The sky hung low over the training ground, a dull gray canvas that seemed to mirror the tension in the air. A cold wind whispered across the open field, stirring dust and loose leaves, carrying with it the weight of expectation.
Varla stood tall and silent, his eyes narrowed as he stared at his opponent—his half-brother, Quin. Both were sons of the great Walter, patriarch of the Pethron bloodline, but they could not have been more different. Where Varla was composed and methodical, Quin was wild and impulsive. Their rivalry had brewed since childhood, and now, with no one to intervene, it was about to boil over.
They bowed in tradition, but there was no respect in the gesture. Only cold determination.
Then—movement.
Quin shot forward like a spring released, his body a blur of motion. He moved with surprising speed, closing the distance in a blink. His right fist cocked back, glowing faintly with Qi, and then it rocketed forward, aimed straight at Varla's jaw.
Varla didn't flinch.
With a twist of his torso, he brought up his forearm and redirected the blow, the force of it vibrating through his bones. Quin's eyes widened in surprise, but Varla was already moving. He spun, his leg sweeping up in a wide arc.
CRACK.
A Qi-enhanced roundhouse kick slammed into Quin's ribs, lifting him off the ground. The impact was like a battering ram. Quin's body flew back several meters before he slammed into the dirt, skidding to a halt.
A gasp of pain escaped his lips. His vision blurred. His internal organs trembled from the impact—he had never been hit that hard before.
But he wasn't finished.
Drawing in a ragged breath, Quin gritted his teeth and slammed his palms into the ground, pushing himself up. His body shimmered, and then he vanished.
Phantom Step.
Varla's eyes narrowed. "So he's using that already..."
The air behind him shimmered—and he ducked just in time to avoid a kick aimed at his head. Quin reappeared mid-spin, striking again, this time with a barrage of punches aimed at Varla's chest.
Varla blocked the first two, parried the third, but the fourth landed with a sickening thud.
Thump.
Quin's knuckles drilled into Varla's sternum, and he felt the breath rush out of his lungs. Another punch followed. Then another. Quin roared, fists flying with fury and desperation. One punch sent Varla reeling backward—and then, with a final burst of Qi, Quin launched a straight jab into Varla's chest.
The shockwave of the hit blasted Varla off his feet. He crashed into a stone wall with bone-jarring force. Cracks spiderwebbed behind him as he slumped to the ground, blood trickling from his temple.
Quin panted, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "It's over," he growled.
But then he saw it—Varla's eyes, glowing faintly with a deep, burning energy.
"No," Varla whispered. "It's not."
Slowly, with grim determination, Varla rose to his feet. He clenched his fists, the air around him beginning to pulse and shimmer with raw Qi. The ground beneath him trembled slightly.
With a roar, he surged forward, faster than Quin could follow.
Varla's palm slammed into Quin's chest—not touching, but hovering just an inch away. Then—
BOOM!
A concentrated wave of Qi exploded from Varla's hand. It struck Quin like a tidal wave, lifting him off the ground and hurling him backward. The shockwave rippled outward, shaking the nearby training dummies and sending dust flying into the air.
Quin hit the ground hard. He groaned, blood pouring from his mouth. His vision dimmed, and his limbs refused to move. His last thought before blacking out was simple and terrifying:
He's stronger than I thought.
Varla stood over him, chest heaving, sweat and blood dripping from his face. He looked down at his fallen brother, then slowly dropped to one knee, placing his hands on his thighs to steady himself.
The fight was over.
From the shadows beyond the training ground, someone watched.
Flora, Quin's mother, observed the scene with a clenched jaw and fury in her heart. Her eyes burned with rage as she watched the servants rush forward to carry her unconscious son away.
"How dare that little bastard defeat my son!" she hissed, hurling her enchanted eye crystal to the ground. It shattered. A maid scrambled to pick up the pieces, trembling under Flora's icy glare.
"If Varla continues like this," she muttered, pacing, "he will become the next heir... and Quin... my son... will be cast aside."
She stopped, thinking.
"What can I do?" Her voice trembled with venom. "What should I—"
Then she smiled.
A slow, cruel, knowing smile.
"Ah... yes. That could work."
Her expression twisted into something dark and devilish as she turned away. She had found her answer. And it involved eliminating a problem... permanently.
Far from the chaos, in a cold, dimly lit throne room, a shadowy figure knelt before a towering man seated upon a dais.
He had glowing blue eyes, hair as white as snow, and a jagged scar clawing down the right side of his face—a wound inflicted years ago by a divine beast. This was Walter, father of both Varla and Quin, and the patriarch of the Pethron House.
"My lord," the ninja whispered, "there has been an incident. The young masters fought today."
Walter didn't look up. "Let me guess… Quin emerged victorious?"
"No, my lord," the ninja said carefully. "It was young master Varla."
Silence fell.
Then Walter's lips parted. "What…?"
He stood, slowly. A moment passed. Then he burst into loud, booming laughter, the sound echoing through the throne room like thunder.
[Walter laughs]
When he finally stopped, a dangerous glint sparkled in his eye.
"Well, well… Very interesting. Things are about to get far more entertaining."
He turned to the shadows behind his throne.
"Summon the others. It's time we began... the trials."