The fortress's outer training yard had been converted into a sparring arena. Banners flapped in the wind, bearing sect symbols both ancient and fading. Spectators watched from shaded alcoves and balconies, whispering about strength, lineage, and rumors born overnight.
Baek Sun-Ho entered the arena in silence, his white robes fluttering. He wore no mask, but the whispers followed him anyway:
> "That's him…"
"The masked one?"
"No, the other one. The flame wielder—Baek Sun-Ho."
Behind him, So-Ri, Ma-Rok, Yul-Rin, Ji-Mun, Yeon, and Master Jang stood in silent support. Their presence said what Sun-Ho hadn't needed to: He wasn't alone anymore.
Across the sparring ground stood a boy no older than sixteen, though his eyes were decades older. His name was Jin Yu-Keon, representing the Eastern Wilds Sect—an unexpected heir candidate with eyes like obsidian glass and movements like falling snow.
"Baek Sun-Ho," Yu-Keon said, bowing politely. "You don't look like a sovereign of anything."
"I'm not," Sun-Ho replied calmly. "Just a traveler who's had enough of corruption."
The match began without a bell.
Yu-Keon struck first—whip-fast palm strikes, his qi fluid, water-based. His movements were evasive, coiling around Sun-Ho's defense. For a moment, it looked like the fight might become a dance.
But Sun-Ho's movements didn't follow the rhythm.
They shattered it.
Krak—! A burst of lightning qi shot from Sun-Ho's fingers, redirecting Yu-Keon's flow mid-air. He didn't hit the boy—he steered him into a soft roll.
Yu-Keon landed and smiled. "You learn fast."
"You fight like a mirage," Sun-Ho noted. "But you lack weight."
Yu-Keon dropped into a more grounded stance. "Then let me show you the weight of memory."
He struck again—this time slower, but denser. His qi flowed like mudslide now, earth-infused. Cracks spiderwebbed through the stone floor under each step.
Sun-Ho's lightning met earth with explosive feedback—shhhhrakk! Sparks scattered.
Around them, onlookers gasped.
So-Ri leaned forward. "He's changing stances mid-fight. That's a level beyond his age."
"No," Master Jang murmured. "It's because of his age. He hasn't picked a path yet—so he walks many. He's testing who he'll become."
But the fight was already ending.
Sun-Ho ducked a fist, slipped past the defense, and placed two fingers against Yu-Keon's chest. A burst of controlled qi—not fire, not lightning, something purer—flowed through.
Yu-Keon's legs buckled.
He dropped to one knee and exhaled.
"I concede."
Silence rippled through the crowd. Then, soft murmurs followed.
Respectful ones.
Sun-Ho extended a hand. Yu-Keon took it and stood.
"You're stronger than you show," Yu-Keon said. "But you hold back like someone afraid to become what he is."
"I'm not afraid," Sun-Ho said. "I'm patient."
Yu-Keon smiled faintly. "Then I hope we meet again. Maybe on the same side."
---
Later – Party Camp
The group gathered beneath the worn awning of their tent.
Ji-Mun placed down a map of the fortress, marking known heir positions. "So far: one neutralized by awe, one respectful rival, and one insulted by Ma-Rok's hammer display."
"That last one fell on his own sword trying to flex," Ma-Rok pointed out.
"He was flexing at your hammer," Yul-Rin added.
"I am intimidating."
Sun-Ho looked over the map. "We're being pushed toward one of two outcomes—either gain support among factions or be isolated before the final votes."
"Support from who?" So-Ri asked. "The traditionalists won't bend. The radicals see you as too calm."
"Then we find the disillusioned," Sun-Ho replied. "The outcasts. The ones with fire but no direction."
Yul-Rin tapped a location on the map. "There's a medical hall run by a wandering sect. They treat wounded from all factions. Neutral. Maybe sympathetic."
"Let's visit," Sun-Ho said. "Even if they're not allies, they might be the kind of hearts we need."
---
That Evening – Soft Moments
As the fire crackled, So-Ri approached Sun-Ho with two cups of warmed plum tea.
"You're doing that thing again," she said.
"What thing?"
"Looking like you're thinking of a hundred things while also pretending to relax."
He accepted the tea. "I'm not pretending. I'm practicing."
She raised a brow.
He smiled. "I'm preparing to lead. It's more than strength. It's knowing how to rest without unraveling."
So-Ri sat beside him. "Then rest. But just for now. I'll unravel you later if needed."
"Threat or promise?"
"Both."
They clinked their cups gently and drank.
---
Bonus Scene – Ji-Mun's Weapon Problem
As the party made their way back from the duel, Ji-Mun jogged ahead to walk beside Master Jang, a wide grin on his face and a peculiar-looking staff slung over one shoulder.
"You stole that," Yul-Rin said flatly.
"Borrowed," Ji-Mun corrected. "It was left unattended near the arena equipment rack. That's just tempting fate."
Master Jang sipped his tea. "It's a ceremonial staff for signal calls. Not a weapon."
"Ah," Ji-Mun said. He spun the staff anyway—promptly smacking his own shin.
Thwack!
"Gaaaah!"
Ma-Rok didn't even look. "That was destiny punishing your vocabulary."
"Or gravity," So-Ri added dryly.
Ji-Mun hobbled on one leg. "It's okay. Pain is temporary. Style is eternal."
Yeon, watching this unfold, calmly held up a small wooden placard he'd drawn earlier. It had a stick figure falling and the words: "Style = pain + noise."
Sun-Ho chuckled. "How long until he tries to set it on fire?"
"Three minutes," Yul-Rin said.
"Two," So-Ri countered.
"I'm right here," Ji-Mun muttered.
He tapped the ceremonial staff against the ground… and it broke in half with a hollow pop.
Everyone stared.
Master Jang looked over. "Congratulations. You've now invented the world's first non-threatening weapon."
Ji-Mun sighed and dropped the broken pieces. "Fine. Back to my sword."
Ma-Rok clapped him on the back. "Stick to things you can't break. Like tradition."
Ji-Mun mumbled, "I'll break tradition so hard one day it'll invent a new calendar."
They laughed. Even the nearby disciples from distant sects paused to look at the lively group—unconventional, chaotic, and oddly united.
And that, perhaps, was more intimidating than any sword.
---
End of Chapter 72 – Weight of Memory
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