"What the hell? Never in my life would I do such a thing!"King Feng Han's voice cracked like a whip through the arena, thunderous and defensive.
He stormed forward, rage boiling in every step, and pointed a trembling hand at his brother.
"Have you fallen this low, Feng Yun? Slandering your own blood?! Where's your proof?!"
A hush fell.
Eyes turned. Thousands of gazes shifted between king and challenger—some filled with doubt, others with expectation.
The arena itself seemed to hold its breath.
Feng Yun stood motionless, like a blade stabbed into the earth—cold, silent, unyielding.
"Proof?" he said at last, voice sharp enough to cut stone. "I saw it with my own eyes."
He paused—then raised his chin, speaking louder.
"But I know what you all truly trust is not my word. It is tradition. And tradition gives me the right to drag truth into the light."
The wind picked up, stirring the dust around his feet like restless spirits.
"In the sacred code passed down by our ancestors—it is written: When a man cannot offer proof, let blood decide. Let the God of War, Ares, pass judgment in a death match. The guilty shall be cursed by divine fate."
Gasps rippled like waves across the crowd.
Feng Han's jaw clenched. Sweat glistened on his temple."He actually studied the sacred rules…?" he muttered under his breath, lips dry.
Feng Yun's voice remained flat, merciless."What's wrong, little brother? Afraid? Perhaps you know that the gods do not favor liars."
The crowd ignited.
"Trial by the God of War!""Let the gods decide!"
In the royal box, no one dared speak.
The last man who gave advice was still nursing the king's slap. Even Minister Van kept silent, his eyes flicking nervously toward the general.
The general said nothing.
But deep down, something in him shifted.
This is no longer a battle for honor. This… is a reckoning.
Without a word, King Feng Han leapt from the royal box.
He landed with thunderous impact. Dust flared up around him. The crowd erupted into wild cheers.
Two brothers stood across from one another. One bearing pride. The other—emptiness.
They were nearly identical. Same eyes. Same height. Same presence.But one was hollow.And the other was afraid.
Feng Han stripped off his royal robe, revealing sleek black battle garb. He sneered.
"You should've stayed in your grave, brother. Now you'll suffer slower than death."
Feng Yun said nothing.But his gaze was ice.
Han's smile twitched. A sliver of unease passed through him.
"No… That's not Feng Yun. Not anymore. Something darker has taken root in him."
Han seized his spear and barked at Shin.
"What are you waiting for?! Or should we wait for sunrise?!"
Shin bolted toward the arena, nearly tripping in his rush.
"Y-yes! By ancient decree, this match will be judged by Lord Ares!"
He lifted his trembling hand toward the audience.
"The challenger: Feng Yun, Mortal Path—Fifth Stage.""The king: Feng Han, Awakened Path—Fifth Stage."
A murmur of disbelief buzzed through the crowd.
"An entire realm difference?""Feng Yun's insane.""He won't last ten seconds."
Near the back of the crowd, a man quietly laid a bag of silver on a betting table.
"All of it," he said. "On Feng Yun."
The bookmaker raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious?"
The man just smiled.
Shin raised his hand.
"BEGIN!"
The arena exploded in roars and drums.
But neither man moved.
They stared.
Locked.
A battlefield of will.
Then Han scoffed. "Still glaring at me with those dead eyes?"
And hurled his spear.
Feng Yun shifted. Graceful. Effortless.
The spear passed behind him like a shadow.
Then Feng Yun drew his katana—and sliced open his palm.
Gasps tore through the air.
"What's he doing?!"
Blood dripped onto the floor. But it didn't splatter.
It hovered.
Then twisted—like a serpent—and slithered back into his hand.
Forming a monstrous crimson greatsword. Pulsing. Living.
Feng Yun rested it against his shoulder, letting it gleam under the sun.
"Blood Art: Crimson Claymore."
Han's sneer faltered.
"He knows forbidden techniques…? That's impossible."
With a flash, Han reappeared beside his spear.
CLANG!
Steel met steel. Sparks rained.
They vanished and reappeared again—twenty strikes exchanged in a heartbeat.
No one could follow.
Even the generals stood still, mouths parted.
The two brothers stood once more—chests heaving, sweat beading.
Han stepped back, eyes narrowing.
"I'll end this."
He surged with golden light.
"Feng Spear Art: Five-Stage Dragon Thrust!"
His spear twisted into a glowing gold staff, a spectral dragon roaring to life around it.
It lunged.
Feng Yun ducked—too late.
Its claw raked across his shoulder. Blood sprayed. He fell to one knee.
Before he could rise, Han crashed his foot into the wound, launching Feng Yun into the barricade.
The impact cracked stone.
Dust rose.
Everyone held their breath.
When it cleared—only Han stood.
He raised his glowing spear to the sky.
"See?! The God of War has chosen! I STAND. HE FALLS!"
The crowd hesitated.
Then a man laughed. "See?! Told you Feng Yun was all talk!"
But Shin didn't declare victory.
Neither did the general.
Neither did the minister.
Han glared at the announcer. "Well?! SAY IT!"
A voice rose. Cold and steady.
"He's not the fool."
From the rubble… a figure stepped out.
Bloodied. Bruised.
Alive.
"It's you."
Gasps exploded.
"Feng Yun…!"
The minister's eyes widened in horror.
"That sword… it's longer. That isn't our kingdom's technique."
The general clenched his fist.
"He's still standing after that? And Han…"
He looked at the king's trembling shoulders.
"…Han's already spent. That dragon art drained him completely."
An elderly man sitting with a stick in his hand and rubbing his white beard said, "This isn't a fight between brothers," but no one could see him because he appeared to be beyond mortal sight. It marks the beginning of something much darker.