DOOONGGG!!
The resonance of the gong still hummed in the air as Ma Rong charged forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the wooden platform. His mining-forged muscles surged ahead like a landslide, his scarred knuckles marked from shattering mountain rock, aimed to pulp Fu Heng's face into the arena floor.
Swish!! Boom!
The crowd's murmurs fell silent, replaced by the thunder of Ma Rong's footsteps. Fu Heng stood motionless, his stance relaxed, with his eyes half-lidded; but those who knew him recognized the sharp glint beneath his apparent laziness.
Pff!
Fu Heng exhaled and rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms decorated with scars that told stories of knife fights in alleyways, harsh winters spent huddling for warmth, and the sting of betrayal.
"Let's get this over with," Fu Heng said gruffly.
Ma Rong's fist came like a boulder dislodged from a mountainside, aimed at crushing Fu Heng's skull.
At the last moment, just a hair's breadth from impact, Fu Heng arched his torso like a willow branch in a storm.
As he pivoted, Ma Rong's fist whistled past Fu Heng's ear, the force rippling through the air.
Swish!
Before Ma Rong could recover, Fu Heng hooked his foot behind Ma Rong's ankle. A gentle shove, more about precision than force, sent Ma Rong crashing face-first onto the platform.
The crowd fell silent at the sound of the impact.
"Lucky shot!" Ma Rong roared, surging up with spit flying from his lips.
Fu Heng sighed. "Let's try this again."
Ma Rong adjusted his stance, launching a brutal sweep aimed at snapping Fu Heng's legs. But Fu Heng was already in motion, his body a whisper in the wind.
He ducked under a haymaker, twisted past a knee strike, and like a snake coiling, locked Ma Rong's wrist mid-swing.
A sharp twist and a shift of his hips flipped Ma Rong onto his back.
The crowd gasped.
Ma Rong scrambled up, his face reddening. "Quit dancing, coward!"
Fu Heng's smirk was razor-thin. "Dancing? No." He beckoned with one hand.
"This is a movement art, ever heard of one?" he asked with a faint smirk.
Ma Rong swung wildly, his strength untethered by thought. Fu Heng moved like water, dodging, redirecting, using Ma Rong's momentum against him.
Six moves later, Fu Heng had Ma Rong's arm wrenched behind his back, the miner's face pressed into the wood, his breath coming in wheezes.
"Yield?" Fu Heng asked, his voice sweet as poisoned honey.
Ma Rong's free hand slapped the floor. The crowd erupted in excitement.
As Fu Heng released him, he leaned down and whispered just for Ma Rong's ears.
"Muscle without thought is just dead weight."
As Fu Heng stood, he dusted off his robes, his gaze flickering to the stands, where Zhao Gun sat with an unreadable expression.
"Useless if you don't know how to utilize your power," Fu Heng murmured, loud enough for Zhao Gun to hear.
The words hung heavily in the air, a palpable weight that pressed down on Ma Rong's chest.
His eyes burned with intensity, a fire fueled by humiliation, but soon eclipsed by something darker, recognition.
This wasn't merely a display of skill; it was a strategy carved into flesh, an embodiment of the lessons learned through pain and struggle. But Zhao Gun knew that it was all pointed at him.
Four Years Earlier
Lightning did not crackle the night Zhao Gun's bloodline awakened; it screamed in a frantic symphony of power and chaos.
The ancestral shrine trembled as blue-white energy burst forth from his skin, searing the ancient stone walls with violent blackened scars.
A wild Boar made of lightning with giant tusks appeared. The elders, cloaked in their traditional garb, whispered in a cacophony of horror and reverence.
"The Lightning Boar… the original bloodline of the Zhao. The mark of the butcher of the battlefield. A relic of the clan's warlord past."
His father, Zhao Tianwei, gripped his shoulders tightly, pride and desperation mingling in his fierce gaze.
"You will restore our family," he said, his voice wavering with uncharacteristic emotion.
"You must."
Days later, Zhao Gun stood in the dimly lit ancestral hall of the Zhao estate, the scent of sandalwood and ink wrapping around him like a shroud. Before him, his father meticulously traced the lineage scroll, calloused fingers halting at a name: Zhao Wulian.
"Your grandfather," Zhao Tianwei began, his voice gravelly, weighed down by the family's shame.
"Banished from the Southern Xuan Kingdom's main Zhao clan for defying their edicts. We are the tainted branch. But you."
His grip tightened on Zhao Gun's shoulder, both a comfort and a chain.
"You have awakened the Lightning Boar bloodline. The very one that made the Zhao Clan rise centuries ago."
Zhao Gun's jaw clenched, muscles taut with an anger he couldn't voice. He had heard pieces of this story before, the weight of legacy pressing on him like a mountain, an unspoken demand to redeem them all, to be the savior of a tarnished name.
His father's gaze flickered toward the courtyard, where Zhao Gun's younger brother, Zhao Ren, lounged in a marred state of laziness, laughter spilling forth too loudly for the solemnity of their lineage. The stark contrast of their paths gnawed at Zhao Gun's insides.
"And him?" Zhao Gun asked flatly, his voice taut as a drawn bow.
Zhao Tianwei's silence was an answer carved in stone, a resignation too painful to articulate.
As the months passed, Zhao Gun found himself the subject of praise from the family elders. Yet, their eyes held a glint of caution, a mix of reverence and fear swirling within. The Lightning Boar was a power to be feared, not respected, and his father demanded nothing less than perfection.
"The Zhao name was built on this power," he would often remind him,
"Do not bring shame to it."
Driven by his father's relentless expectations, Zhao Gun trained until his hands bled, until his meridians felt like they were aflame with exhaustion. Each drop of sweat became a testament to his ambition, yet no matter how strong he became, it was never enough.
He was never smart enough, never fast enough, and the gnawing doubt whispered cruelly at the back of his mind.
At the age of fifteen, his father took him deeper into the ancestral estate than he had ever ventured before. They descended into the heart of the Zhao Family prison, an echoing abyss that housed the captured spies who had betrayed their clan. The air was thick with despair, a palpable reminder of the consequences of defiance.
"This is what happens when one betrays or defies our Zhao Family," Zhao Tianwei said, his voice cold and unyielding as he handed Zhao Gun a dagger, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light.
"You must understand that power comes with responsibility, and the Lightning Boar demands loyalty. Are you ready to bear this burden?"
"Here, kill that man in front of you," he said. Hearing this, Zhao Gun trembled; the sight was already traumatizing, but his father's words struck him like lightning, making him freeze in place. His voice was icy cold, so chilling that it felt as if it penetrated his bones.
"Do it now! The Zhao Clan has no place for the faint of heart," Zhao Tianwei commanded. He then plunged the dagger into the man's heart, blood still on his hands as his father said,
"Good job. You are now a true Zhao."