louder. An older man with a long white beard stepped forward, his Traditional dicine Association badge identifying him as Elder Chen.
"Young man," he said, not unkindly, "such arrangents require Presidential approval. That would be Dr. Davenport here."
Desmond's smile widened. "And I can assure you, I've approved no such thing."
I didn't argue. Instead, I simply found a bench along the wall and sat down. Elder Foster took the seat beside , concern etched on his face.
"Liam," he whispered, "perhaps we should—"
"Wait," I said quietly. "Just wait."
Hours passed. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows shifted from morning gold to afternoon amber. Participants ca and went, shooting curious glances in our direction. Desmond made a point of walking past us several tis, each pass accompanied by a smirk or a snide comnt.
As evening approached and the light outside began to fade, Desmond finally made his move. He strode over, flanked by several association elders.
"It seems your guarantee hasn't materialized," he said loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Perhaps it was just another of your fabrications?"
I stretched my arms above my head, relaxed despite the mounting tension. "The day isn't over yet."
His eyes narrowed. "Do you take us for fools? I am the President of this association. Nothing happens here without my knowledge or approval." A*lwa#ys re$a%d from the sourc.e.:* M&|V&|*LE4%MPYR!.
"And yet," I replied, "here I am."
Desmond's face flushed with anger. "You're nothing! A nobody who thinks he can waltz in and—"
"A nobody who exposed your dical malpractice," I cut in. "A nobody who treated patients you claid were beyond help. Is that what bothers you, Dr. Davenport? That this nobody might make you look like an even bigger fraud than you already are?"
The elders behind him shifted uncomfortably. Desmond took a step closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"You have no idea who you're dealing with. I have connections across every walk of life in this city. When I'm done with you—"
The massive oak doors swung open.
Every head turned as Declan Steele walked in, his presence commanding imdiate attention. His tailored suit contrasted sharply with the traditional robes worn by everyone else, yet sohow made them all look underdressed.
"Mr. Steele," Desmond stamred, quickly composing himself. "This is an unexpected honor."
Declan barely acknowledged him, his eyes scanning the room until they found . He strode directly over, ignoring the whispers that followed him.
"Liam," he said with a nod. "I apologize for the delay."
I stood and shook his hand. "No problem at all."
Desmond's confusion was palpable as he hurried over. "Mr. Steele, I wasn't aware you had business with... this individual."
Declan reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew an official-looking docunt bearing the seal of the Ministry of Comrce. He handed it to Desmond without ceremony.
"This is confirmation of Mr. Knight's direct entry to the finals of the Traditional dicine Conference," Declan stated flatly. "As the primary sponsor of this event, the Ministry of Comrce reserves the right to nominate one candidate of exceptional rit to bypass the preliminaries. We've chosen Liam Knight."
The room fell silent as Desmond frantically scanned the docunt, his fingers trembling slightly.
"This... this is highly irregular," he protested. "The Association has protocols—"
"The Association accepted our sponsorship terms," Declan interrupted. "Those terms included this provision. Your signature is on the agreent, Dr. Davenport."
Desmond's face paled as he continued reading. The docunt was legitimate, and he knew it. I could almost see the calculations running behind his eyes as he searched for any way to reverse this situation.
"Is there a problem, Dr. Davenport?" Declan asked, his tone making it clear there better not be.
After a painful silence, Desmond forced a smile. "No problem at all. We welco Mr. Knight's... participation."
Declan nodded curtly and turned back to . "All the arrangents have been made. The finals begin tomorrow at nine." He lowered his voice. "Make it count, Liam."
"I will," I promised.
With a final nod, Declan turned and left, leaving behind a room thick with tension and whispers. Desmond stood frozen, the docunt crumpled slightly in his white-knuckled grip.
I approached him slowly, keeping my voice low enough that only he could hear. "You know what the difference is between us, Desmond? I earn my opportunities. You just collect them like party favors."
His eyes flashed with hatred. "This ans nothing. You'll still lose tomorrow. And when you do, I'll make sure everyone knows what a fraud you really are."
I smiled. "I look forward to it."
As Elder Foster and I walked out, I could feel Desmond's glare burning into my back. The man's humiliation would only make him more dangerous, but I couldn't bring myself to care. So people needed to learn their lessons the hard way.
Back at my apartnt that night, I sat cross-legged on the floor, my mind running through countless ancient formulas. The knowledge that flowed through was vast—secrets of traditional dicine that would shock the world if revealed all at once. Cultivation thods from ages past, techniques forgotten by ti, redies for ailnts modern dicine deed incurable.
For tomorrow's competition, I needed sothing impressive but not world-shattering. Sothing that would win decisively without revealing the full extent of my abilities.
After careful consideration, I finally settled on a single formula—a Pill that would guarantee victory without exposing too many of my secrets. I smiled to myself in the darkness. The Traditional dicine Association had no idea what was coming.
Tomorrow, they would begin to understand exactly who they were dealing with.
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