CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The weight of the moment pressed down like an invisible hand upon the arena. The cheers, jeers, and feral howls of the crowd created a thundering cacophony, a storm of sound that surged like a living creature across the stone coliseum. Yet, as Shin stepped onto the platform, everything shifted. The noise didn’t die—it simply bent around him, as though the arena itself recognized something different in the air.

  He was calm. Too calm.

  Across from him stood Ragnir of the Fire Claw Clan—a tall, broad-shouldered warrior with fire in his veins and a legacy carved from battle and flame. His presence radiated strength, his fists already smoldering, licking with thin tongues of fire. There was a swagger in his stance, the kind earned through years of dominance. But something in Shin’s quiet presence unsettled him.

  This wasn’t a fighter who sought applause. Shin walked like a shadow—silent, self-contained, and terrifying in his stillness.

  Up in the stands, Alexandri leaned forward, watching with narrowed eyes. There was something different in Shin’s movements—something far odd than his years, a control that didn’t belong to a mere human fighter, he appeared more feral and sharp like a predator stalking its prey. Maybe this was the effect of the hollow. At the arena’s edge, Al stood with his fingers clutched around his cloak, the fabric twisting under the tension in his grip. His heart beat a steady rhythm, but it wasn’t fear. It was the focus. It was a memory.

  The Fire Claw Clan… The name sparked a resurgent memory deep in Al’s mind, a fragment of a lifelong past.

  In his previous life, they had been one of the great noble houses—respected, feared, and unshakably proud. Their warriors burned with an ancestral flame, their techniques devastating, elegant, and rooted in ancient tradition. Al remembered watching their rise, basking in their pride and honor. But he also remembered their fall—swift, brutal, and without mercy.

  Rumors had always pinned their downfall on the arrogance of the first son, a prodigy who believed no enemy could match him. Al had never known how it happened exactly—just that the Fire Claw's name had vanished from the world like smoke on the wind. And now, standing in this arena, he was watching one of their noble house member—Ragnir—clash with the boy he had chosen to shape for the future.

  But there was more to Ragnir’s story than lineage. Years ago, he had led a battalion of Fire Claw warriors into the Ember Gorge to suppress a rogue sect uprising. It was supposed to be a swift campaign, a show of force. Instead, it became a massacre. Ambushed and outmaneuvered, Ragnir’s forces were slaughtered to the last man. He alone survived—fleeing the battlefield, flames barely shielding him as he escaped. That decision had branded him a coward. Not openly, not in court. But in the eyes of his father—Lord Kael Fireclaw—he had died that day alongside his soldiers.

  This tournament was more than redemption. It was Ragnir’s last chance to claw his way out of the ashes of shame. A victory here, before the eyes of noble houses and wandering sects and subjects could rewrite his legacy. Could prove that he was not the weak link that had doomed his men. As he stood before Shin, flames licking his knuckles and desperation clinging to his soul, he wasn’t just fighting a boy—he was fighting for the right to exist within his family’s legacy.

  Above all, Ragnir remembered the humiliation—the scalding shame of the confrontation outside the gates when Shin had looked at him and dismissed him with nothing but silence. He had puffed his chest, thrown threats like daggers, and in return, Shin had offered no fear, no respect—just that maddening stillness. It had gnawed at Ragnir ever since, like embers smoldering in his gut. Now, he wouldn’t allow it to happen again. Not in front of the crowd. Not with his father’s eyes watching from afar. Even if he had to burn himself down to the bone, he would not be humiliated by that same silence twice.

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  He raged on “You’ll die by my hand”

  “The first match… BEGIN!”

  Ragnir exploded forward with a roar, fire surging from his legs to propel him with blinding speed. His flaming fist streaked toward Shin’s ribs, a blow meant to cripple. But instead of retreating, Shin stepped into the strike.

  A heartbeat passed.

  Ragnir’s body jolted as a palm struck his chin—a short, precise hit that carried no wasted effort. The force rattled his skull and sent his vision spinning. The crowd gasped as he stumbled back, clutching his jaw.

  No one had seen Shin move.

  He hadn’t leaped, dashed, or twisted. He was simply there, like a blade drawn in silence, and just as deadly.

  To Shin, Ragnir was a child playing with fire, barely able to control the flames he so proudly wielded. Compared to the Flame Hounds that prowled the lowest parts of the Hollow—beasts of living fire and hatred that burned thought itself—Ragnir’s blaze was little more than a flickering candle. Shin had faced things in that place that shattered minds and melted flesh, alongside Al. He had seen what true fire looked like, what it could do when untethered. This? This was a sport. And in truth, a little boring.

  “You little—!” Ragnir snarled, fury crackling through his core. Both fists ignited with full flame, his aura flaring like a wildfire. He surged forward again, twisting into a spinning kick, his leg encircled in fire like a burning wheel of death.

  But Shin was gone.

  A flicker. A whisper of motion. He reappeared just outside the arc of flame and, without hesitation, drove a fist into Ragnir’s chest. There was no dramatic build-up. No flourish. Just a single strike, timed to perfection, that landed squarely and shattered Ragnir’s stance.

  The older fighter hit the ground like a collapsing wall.

  Gasps and stunned silence echoed through the arena. Some spectators rose to their feet. Others simply stared mouths agape. The Fire Claw warrior—strong, aggressive, burning with legacy—had been dismantled in mere seconds.

  But it wasn’t over.

  Ragnir groaned and pushed himself up, rage replacing pain. “Enough games! You’re dead now” he roared, his aura darkening into a furious crimson. His eyes burned—not just with fire, but with humiliation. Flames roared up his arms and along his back, as he gathered his strength for one last, desperate strike.

  Up in the stands, Alexandri narrowed his eyes further. This wasn’t about winning anymore. For Ragnir, this was survival of pride.

  Ragnir charged again, this time unleashing a shockwave with a stomp that cracked the arena floor. The wave rushed toward Shin, who shifted his stance and sank lower. His own energy pulsed around him, a pure white hue that shimmered like the clear morning sky—calm, controlled, and dangerous.

  The wave struck—and passed through nothing.

  Shin melded with the wave just like air.

  And then he was behind Ragnir.

  Before the Fire Claw warrior could react, Shin’s palm landed between his shoulder blades. The shock rippled through his body, and this time, Ragnir didn’t fall—he crumpled. His breath hitched. Blood gushed from his lips. He staggered forward, barely able to stay upright.

  In the crowd, Al exhaled slowly.

  Ragnir turned, his expression no longer angry, but broken.

  “You…” he gasped, eyes wide. “What… what the hell are you?”

  Shin said nothing. His silence was a blade in itself.

  He raised one hand, fingers curled, energy humming softly around his palm—a final, silent warning: Surrender.

  The pride of the Fire Claw Clan screamed for Ragnir to rise. But his body would not obey.

  He dropped to one knee, flames extinguishing in shame.

  The arena paused—silent as a held breath—until the announcer’s voice rang out:

  “Winner: Shin!”

  The crowd erupted.

  Some cheered in awe. Others jeered in disbelief. But all knew one thing: something monstrous had stepped into the light.

  Shin turned and walked from the platform without so much as a glance back.

  As he descended, his eyes locked with Al’s for the briefest moment. No words passed between them, but something an eruption of happiness stirred between their gazes—an unspoken vow. A step closer to the promise they had made.

  Alexandri leaned back in his seat, expression unreadable. For the first time in years, he felt something crawl beneath his skin.

  These boys were no mere fighters.

  They were storms waiting to break. The tournament was about to be turned upside down with the range of talents.

  As the next fighters were called to the stage, a new tension filled the arena. Spectators murmured, and warriors glanced at each other nervously. The tournament had just begun, but its tone had already changed.

  Not because of a champion crowned.

  But because a shadow had fallen across the field—quiet, efficient, and unrelenting.

  Its name was Shin.