The golden afternoon sunlight soaked into the stone platform, its heat clinging to the crowd like a warning. Laughter and shouts from the betting stalls echoed, but in the center, silence reigned as Elder Han stood, his arms crossed. His eyes, calm but narrowed, swept across the two approaching figures.
Elder Wu smirked, his robes immaculate, as though untouched by the dust of guilt. Beside him, Elder Lin's steps were slower, almost reluctant, his gaze flicking between Han and his brother.
Han's brow furrowed, his voice clipped.
"Why did you suddenly set this up? Both of you know I'm stronger—even in a two-on-one."
Elder Wu chuckled, tapping the wooden handle of his fan against his palm.
"So what?" he replied. "I stated it clearly in the letter. We just want to… clear the past. Isn't that what you always wanted?"
Han's jaw tensed. A brief silence followed as wind stirred the hem of his robe.
"Is it just because of that?" His thoughts churned with unease. This is too clean. Too sudden. It doesn't add up…
He took a slow step forward, voice low but cutting.
"You think a fight will settle it? You think throwing fists will wipe away what you did?" His eyes flashed. "You destroyed my dream, Wu."
A flicker—so brief it almost didn't register—crossed Elder Wu's face. His smirk faltered, just for a heartbeat.
And next to him, Elder Lin visibly flinched. His eyes dropped, fingers curling slightly at his sides. There was a shadow behind his composed exterior—a hint of regret buried beneath layers of loyalty.
Han's voice was steel now.
"I was supposed to be an inner disciple. I had the strength, the results. But because of you, I missed my breakthrough. Because of you, I missed the age limit."
Wu's smile returned, but it no longer reached his eyes.
"You know damn well I didn't mean to sabotage you. If you'd said something—"
Han cut in, bitterness rising.
"Said something? When you were already favored? When you already had connections lining up for you?" His lips curled. "You think I didn't try? I was threatened. I was told I'd be crushed if I made it past outer disciple. But you… you got your slot. You smiled through my silence."
Wu opened his mouth, but nothing came. He stared, stunned—caught between old guilt and present anger.
Elder Lin turned slightly toward his brother, a hard swallow moving down his throat. His face was carved with conflict. But then he looked at Han—and guilt twisted into resolve.
Across the platform, a few outer disciples huddled closer, whispering behind their hands.
"I didn't know they had that history," murmured a pudgy boy with wide eyes.
A sharper-featured disciple nodded beside him.
"Based on that… Elder Han was supposed to join the inner sect. Probably failed because he couldn't break through in time. Elder Wu must've gotten that spot instead."
Others leaned in, nodding grimly. Understanding darkened their expressions.
Back on stage, Elder Wu clenched his jaw, the weight of scrutiny starting to crush his composure. His confidence flickered like a candle against the wind. Beside him, Lin's eyes sharpened. He saw the spiral, and he couldn't allow it—not now.
He stepped forward, voice suddenly sharp.
"Enough! Don't make him out to be a villain just because you failed!"
Han turned to him, cold and silent.
Lin's voice rose, cracking slightly under pressure.
"You were too slow, Han! You hesitated! You had your chance, but you let it slip—and now you blame us for it!" His lips trembled before he clenched his teeth. "Just… just stop this guilt game. Let's finish this fight!"
The silence afterward was thick as blood. Faces turned to Elder Han, waiting—wondering if his anger would shatter or simmer.
Elder Han's expression remained almost too calm. The tension in his body had a cold stillness, but his eyes—their gleam—spoke of something far more dangerous than simple anger. There was no fear, no hesitation. Only the certainty of someone who had endured too much to back down now.
His lips curled into a confident smirk, not the smugness of someone who felt superior, but the cold satisfaction of someone who knew exactly what he was about to unleash.
"As we should," he said, his voice low but sharp, cutting through the heat of the moment. "But I do hope you remember what you promised to give after this fight."
Elder Wu's gaze turned sharp, like the edge of a blade being drawn. There was no denying it—Han had pierced something deep. Lin's eyes tightened, unsure, conflicted.
Han took a step forward, his eyes never leaving Wu's. Every word, every step, carried a heavy weight—the weight of a decade's worth of bruises, lost chances, and silent wars fought in the shadows.
"After all," he continued, voice steady, "that's the only reason I agreed to this farce." His lips twisted, like he was savoring the bitter truth. "I hope you won't crawl behind your connections again when you lose."
The words hit Wu like a slap. He felt a rush of heat flood his face, a wave of humiliation so deep it almost knocked the air out of him. Han's eyes bored into him with an icy certainty, like he was already dead in Han's mind. "Because trust me…" Han's voice dropped lower, cold like a dagger to the heart. "…I will kill you, even if it means dying with you."
Elder Wu froze. The words, they were too much—too raw, too cutting. His mouth opened, then closed, and in that instant, all the weight of his past decisions crashed down on him. The smugness was gone, replaced by a simmering fury—yet a quiet part of him, deep inside, felt the truth of Han's words.
Wu slammed his fan shut with a snap so sharp it rang in the air like the break of a promise. "We are not that shameless, Han!" he shouted, his voice trembling with the intensity of everything he'd wanted to deny, everything he feared Han knew. "You think we'd hide behind someone's skirt after issuing a challenge like this?!"
But Han's face didn't change. His confidence was chilling, unwavering.
Behind them, Elder Lin stepped forward. His voice cracked with more than just the pressure of the moment—there was something else there, something hidden. "That's right! You act like the victory is already in your hands! You think we're nothing but cowards?" His words rang out, but even as he spoke, his eyes betrayed him. They flickered, uncertain, haunted by something he hadn't said—something left undone.
A moment of silence passed. Lin's face hardened, but deep down, the guilt gnawed at him, clawing at his resolve. He knew what he had allowed to happen. He had chosen a side—a side that had stolen Han's dream—and the weight of that betrayal was suffocating.
Wu's fury rose, but beneath it, his eyes widened in disbelief. He looked at Han, his fists shaking at his sides. This wasn't just a fight. This was something much more—this was a battle for a future that had already been stolen. And that thought, that fear, struck him deeper than any physical blow.
As the silence stretched, the murmurs of the disciples behind them grew louder.
One whispered, "He's serious… Elder Han really would kill him."
Another disciple nodded, his voice low. "It's not just about rank anymore. It's personal. This goes deeper than anyone thought."
And in that brief moment of stillness, Elder Lin realized that this wasn't just about two elders clashing—it was about broken dreams, years of silent resentment, and guilt too heavy to ignore.
The fight had already begun. Not on the platform, but inside them all.