The Sloth leader leaned back against the crooked trunk, his usually half-closed eyes flickering with a rare sharpness. His voice, though slow, carried a weight that made Aira listen.
Sloth Leader:
"I was from the family of dojo owners."
Aira blinked, surprised.
Aira:
"Even in this civilization… dojos existed?"
He gave a small nod.
Sloth Leader:
"Of course they did. Discipline, combat, tradition—these things outlive civilizations. My family's dojo wasn't just for fighting… it was our bloodline, our pride. Generations before me trained under the same roof, passing down every technique as if it were scripture."
He paused, his tone dragging as if remembering old dust-covered days.
Sloth Leader (continuing):
"I was the one next in line… destined to inherit it all."
Aira frowned softly.
Aira:
"Wait… but you just told me you had an elder brother. How come you were the next in line?"
For once, his eyes opened wider, and he cut her off without hesitation.
Sloth Leader:
"Exactly. That's the right question."
His tone changed—heavy with bitterness.
Before I was born, the heir to our dojo was my elder brother. He was hardworking, but talentless. His body was frail, unsuited for martial arts—but his spirit…"
The leader's eyes narrowed slightly, as if the words themselves dragged out old scars.
"…his spirit was unbreakable. He wanted our father's acknowledgment so desperately, yet was seen as nothing more than a failure. At only twelve, he was forced to endure training no adult could withstand. Every strike, every stance, every endless repetition was beaten into him. His childhood was nothing but pain and solitude."
Aira's brows furrowed as he continued.
"Even the students mocked him, challenging him to duels only to remind him of his weakness. Still… he endured. Day and night, he trained without rest. The only light he had—the only reason he didn't collapse completely—was his betrothed. She saw what no one else did. She saw his perseverance, his fire, as she always stood by him and showed concern. For her, he endured it all."
The Sloth leader paused, his tone shifting, heavy with venom. He pulled his robe aside, revealing the scar.
"And just when his efforts began to bear fruit, when his sweat and blood started to close the gap…"
His lips curled in bitter self-mockery.
"…I was born. A child with natural talent. A body built for martial arts. Even when I barely trained seriously, my strength grew by leaps. My movements came effortlessly. And because of that—because I was born the ideal son—our parents poured their support into me. I was celebrated, praised, never scolded, never beaten. Every failure of mine was forgiven. Every effort of his was ignored."
The Sloth leader's voice dropped, low and distant, as if the memories themselves weighed him down.
Sloth Leader:
"Years passed. I was eight. My brother, Ashura, was twenty-three by then. He had not slowed down even once—his body carved by endless training, his mind sharpened by hardship. They called him the embodiment of perseverance.
His relationship with Hana, the daughter of one of the elders—our father's most trusted man—was growing stronger too. She was kind, yet firm, often sparring with him as much in words as in technique. I remember one evening I overheard them speaking after training, their faces lit only by lantern glow.
Hana said, 'If we marry, we'll carry this dojo together… no one will stand in our way.'
And Ashura, for once, allowed himself a faint smile. 'Yes… with you, even I can dream of something more than endless fighting.'
But before that dream could take root, fate tore it apart."
He paused, eyes half-lidded, then continued.
Sloth Leader:
"That very night, my father summoned everyone to the great hall. The air inside was thick with incense and tension. All the notable elders of the dojo sat cross-legged in silence, lined up like statues. My brother and I knelt before them. My father, the leader, sat at the far end.
He didn't speak plainly, no… he spoke in riddles, as he often did when weighing the future of the dojo. His words drifted like smoke:
'Time is a cruel river. Those who stand in it too long are either carried away or become the rocks that hold it back. The time has come… to decide anew who shall inherit the strength of our name.'
Whispers erupted at once—shock, confusion, disbelief.
My brother's face remained calm, but I could see the veins bulging in his hand as his fist clenched so tightly that blood trickled from his palm. Still, he didn't waver. His voice cut through the noise:
'Silence! Can't you see the Leader is speaking?!'
But then came the words that shattered him.
My father's voice boomed, heavy with disdain:
'There are two candidates. Ashura, the hardworking failure—'
(He spat the words like poison. A few of the gathered men laughed openly, others smirked, and some turned their faces away in pity. Ashura's jaw tightened. He locked eyes with our father, refusing to look down, even as blood dripped from his fist onto the floorboards.)
'—and Lan, the lazy genius.'
I remember jolting awake in the corner of the hall, still groggy from my nap, blinking as all eyes turned to me. My name… my name had been called.
Almost instantly, the elders erupted again. Unlike before, this time the reactions were unified—nods, murmurs, approval. Nearly all of them said the same: Lan is more fitting. Lan is more suited. Lan is the rightful heir.
And in that moment, I realized… my brother's years of sacrifice meant nothing to them. They would rather gamble on the talents of a sleeping child than trust in his blood, sweat, and tears.
The dojo hall was heavy with silence, only the faint crackle of the lanterns filling the air. The leader's voice lingered like smoke:
Father (stern, unreadable):
"Since… we don't all seem to be on the same page, a decision must be made. Votes it is, then."
A sharp stillness seized the room. Even the youngest disciples seated at the far back dared not breathe.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then—
From the left, one of the oldest council members, his hand trembling, raised his palm toward Lan. His face twisted with discomfort, as though each finger lifted was weighted with shame. He didn't want to. Everyone could see that. But still… he voted.
Lan's eyes, half-lidded, widened slightly. His jaw slackened. His very posture screamed: I don't want this. Why me?
The second elder followed. Ashura's father-in-law. His hand rose firmly, decisively—for Ashura. His face was stern, almost defiant, a silent message: I believe in you, son.
Ashura, seated with his fists still bleeding, gave the faintest nod of gratitude, though his face remained carved from stone.
The next elder leaned forward. His eyes darted between father and son, then toward the lazy boy in the corner. He raised his hand slowly—hesitantly—for Lan.
A murmur rippled.
The next, more confident, immediately raised his hand for Lan as well. A sharp intake of breath swept through the hall.
Ashura's lips tightened. His wounded fist clenched harder.
Another of the leaders raised for lan
Then, in unison, the final three elders rose their hands. Each one for Ashura. Their faces were lined with respect, with pity, with quiet fire.
The count was clear.
Ashura:4 .
Lan:4 .
But no one spoke. Not even the elders who had voted. Not even the younger disciples watching from the corners. The silence was thick, suffocating—like a storm cloud pressing down on the hall.
Ashura's fists, already bloodied from clenching too hard, trembled once more. He raised his eyes to his father, searching for even the smallest trace of approval, of recognition. But the old man's gaze remained unreadable, cold as stone.
Lan, on the other hand, had sat upright after hearing his name. For once, his drowsiness was gone, replaced by shock—and beneath it, a deep unwillingness. His eyes darted nervously across the room as if begging someone to take the burden away. He had never wanted this.
And still… all eyes turned to their father, the master of the dojo, the man who had cast them both into this trial.
The hall waited, hearts pounding.
The dojo leader's gaze settled on Hana's father, the man who seemed to stand at the head of Ashura's supporters.
Dojo Leader (coldly):
"Tell me, why stand behind him? He has no talent. No gift worthy of leading."
Hana's father stepped forward, his voice steady, his eyes unwavering.
Hana's Father:
"Strength and talent can shine brightly, but they fade just as quickly without a foundation. What endures is perseverance. Ashura was not born strong, but through sheer hard work he has forged himself. That determination inspires far more than natural talent ever could. A dojo needs a leader who rises from nothing and proves that effort is the true path to mastery. And more than that—he is my future son-in-law."
The dojo leader's face darkened. A flicker of disappointment crossed his features, but he said nothing.
Instead, he turned sharply to the other side, his eyes locking on those who had raised their hands for Lan.
Dojo Leader:
"And you? Why put your faith in Lan?"
One of Lan's supporters stepped forward, his tone confident.
Lan's Supporter:
"A leader's worth is not only in effort, but in the power and talent that others see in him. Lan's natural ability and physique already command respect. Even if diligence is not his strongest trait, his gifts alone inspire confidence—and sometimes, that is what a dojo truly needs."
A thin smirk tugged at the dojo leader's lips, as though those words pleased him.
Then he rose, his voice echoing across the hall.
Dojo Leader (commanding):
"Enough talk. The decision will not be left to words. You will duel. Whoever stands victorious… will be the master of this dojo!"
The Leader raised his hand.
Leader: "Shall we begin!"
A gong sounded.
---
The Battle Begins
Ashura charged first, his footwork wild but determined. He swung with a series sweeps — wide arcs meant to overwhelm. But Lan barely moved. He simply tilted his body, hands behind his back, dodging each strike with a bored expression.
The crowd muttered.
"Lan isn't even trying…"
"This is cruel."
Ashura gritted his teeth, panting after only a few exchanges. His brother's laziness burned him deeper than any wound. Between labored breaths, he growled:
Ashura: "Do you think I'm miserable too?!"
Lan's half-lidded eyes sharpened. For the first time, his stance shifted
From the edge of the arena, the Dojo Master roared:
Dojo Master: "Lan! Stop mocking him — fight seriously! He's your brother!"
The words struck like thunder. Lan's lazy sway stopped. He raised his hands, his body lowering into a stance eerily like Bang's flowing water, yet heavier… slower… lazier.
Lan sighed.
Lan: "…Fine."
---
The Brutality Unleashed
Lan blurred forward. His fist struck Ashura's ribs — crack! Blood sprayed from Ashura's mouth as he crumpled to the ground. Gasps echoed across the arena.
But Ashura pushed himself up, trembling, his arm already hanging loose. His face was pale, lips red with blood. He roared and charged again, swinging with desperate Thai Long kicks and elbows. Lan dodged, countered with a backhand that sent Ashura crashing against the floorboards.
He didn't stay down.
He never stayed down.
Three times Lan broke him. Three times Ashura rose again. His body was failing — one arm bent at a sick angle, blood streaming down his temple, his chest heaving like it might split apart. But his eyes burned with something raw.
At first, the audience cheered for Lan. He was the prodigy, the untouchable one. But as the fight dragged on, voices shifted.
"Ashura… he's still standing?!"
"That kind of will… is this weakness or strength?"
"Maybe we were wrong about him…"
Even Lan blinked in surprise as his brother staggered upright after a blow that should've ended it.
At the edge of the stage, Hana clutched her robes, her knuckles white.
Hana (whispering): "Ashura… please… stop…"
Her eyes shimmered with tears as she watched his body break with every strike, yet still force itself back up.
---
The Final Moment
Lan ended it with a brutal spinning palm strike to the chest — thud! Ashura's body shook violently. He staggered forward a few steps, eyes glassy.
Then… he stopped.
He didn't fall. He stood there, swaying, blood dripping from his lips. His broken arm dangled uselessly, his chest caved with bruises, but his legs refused to buckle.
The crowd froze in awe.
Lan exhaled deeply, lowering his guard. For the first time, his lazy eyes softened.
Lan (quietly): "…Idiot."
Ashura's body finally gave in. He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, unconscious before he hit the floor.
The arena erupted — half in roars for Lan's dominance, half in stunned respect for Ashura's defiance.
The leader" it seems we have a winner!
To be continued!!