The announcer stepped onto the stage once more, and the crowd fell into an electric silence. The final match was moments away.
"Representing the Royal Guard, the prodigy of the academy, Kalavan!" the announce r bellowed.
A wave of cheers erupted as Kalavan strode onto the platform. His posture was precise, every step grounded in discipline. He gave a short nod to the referee, calm and collected beneath the pressure.
"And his opponent... Competitor Number Eleven!"
A hush fell again. Then footsteps.
Number Eleven walked forward, hood drawn low, face hidden in shadow. There was no fanfare, no posturing. Just silence and quiet confidence.
Ryu furrowed his brows. They're allowing that? You can't win the tournament anonymously... right? But no officials stopped him. No rules were called into question.
The two fighters faced off in the centre of the ring. Kalavan, sharp and focused. Number Eleven, still as stone.
The referee stepped back, then raised his hand.
"Fight!"
Kalavan moved first, launching forward with speed and precision. He aimed for a quick advantage, trying to force a ring out before his opponent found rhythm. But something was off.
Number Eleven didn't flinch. Didn't even raise a guard.
Every strike Kalavan threw, kicks, elbows, short jabs, was dodged with almost casual grace. There was no wasted motion. Just small, efficient steps that made Kalavan's precision look frantic in comparison.
Kalavan's expression hardened. He shifted into Flowing Water Techniques. His movements became smoother, more unpredictable. He unleashed a flurry of refined attacks, but still, not a single one landed.
Finally, he managed a clean punch to the ribs.
Number Eleven staggered back two steps. Kalavan seized the moment and charged.
That was when he felt it.
A sudden, jarring pressure exploded in his side. His breath hitched. He looked down.
Number Eleven's foot was buried in his lower ribs. The crack was audible even from the stands.
Kalavan stumbled backward, eyes wide.
Before he could recover, a blisteringly fast palm strike caught his elbow. A red streak flared across his skin where the blow connected, precise, scorching, deliberate.
He backed off instinctively. I'm losing this.
Number Eleven advanced, not with aggression, but inevitability. Their strikes came fast, layered, and controlled. They didn't aim to overwhelm, but to dominate. Each attack forced Kalavan onto the back foot. His mind clouded. His breath became shallow.
Who is this? he thought. No ordinary student fights like this. Noble family? Hidden master?
Desperate, he lashed out with a broad strike not aimed to win, but to break rhythm.
The strike missed.
But it caught something.
The edge of the hood tore.
The cloth slipped.
And the crowd erupted, not in cheers, but in gasps. Shock rippled through the stands like thunder rolling over still water.
It was a woman.
The hood fell completely.
More gasps followed, no longer ripples, but a crashing wave of awe and disbelief.
Standing at the centre of the stage was not a hidden prodigy from another kingdom, but a young woman with long, silver-white hair that shimmered beneath the arena lights. Her frame was slender but poised, her breathing calm and controlled.
Ryu's heart skipped. His pen slipped from his hand.
A girl? No... not just a girl.
Her face was fierce, narrowed eyes gleaming with composure and command. Even flushed from exertion, she radiated elegance, an untouchable, fearsome kind of beauty.
Kalavan stood frozen, breathless, not from pain, but from something deeper.
Before he could centre himself, she moved.
A devastating kick launched into his chest with terrifying force. The crowd gasped again as Kalavan was flung backward mid-air, his body twisting from the sheer impact. The sound of cracking ribs echoed across the arena.
She didn't stop.
She appeared in front of him in a flash, palm already cocked mid-strike.
The next blow landed squarely in his chest, clean, brutal, final.
A shockwave rippled outward as Kalavan flew from the ring and hit the ground hard.
Silence.
Then, the referee's hand raised.
"RING OUT! The winner is... Combatant Eleven!"
The crowd sat in stunned silence, too shocked to cheer. Then whispers began. Then murmurs. Then a wave of noise rolled across the arena like a rising tide.
Kalavan stirred, coughing as he pushed himself upright. He blinked several times and looked toward the stage, expression contorted between pain and disbelief.
"Princess..." he whispered.
The murmurs in the stands stopped.
Several people turned.
Kalavan, still kneeling, slowly lowered himself onto one knee and bowed his head.
"My apologies... Princess of Ayon. Daughter of the Phoenix King."
Gasps returned again, this time sharper, clearer, more collective.
Ryu felt a chill crawl down his spine.
Not a city noble. Not a foreign transfer.
She was royalty.
Not of TyLing.
Of the entire Ayon Kingdom, home of the strongest martial lineage in the known realm.
The audience fell into chaos. Students, guards, and even instructors whispered in frantic confusion. To hide herself, enter the tournament under a false name, then defeat the top academy fighter? It was reckless. Unthinkable.
But no one could deny the truth.
She had stood against the best, and won.
Yan Phoenix, daughter of the Phoenix King, stood tall as the wind tugged at her silver hair. Her expression was unreadable, neither pleased nor boastful. She didn't want applause. She hadn't entered for glory.
She had come to prove herself.
Not as royalty.
As a warrior.
The arena still buzzed, not with cheers, but with gasps, whispers, and stunned disbelief. Around Ryu, students were frozen mid-motion, murmuring to one another as if afraid to raise their voices too high in the presence of royalty.
But Ryu wasn't speaking.
He sat quietly, eyes unfocused, as his mind drifted. Not toward the crowd, nor even directly to Yan Phoenix, but to the world that had shaped her.
He remembered a conversation from earlier that week, during a guest lecture by an elderly cartographer. The man had spoken at length about the continent's layout, his gravelly voice recounting details Ryu hadn't intended to memorize, but had anyway.
Knowledge tended to cling to him, uninvited but never unwelcome.
And now, as the whispers swirled around him, Ryu mentally retraced that map.
From what I remember... the continent was arranged something like this:
The Kingdom of Ayon, in the north, was the second smallest but the most formidable in martial strength. Its lands were forested and wild, with cliffside fortresses and chains of islands under its domain. Its capital, Phoenix City, housed over 700,000 people and served as the seat of the Phoenix royal family. TyLing, by contrast, was merely a regional hub with 250,000 residents.
The Kingdom of Dirago, largest in landmass, stretched from northern deserts to southern river-lands. It ranked second militarily and contained ancient cities from the golden age of cultivation. Its power was bolstered by vast trade routes and sea access.
The Kingdom of Myar held third place in both size and power. Located in the south, it controlled a number of key islands and ports. While less focused on war, it retained strong cultural and historical influence with its dual-capital system: one ancient, one modern.
The Kingdom of Kaar, second largest, was the least militarized. It thrived on trade, education, and manufacturing. Its capital was the continent's largest metropolis, over three million strong, spanning 30 kilometres and acting as the primary trade nexus of the realm.
Lastly, the Kingdom of Vesta was smallest in size and ranked fourth in strength. What it lacked in land and numbers, it made up for in unity and divine discipline. Its holy army, the Flameguard, was revered across the continent. Its capital, a temple city on the west coast, was famed for sacred architecture and spiritual depth.
Each kingdom also controlled surrounding island territories, some vibrant, others locked away for reasons known only to the ruling class.
Back in the arena, the cheers slowly returned.
Yan Phoenix stood alone at the centre of the stage, her silver hair catching the light like a blade drawn under moonlight. Her eyes scanned the crowd, but didn't linger.
Then, for just a second, she paused.
Her gaze flicked toward the back row. Just once.
Ryu froze.
Their eyes met.
Or maybe they didn't. He couldn't be sure. But in that moment, something passed between them. Not recognition, but acknowledgment.
He stared as the applause thundered around him. His heart beat wildly, and he didn't understand why.
Almost without thinking, his hands moved. He opened his notebook and began to sketch, capturing the curve of her stance, the flutter of her robes, the calm in her eyes.
The first drawing was rough.
The second was better.
The third, perfect.
He didn't know why he kept drawing her. He just... couldn't stop.
She wasn't just a royal.
She wasn't just a fighter.
She was something far rarer.
As the cheers crested like a wave and the crowd bowed their heads in respect, Ryu slowly closed his notebook.
He didn't say a word.
He had seen the future queen of the martial world.
And she had seen him too.