CHAPTER 427: THE MARTIAL ARTS COMPETITION

A day before the queen’s birthday.

A man with long hair as dark as midnight and bound high with a red ribbon stood in line among the other hopeful contenders for the martial arts competition. His stance was upright, his presence commanding, though he did nothing but wait. Beside him lingered a younger man with short, curly hair and skin like polished charcoal, his eyes restless as they darted around the crowd.

"Master," the curly-haired disciple murmured, unease lacing his words. "Do you think I am ready for this?"

"No," came the gruff reply, low and steady like the rumble of distant thunder. "You are not. You came here to observe. Others will fight for your place."

The young man who was embarrassed looked down at his feet. His master’s sharp tongue really stung.

When their turn arrived, the registrar—a man with a round spectacle, sat lazily on a wooden chair behind a rickety table—squinted at the next entrant. His eyes narrowed at the sight of the figure before him: a man with striking black hair that seemed to shimmer, which appeared unnatural.

The registrar rifled through his parchment. He didn’t recognize him. A newcomer? A stranger from the provinces?

"Name of the school or guild?" he asked, quill poised above the parchment.

"Zen Warriors," the black-haired man answered, voice clear, calm, and carrying the weight of steel.

The registrar’s hand froze. Zen Warriors. A name out of whispered memory. A school that had fallen to ruin years ago, crushed and forgotten. He glanced up at the man again, his lazy demeanor faltering.

"And the names of your contenders?"

"Helio, Fenris, and Wolverine," came the effortless reply, spoken with the air of someone naming legends rather than men.

The registrar swallowed, his fingers tightening around the quill. There was something oppressive in the names uttered and the stranger’s presence, an aura that made his chest tighten. Was this man a master?

"Sir," he pressed cautiously, "I’ll also need the names of the contenders, not just their aliases."

"Jethru Mendel, Kane Mendel, and Logan Mendel."

The registrar looked up. He wanted to ask if they were brothers, but when he saw the chill in the man’s eyes, he swallowed his words and jotted down the names.

The curly-haired disciple nearly choked, his eyes bulging. "Master—you’re fighting?"

Jethru shot him a sharp look. "Rascal. What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m too old to compete? You still can’t even lay a finger on me."

Ambros flushed crimson, sputtering. "It’s not that! You—you look young, Master. Especially with your black hair."

The memory of the summons resurfaced.

A week ago, Jethru’s martial arts school had received a royal invitation. The queen’s golden jubilee would see the return of the ancient tradition—a grand martial tournament, hosted by the king and queen herself. Schools from every corner of Northem, even from neighboring kingdoms, were called to prove their worth. And this year, not only disciples, but masters themselves were required to compete.

When Jethru read the invitation, a grim determination had stirred in him. This was more than a spectacle. It was a chance to reclaim what had been stolen from his master long ago.

After registration, he and his disciple slipped away to a secluded dwelling hidden in a bamboo grove on the city’s outskirts. There, in the stillness of the garden, he found Orion tending herbs, dirt clinging to his calloused hands.

"Orion," Jethru said, taking a seat on a stone bench as if he owned it.

The other man raised a brow. "What are you doing here, Jethru?"

"To freeload," Jethru replied, acting nonchalant.

Orion snorted. "Freeload? "Seriously? Your manor in Calma is ten times the size of this place. You could house an army there."

"What does the size of my manor have to do with me staying in your house? Besides, that’s in Calma. I am here in the capital now," Jethru countered, settling deeper into his seat.

Dusting the soil from his palms, Orion finally relented. "Fine. Since I stayed at your manor once, I suppose I owe you. But don’t sneer at my humble house." With a flicker of movement, he joined Jethru on the bench. His eyes narrowed. "Why are you really here? Shouldn’t you be playing lord in Calma with Prince Alaric gone?"

Jethru’s expression hardened. "I came to settle debts. To take back what my master lost."

"Hmmp, look at you talking as if you are his only disciple.

Orion studied him, memories tugging at the edges of his mind. Samuel’s chosen one. The disciple who had been destined to carry the school’s legacy before the Cardills’ treachery destroyed everything.

When Helio Bandor vanished more than twenty-five years ago, Orion had risen by default, but he was too young, too powerless to shield Samuel or the Zen Warriors from ruin. His failure still gnawed at him like a festering wound. It was his deepest regret.

All he could do was continue Samuel’s legacy in secret.

"Who are your participants?" Orion asked at last.

"Logan and Kane Mendel," Jethru said evenly.

The name struck Orion like a blade. His brows drew together. "Kane Mendel? Isn’t that—Lara?"

He shot Jethru a glare, fury simmering beneath his calm. "You entered her into the competition? Does she even know? Did her family agree?"

"I sent word," Jethru replied coolly. "She should have received the message yesterday."

"You!"

...

Meanwhile at the Alta-Sierra range, the wind howled through the jagged peaks that loomed over them, tugging at the edges of Lara’s cloak as she crouched by the fire. Sparks hissed upward, devoured by the vastness of the mountain range. Her blade lay across her knees, polished and sharp, reflecting the dancing flames.

When the courier finally arrived—Jethru’s hawk swooping down with a scroll tied to its leg—Lara already knew. She felt it in the stillness of the air, in the way her heart beat as if bracing for battle.

Her fingers trembled only once as she unfastened the parchment. Jethru’s seal—unmistakable. The wax cracked, and his words leapt at her:

You and Logan are chosen to fight. Be in the capital at dawn.

Lara read it twice, then a third time, each word etching itself deeper into her chest. Chosen. She had trained for years beneath Jethru’s relentless eye. She did not dream of proving herself because she knew her worth—but the capital? The Queen’s tournament?

This was no ordinary test. This must be his vengeance.

A low voice broke her reverie.

"What did it say?"

Logan emerged from the shadows, broad-shouldered and dusted with the grit of the climb where he retrieved nests of the swiftlet birds and cooked them into soup for Lara. His dark eyes flicked to the parchment, though he didn’t reach for it. He already guessed.

Lara folded it quickly, tucking it into her sleeve. "We’re to leave at dawn. The master has entered us into the Queen’s competition."

Logan’s lips curved into a faint smile "So, the master acted on his own again and thrown us into the lion’s den."