The night air was heavy, the echoes of music and drunken cheer still spilling faintly from the great hall. But outside the dojo gates, the mood was far colder.
Seven disciples stumbled in through the courtyard, their robes dirt-stained, their lanterns dim. Faces grim, they bowed low before the dojo master, their leader stepping forward.
Disciple (bowing, voice low):
"Master… we searched the roads, the riverbank, even the shrines in the woods. Ashura… he was nowhere to be found."
The words rippled through the silence like a blade.
Lan clenched his fists, teeth grinding. His voice cracked with restrained anger as he turned to his father.
Lan:
"Father, this is why I told you to let me go myself! You think your disciples could bring him back? He's my brother — I would've found him!"
For the first time since the duel, the dojo master rose fully from his seat. His presence silenced even the murmurs of the crowd still lingering in the hall. His eyes were sharp, unyielding, and his words rang with cold finality.
Dojo Master (stern, voice carrying across the courtyard):
"Lan, you speak as though honor comes from chasing shadows. Remember this: strength defines worth. A man may bleed, fight, and sacrifice his youth — but if he falls short, the world will not remember his sweat, only his failure."
He paused, his gaze narrowing as if cutting through both Lan and the absent Ashura.
Dojo Master (harsh):
"Weakness makes even the most honorable man disgraceful. Power alone commands respect. Ashura chose the path of labor, but without results, even labor becomes shame."
The disciples bowed deeper, ashamed to return empty-handed. Hana, who had followed quietly behind, shook with rage, tears burning in her eyes as she glared at the leader.
Hana (voice trembling):
"You call him disgraceful… yet you never once looked at him as he bled for this dojo. Was it weakness… or was it you who refused to see his worth?"
The crowd gasped — her voice daring to rise against the master himself. Lan's fists clenched tighter, torn between his father's cold creed and Hana's anguished truth.
The dojo master's gaze fell on her, cold and sharp as a blade. He stepped closer, his words disciplined, each syllable aimed to wound.
Dojo Master (icy, cutting):
"Hana. You forget your place. If Ashura cannot be found, then so be it — he is no longer of this dojo. His absence proves his unworthiness. And as of this moment, your engagement to him is annulled."
The courtyard froze.
Dojo Master (final, merciless):
"You will move on. Ties to weakness will only drag you into ruin."
Hana's breath shattered as if her very chest had been pierced. She fell to her knees, sobbing uncontrollably.
From among the elders, Hana's father — who had been seated quietly in shame throughout the ceremony — bolted upright, his face stricken. He stumbled forward through the shocked crowd, his hands trembling as he rushed to his daughter's side.
"Hana…" he whispered hoarsely, falling to his knees beside her. His arms wrapped around her shaking form, shielding her as tears streaked down her face.
The courtyard was a storm of whispers and disbelief. Some glanced at the dojo master in fear of his severity, while others looked away in pity for Hana, powerless to change her fate.
Lan's face was pale, jaw tight, his eyes shifting between Hana's tears and his father's cold, unflinching gaze. His fists curled harder, nails digging into his palm, the weight of conflict pressing down on him.
The celebration's echoes carried faintly in the distance still — cruel reminders of a night that had crowned a victor,Yet in the midst of laughter, Hana's cries rang sharp and lonely.
Hana's father's face pale with both shock and fury, and pulled her into his arms.
Elder (Hana's father, stern but shaken):
"Enough, Hana! This shame is not yours to bear. Come with me."
The crowd parted as he led her away, her sobs clashing against the thunder of drums and the clinking of sake cups. The dojo master didn't turn his head once; his gaze remained fixed on his victorious heir.
And just like that, Hana disappeared into the night — carrying only her grief, while the feast carried on without pause.
---
The moon hung cold and silver over the jagged mountains. Between the shadows of stone and pine, a lone figure staggered forward.
Ashura's robes were torn to rags, his body bound in crude bandages already soaked through with blood. His broken arm dangled uselessly at his side, each step grinding agony into his bones. His breath came in ragged bursts, fogging the night air before vanishing into the chill.
More than once, his knees buckled, his vision went black, his body begged to collapse and never rise again. Yet every time, with teeth clenched and blood dripping from his lips, he dragged himself back up, step after torturous step.
The distant echo of laughter from the dojo seemed to ride the wind, mocking him, feeding the fire in his chest.
Ashura (hoarse, bitter, cursing fate):
"All my years… wasted. They threw me aside like dirt. But I swear… I will return. I'll make them regret ever underestimating me. Even if it kills me… I'll bury their cheers in silence… and their pride in blood!"
The night swallowed his vow. The mountain path stretched endlessly ahead, and though his body trembled on the edge of collapse, his will refused to die, Ashura's breaths came in ragged bursts, his vision swimming between light and darkness. Each step felt like dragging a corpse that no longer belonged to him. His legs trembled, his body screaming for rest, yet his mind clung desperately to spite and rage.
Then, suddenly—his strength gave way.
"Thud."
His broken body struck the cold earth, dust scattering beneath him. For a moment, the moonlight painted his pale face, and then his consciousness slipped away into the void.
The mountain swallowed him whole.
---
Five Years Later – Training Grounds
The sun cast long golden streaks across the open dojo courtyard. The air rang with the sharp whoosh of fists cutting through the wind and the rhythmic crack of a wooden staff striking the practice posts.
Lan, now thirteen, moved with precision and strength far beyond his age. Sweat poured down his brow, his breath steady despite the ferocity of his training. Each strike carried discipline, sharp and clean — a boy molded into the image of the heir his father desired.
At a distance, the dojo master stood silently, arms folded, watching with quiet pride. His stern expression betrayed the admiration in his eyes. This was his chosen heir, the proof that his judgment had never been wrong.
The clatter of training slowed as Lan brought his routine to an end, sweat glistening on his brow. From the side, footsteps approached.
It was Hana.
Now older, her beauty had only grown — though her eyes still carried a shadow, a quiet sadness that never fully left. She walked across the courtyard carrying a towel, her movements gentle yet deliberate.
Hana:
"Here. Wipe your sweat."
Lan accepted it, running it across his face before speaking, his voice calm but edged with something deeper.
Lan:
"Five years, Hana. Five years since that night. Have you still not decided on moving on? Do you still think he'll come back?"
For a moment, silence lingered between them, only broken by the distant chirp of cicadas. Hana's lips pressed together before she finally replied, her tone steady but wounded.
Hana:
"Lan… you don't need to worry about me. Focus on your training. My heart is my own, and whether or not I open it again is my choice. I'm not holding onto the past… I'm just not ready to give myself to someone else. That's all."
She gave a faint smile, soft yet distant, as if to end the conversation. But as she turned away, Lan's gaze lingered on her, a thought rising unspoken.
Lan (in his thoughts, quietly, almost bitter):
"That is called not moving on… sister Hana."
The courtyard fell silent again, the only sound the distant rustle of leaves — but between them, the weight of Ashura's absence lingered like a ghost that refused to fade.
________
The courtyard shimmered under the golden glow of the early sun. The steady rhythm of wooden swords clashing echoed faintly from the training grounds deeper inside the dojo. The gates, tall and heavy, stood like sentinels at the edge of the compound, guarding the bridge between the world outside and the discipline within.
Two disciples kept watch at the entrance. The first leaned lazily against the gatepost, yawning as though the morning warmth had lulled him into comfort.
Disciple 1 (grumbling lazily):
"Another dull morning. Nothing ever happens here. Sometimes I think this post is just punishment disguised as duty."
His partner, standing straighter, frowned.
Disciple 2 (sharp, scolding):
"That's when you let your guard down. Bad things don't wait for the night — they strike when least expected. So quit whining and keep your eyes open."
Before Disciple 1 could roll his eyes, a sound broke the stillness — the faint rustle of leaves and branches shifting in the forest beyond. Both froze, their spears tightening in their hands.
Disciple 1 (nervous now, shouting):
"Who goes there?!"
From the shade of the forest, a silhouette emerged. At first, nothing was clear — only the shape of a man, moving slowly but steadily, as though the forest itself bent away from his presence. Step by step, he broke from shadow into sunlight.
The two disciples stiffened.
It was Ashura.
His frame was leaner than before, his muscles more defined — built not for show, but for survival. His eyes burned with a quiet fire, one of them marked forever by a scar trailing down the right side of his face. His expression was unreadable, but the air around him seemed heavier, charged with a silent threat.
Disciple 1 (eyes wide, then sneering villainously as he stepped forward):
"What!!! If it isn't the failure himself… Ashura! Hah! Where the hell have you been hiding all this time? Do you know how much shame you brought on yourself? On this dojo?!"
He leaned close, face twisted with malice.
Disciple 1 (mocking, darker tone):
"Because of you, Hana keeps rejecting me! Always clinging to your name… as if you'll ever matter! You're nothing but a broken shadow, and now you come crawling back?!"
Ashura's gaze didn't waver. Calm. Cold.
Ashura (quietly, sharp as steel):
"If you had time to bark, you should've spent it taking your duties seriously."
In the blink of an eye, Disciple 1 collapsed to the ground. His eyes bulged wide, his mouth opened in shock, but no sound came. His body trembled — not unconscious, but completely paralyzed, as though his strength had been ripped from him in an instant.
Ashura stepped forward without pause, his boot pressing down on the fallen disciple's chest. The man wheezed faintly, unable to resist, as Ashura's cold shadow passed over him.
When Ashura neared the gates, Disciple 2 quickly blocked his way, spear lowered across the entrance. His hands trembled, but his stance held.
Disciple 2 (desperate, voice shaking but firm):
"Wait! You can't just walk in! I… I must inform the Leader first!"
Ashura stopped just a step away, towering over him. His eyes locked onto the disciple's, cold and merciless. He leaned in, his presence crushing like a storm about to break.
Ashura (low, threatening):
"Move. You will let me pass."
_______________
The bustle of training filled the dojo grounds: the sharp crack of wooden swords clashing, the barked commands of instructors, the steady rhythm of disciples practicing forms. Yet in a quieter corner, away from the main yard, Hana worked in silence.
She knelt beside a wooden basin, carefully washing folded linens. The soft splash of water was the only sound — until she began to hum. A familiar melody drifted from her lips, tender and wistful.
It was the song she always sang as a girl, sitting by the old sakura tree, watching Ashura train long past dusk. Back then, her voice had been his companion — filling the silence of his lonely drills, a comfort to the boy who refused to rest.
Now, five years later, she hummed it without even thinking, as if her hands remembered before her heart did.
But then—
Another voice joined hers. Low, quiet, and roughened with age, yet unmistakably familiar.
The same melody. Humming in perfect unison.
Hana froze. The cloth slipped from her trembling hands, water dripping back into the basin. Slowly, rigidly, she turned.
Behind her, half-veiled by the shade of the veranda, stood a man she thought she might never see again. His frame was taller, his presence heavier. His hair was longer, tied roughly back, and a scar cut across his right eye — proof of years she could not imagine. His clothes were travel-worn, his bandages still visible beneath them.
But his eyes… his eyes were the same.
Hana's lips parted, breath catching in her throat. Her heart hammered, disbelief and longing colliding all at once. Tears welled before she could stop them.
Ashura's gaze softened, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Ashura (gentle, almost teasing, yet carrying an ache):
"You still think I can get you to sing this song for me again…?"
The words hung in the air — not just a question, but a plea. A fragile thread woven with regret, apology, and a hope that she hadn't stopped waiting for him.
Hana (whispering): "…Ashura…?"
Her vision blurred as tears welled up, spilling freely down her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her mouth, choking back a sob. The towel she carried fell to the ground without her noticing.
She staggered a step forward, then another, her knees weakening beneath her. All the years of waiting, of wondering, of silently clinging to a song—they collapsed into this single moment.
Her voice cracked, raw with relief and pain alike.
Hana: "You… you really came back…"
Unable to hold back any longer, she closed the distance and clutched at him, burying her face against his chest, her tears soaking into his worn clothes.
.....
Hana froze, still trembling from the shock of seeing Ashura alive. Before her lips could form the words she wanted to say, the echo of heavy footsteps rushed in from the corridor.
A group of disciples stormed in, faces twisted with suspicion and hostility.
Disciple 3 (furious, pointing):
"There he is! The disgrace himself!"
Behind them, whispers rippled through the hall — the guards are down… someone finally moved against the dojo…
The disciples fanned out, forming a half-circle around Ashura and Hana. Their hands tightened on their staffs and blades, knuckles white with the urge to strike.
Disciple 4 (mocking, venomous):
"You dare step foot here again after five years? The master has summoned you!
Hana instinctively stepped in front of Ashura, her arms outstretched, trembling but defiant.
Hana (desperate, voice breaking):
"Stop! Don't touch him!"
Ashura, however, didn't even look at her. His gaze was fixed beyond the disciples — as if he could already see the master sitting on his throne, smug in victory.
He let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
Ashura (disrespectful, voice cold like steel):
"The master? Don't make me laugh. I didn't come back to bow before that old coward. I came for what's mine — the right stolen from me, the heirship denied. And I'll tear down anyone who stands in my way."
The room stiffened. His words were a blade against the very core of the dojo's pride.
The disciples exchanged glances — then, suddenly, the hall erupted in cruel laughter.
Disciple 3 (mocking, spitting at the floor):
"Hah! Do you hear him? The crippled dog thinks he's a wolf!"
Disciple 4 (sneering):
"Five years gone, and still dreaming! You couldn't even survive our master's shadow, let alone claim his seat."
Disciple 5 (grinning, stepping closer with blade in hand):
"Come on then, heir. Show us this strength of yours. Or will you collapse again like the weakling you've always been?"
Their jeers grew louder, echoing through the hall. Some disciples even doubled over in laughter, convinced that the same pitiful Ashura had returned.
But Ashura's expression didn't waver. His stance was relaxed, his breathing steady. He stood tall, eyes burning with unshaken conviction.
Ashura (calm, cold):
"Come then."
The laughter died instantly. The hall froze in disbelief, their mockery stuck in their throats. Even Hana turned to him, shaking her head desperately, silently pleading with him not to give in to their taunts.
Ashura's gaze softened only for her. A faint, dangerous smirk crossed his face.
Ashura (low, almost teasing):
"Don't worry… I'll give you a show to watch."
---
The Fight
The first disciple lunged, staff aimed at Ashura's ribs.
Ashura stepped forward instead of back, his hand snapping out like lightning. He caught the staff mid-swing, wrenched it free, and in the same motion slammed the blunt end into the man's chest. The disciple flew back, crashing into two others.
Another came from behind with a blade. Ashura twisted, his body low, and swept his leg in a sharp arc. The disciple's legs were cut out from under him, his chin meeting Ashura's rising palm — teeth clattered to the floor with the sound of breaking stone.
The circle of disciples roared and surged in at once.
Ashura exploded forward. His movements were fluid, ruthless, almost animalistic.
He vaulted onto one disciple's shoulders, using him as a springboard to flip high into the air, landing behind three others.
Before they could turn, his elbows snapped into their spines, dropping them like felled trees.
A staff came down at his skull — he caught it with both hands, snapped the wood clean over his knee, and rammed the jagged halves into the attacker's stomach and shoulder.
Hana covered her mouth, eyes wide, unable to look away.
The hall echoed with shouts, grunts, and the crack of bone. Ashura moved like a predator loosed into a flock of prey.
A disciple screamed as Ashura spun, his heel colliding with the man's jaw, sending him sprawling across the floor.
Another raised his sword, but Ashura ducked, seized his wrist, and bent it until the blade clattered away, then used the man's body as a shield against the next attack before hurling him aside.
With one hand, Ashura grabbed a disciple by the collar, lifting him just enough to slam him headfirst into the wooden floorboards, leaving the man twitching in silence.
---
Within minutes, the hall was unrecognizable. Splintered weapons littered the ground. Groaning bodies lay sprawled across the floor, some clutching broken arms, others too dazed to rise.
Only Ashura remained standing, barely winded, his chest rising steady and calm. His scarred face glistened with sweat, his eyes burning with a ruthless fire.
Ashura (cold, voice cutting the silence):
"Hmm.... pathetic.....was I really that weak that I couldn't defeat these mobs before?
The once-proud dojo disciples lay sprawled in heaps, their breaths ragged, their faces bruised and swollen. The scent of sweat, iron, and splintered wood filled the air.
Ashura stood at the center of the carnage, chest steady, fists loose at his sides as though the battle hadn't even stirred his lungs. Hana remained pressed to the wall, wide-eyed, caught between fear and awe at the man before her.
Then—
The sliding doors at the far end of the hall rumbled open.
Heavy footsteps echoed in. One by one, robed elders entered — their white hair tied neatly, their eyes sharp as steel. Behind them came Lan, taller now, his frame honed from five years of training. His presence was calm, but his clenched jaw betrayed the storm brewing within.
And finally, at the center of it all, the dojo master walked in. His robes were pristine, his gaze unreadable. With each step, the air itself seemed to grow heavier, suffocating, as though the walls bent beneath his authority.
The room went utterly silent except for the faint groans of the defeated.
The elders' eyes darted across the wreckage, disbelief painted on their faces. One elder whispered hoarsely:
Elder (stunned):
"Twenty… in moments…"
Another clenched his fist, anger sparking:
Elder (cold):
"Such defiance… daring to stain this hall with blood!"
Lan's eyes locked on Ashura. For a moment, neither brother spoke. The fire in Lan's eyes clashed against the scarred, unyielding blaze in Ashura's.
The dojo master's gaze, however, didn't wander. It landed squarely on Ashura — unblinking, piercing, cold as frost. His words were sharp, every syllable like a blade cutting through the silence.
Dojo Master (commanding, voice like thunder):
"So… the stray dog returns. And instead of crawling on his knees, he leaves my hall littered with broken disciples."
He stepped forward, his robe sweeping across the floor like a shadow.
Dojo Master (cold, cutting):
"Tell me, Ashura… is this strength? Or is it just a disgrace painted in violence?"
The air grew suffocating. The disciples who were still conscious turned their faces away in shame, their bodies trembling at their master's voice.
Ashura, however, didn't bow. He didn't flinch. His scar caught the morning light as he lifted his chin, his voice steady, heavy with venom.
Ashura (calm, disdainful):
"Strength is the only right this dojo ever respected. And I've come to claim mine."
The dojo master laughed.
It wasn't a short chuckle, nor a mockery. It was long… deep… rumbling through the hall like rolling thunder. Each wave of sound froze the disciples where they lay, sent a chill into Hana's bones, and made even the elders straighten in unease.
When the last echo died, not a single groan from the injured dared to rise. The silence afterward was absolute.
Dojo Master (low, sharp, carrying across the hall):
"You've got that right."
He stepped closer. His presence bore down like a mountain — each footfall deliberate, the weight of decades of dominance behind them. His robes whispered against the floor as he leaned in, his shadow swallowing Ashura whole.
Dojo Master (quiet, dangerous, leaning close):
"But tell me… do you truly believe you can defeat my heir?"
His words struck like a blade against stone. His voice didn't rise, but the weight in it left Hana clutching her chest as if the air itself had thickened.
Dojo Master (smiling coldly):
"Yes… you've grown stronger. But so has he. My heir… my pride… the one who was forged in the very fire that rejected you, Ashura."
The master's lips curled as he whispered, almost amused, almost taunting:
Dojo master:
"That… you'll find out soon enough."
Lan: His hands clenched at his sides, veins taut. He didn't move, but his eyes burned as they met Ashura's — a challenge already spoken without words. His jaw trembled not with fear, but with anticipation.
The Elders: They exchanged sharp glances, some satisfied at the master's words, others uneasy at Ashura's silent defiance. One stroked his beard nervously, another smirked as though a storm long-awaited was about to break.
Hana: Her knees shook where she stood, breath caught in her throat. She felt like prey caught between two predators, yet she couldn't look away. Her gaze darted from Ashura's unflinching stare to the master's looming presence, to Lan's blazing eyes — and for the first time, she realized just how far beyond her world these men existed.
Ashura, for his part, didn't answer immediately. His silence was a defiance of its own, his body unbending even beneath the crushing aura of his former master.
Dojo Master (voice absolute):
"The duel begins. Now."
The elders straightened. Hana clasped her hands together, whispering a prayer that went unheard. The injured disciples scattered along the walls, groaning as they tried to stay out of the way. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Lan stepped forward, calm, his posture loose but coiled — like a spring hidden within still water. His bare feet pressed softly against the wooden floor, his every movement deliberate, controlled. His gaze was sharp, unwavering, like a blade already drawn.
Ashura rolled his shoulders once, the tension snapping free. His eyes narrowed, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as he lowered into a stance both predatory and fluid — knees bent, arms relaxed but ready, his body like a beast about to pounce.
The silence broke.
Lan moved first.
His foot stomped, body twisting as his palm lashed forward — a strike as fast as lightning. The air cracked with the force, a direct blow aimed for Ashura's chest.
Ashura pivoted, his body flowing sideways. His arm swept like a whip, parrying Lan's palm with brutal precision. He snapped his leg upward, a vicious kick arcing toward Lan's ribs.
Lan's body dipped low — impossibly low — his palm brushing the floor as he spun beneath the kick. With the spin's momentum, his heel shot upward, striking Ashura's chin like a steel hammer.
Ashura's head snapped back. But before Lan could follow up, Ashura's hands slammed down on the floor. With explosive strength, he flipped forward mid-stagger, his heel descending in a crushing axe-kick.
Lan slid back, both palms raised, absorbing the blow with a grunt. The floor beneath him splintered.
They clashed again.
Lan's fists struck like hammers — compact, ruthless, every move refined to perfection. Ashura countered with sweeping strikes, claws of power cutting through the air, his style flowing from defense to offense in the blink of an eye.
Palm met fist. Elbow clashed against knee. Each strike resounded like thunder, the dojo trembling under their battle.
Ashura seized Lan's wrist, twisting — but Lan dropped his weight, spun, and struck with both palms to Ashura's chest. The impact shoved Ashura back several steps.
Ashura exhaled, grinning through the sting.
Ashura (low, dangerous):
"Good… at least you won't break too easily."
With a sudden roar, he lunged again — the beast against the blade, the predator against the master's heir.
The hall exploded in violence.
Their movements blurred, strike for strike echoing across the dojo. The air snapped with every impact; splinters of wood flew from the battered floorboards. For a while, neither gave an inch.
Lan spun low, sweeping Ashura's leg. Ashura leapt, twisting midair, and countered with a savage downward kick. Lan blocked, his arms straining, the shockwave rattling the walls.
They broke apart, both breathing hard. The elders leaned forward, eyes sharp. Hana's heart pounded in her chest.
Lan straightened, his chest rising and falling with calm control. He glanced at Ashura, his voice steady, not mocking — but questioning, searching.
Lan (serious, breathless):
"…Is being the heir really what matters?"
The hall froze.
Ashura's expression darkened instantly, his jaw tightening as fury flared in his eyes. To him, those words weren't a question — they were an insult. A dismissal of everything he had bled for.
Ashura (snarling, low):
"You dare… mock me! Again?"
He surged forward with terrifying speed.
Lan barely raised his guard before Ashura crashed into him. A clawing strike smashed aside Lan's defense, the force rattling his bones. Ashura spun, his heel slamming into Lan's ribs, sending him skidding across the floor.
Lan staggered up, but Ashura was already on him. His attacks became relentless — sweeping arcs, crushing fists, feral kicks that hammered through Lan's defenses.
Palm strikes that once countered so cleanly now collapsed under Ashura's sheer power. Lan's arms shook, his breathing sharp, as Ashura drove him back step by step.
Ashura (voice like thunder):
"I clawed my way back from nothing! Every scar, every drop of blood — all for what was stolen from me!"
He seized Lan by the collar, slamming him into the wall so hard the wood cracked.
Ashura's eyes burned inches from Lan's face.
Ashura (furious, unyielding):
"And I'll destroy anyone who dares deny me again!"
Lan's body slammed against the wall, coughing blood as Ashura's grip dug into his collar. His legs barely held him. But still, his eyes carried defiance — that same calm questioning that had ignited Ashura's wrath.
Lan (weakly, voice trembling):
"…Even if you win… is this… really strength?"
That single phrase ripped through Ashura's mind like fire on oil. His rage exploded.
Ashura roared, pulling Lan forward before driving his knee mercilessly into his stomach. The impact cracked like thunder. Lan's body folded around the strike, a spray of blood bursting from his lips as his eyes widened in pain.
The dojo hall fell into dead silence.
Hana's scream broke it first.
Hana (crying, rushing forward):
"Lan!!"
Elders shot to their feet, their robes swaying, faces etched with disbelief and horror. Disciples who had mocked Ashura moments ago stood frozen, pale and trembling, unable to reconcile the brutal reality before them.
Lan collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach, blood dripping between his fingers. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his face contorted in agony.
Ashura stood over him, chest heaving, eyes still burning with feral intensity. His bandaged arm trembled, but his stance never faltered.
Ashura (low, growling):
"This is strength. Not your titles. Not your empty words. Strength is survival — and only the strong decide what matters."
The dojo master, who had been silent the entire fight, clenched his fists so tightly that blood seeped from his palms, dripping onto the floor. His face remained a mask of stone, but his eyes were sharp, murderous — for the first time, shaken.
Dojo Master (to himself, voice cold as ice):
"....how dare he!!…"
The room hung heavy with the weight of the moment.
Hana fell beside Lan, tears streaming as she tried to steady him, her trembling hands pressing against his wound. Elders whispered frantically, unsure whether to intervene or stand back.
And Ashura — unflinching, untouchable — turned his gaze upward, his voice echoing across the broken silence.
Ashura (to the master, loud, defiant):
"Your heir bleeds by my hand. Now… tell me again who deserves this place!"
The dojo master rose slowly from his seat, his robe trailing like the weight of judgment itself. His voice thundered across the chamber, calm yet commanding:
Dojo Master (sharp, unyielding):
"Those who can still move — take the heir to the clinic. Now."
Several disciples, trembling but obedient, rushed forward. Two of them lifted Lan carefully, their arms shaking from the strain of holding the bloodied body of the master's chosen successor. Hana clung to his side, tears streaking her cheeks, her voice begging for him to hold on as they carried him away.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the dragging footsteps of the wounded disciples leaving with Lan.
Ashura didn't move. His chest rose and fell like a storm barely contained. His glare was fixed on the master — sharp, unrelenting, venom burning in his gaze.
Ashura (mocking, bitter):
"Old man… are you finally going insane? I crushed your so-called heir, left him gasping in his own blood — and you still cling to your pride?!"
The master chuckled, a low, unsettling sound that rolled through the hall. Then he leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing like a predator's.
Dojo Master (tone cold, cutting like a blade):
"Yes… you did defeat Lan. I cannot deny that. But tell me, Ashura… did I ever once say that defeating him would make you the heir?"
The words dropped like poison into the hall. Disciples who had been silent moments ago now exchanged nervous glances, their faces pale. Elders stirred uneasily, some whispering, others averting their eyes as though they already knew where this was headed.
The master's gaze hardened, voice growing heavier, pressing down on Ashura like iron chains.
Dojo Master:
"Power alone does not earn you the right. Discipline, loyalty, lineage — these are the pillars of my dojo. And you… abandoned us. For five years you vanished like a coward. You return, bloodied and broken, and dare speak of heirship? You are nothing but an intruder with strength. Nothing more."
His words slashed deep, not only at Ashura but at the very air, suffocating the disciples.
Ashura's jaw clenched, his silence darker than any scream. His eyes burned, not with defeat — but with the promise of a storm yet to come.
The dojo went silent again — deathly silent. Even the injured disciples being carried out seemed to freeze in place for a heartbeat when Ashura's words thundered across the hall.
Ashura (cold, with contempt):
"Hmm… what a stubborn old man. Very well. Then I challenge you — to a duel. With your dojo itself on the line. Reject my challenge, and live the rest of your years in shame."
Gasps tore through the air. Elders leaned forward in shock, some slamming their palms against the ground in disbelief.
Elder 1 (hissing, furious):
"Arrogant brat! He doesn't know his place!"
Elder 2 (shaking his head, muttering):
"To raise his hand against the master… this is madness. He's courting death."
Even the disciples, though battered and bloodied, began murmuring. Some laughed nervously, others cursed under their breaths. The atmosphere thickened — disbelief, fear, and awe mixing into something poisonous.
The dojo master's expression remained still for a moment — then, slowly, his lips curled upward into a grin. A laugh burst from his chest, rolling like thunder. It wasn't jovial — it was menacing, the laugh of a man who had lived on top of strength his entire life.
Dojo Master (mocking, voice deep with menace):
"Quite the joke you've told, boy. You challenge me? Don't get on your high horse, little chick. It seems I have been underestimated!"
He stood, his presence filling the hall like a storm breaking through the roof. With deliberate slowness, he untied the sash of his robe and let it fall to the ground. Gasps rippled through the hall as the garment slid away, leaving only his trousers.
His body was not that of an old man — it was steel forged in decades of discipline. Muscles coiled like tempered iron, every scar telling a story of battles fought and survived. His veins bulged across his arms and chest, his posture perfect, his aura suffocating.
Even Ashura's eyes widened slightly — not with fear, but with rare surprise.
The dojo master cracked his neck slowly, rolling his shoulders, his smirk never leaving. His eyes locked on Ashura, sharp as blades.
Dojo Master (tone low, dangerous):
"You want to put my dojo on the line? Fine. But know this — when I fight, I fight to end. If you fall here, no one will even remember your name."
The air itself seemed to tremble, the tension pulling every soul in the hall into the vortex of the coming storm.
Ashura's sharp eyes narrowed. For a moment, even his breath faltered. That body… after all these years, after all this age…
His jaw clenched. No. It doesn't matter. The strong survive, the weak die. I've bled five years for this moment. I will not falter now.
The master rolled his shoulders once, the crack of his joints sounding like thunder. His gaze cut through Ashura.
Dojo Master (low, dangerous):
"You've come far, boy. But you'll learn tonight — the mountain you seek to climb… is endless."
Ashura bent his knees slightly, arms poised in lethal stance — a predator ready to spring. His movements were coiled, fluid, and his scar over the right eye glinted under the torchlight.
A gust of wind swept the hall. Then —
The master moved first.
Despite his size, he exploded forward with speed that split the air. His fist came crashing down like a boulder, the floorboards trembling beneath its weight. Ashura twisted aside at the last instant, the strike grazing his cheek and blasting a crater in the wooden floor where he had stood.
The crowd gasped.
Ashura wasted no second. He countered with a spinning kick — precise, whip-fast — aimed at the master's ribs. But the old titan simply caught his leg mid-spin, his grip vice-like, unyielding. He yanked Ashura through the air and slammed him down. The ground cracked.
The disciples roared.
Ashura coughed blood, but his eyes burned with defiance. Using his momentum, he rolled, flipped back onto his feet, and lunged. This time his strikes were relentless — claws, chops, and kicks flowing together, Tai Lung's ruthless artistry in motion. His body was a blur, weaving through angles impossible to predict.
For a heartbeat, the master gave ground — blocking, parrying, deflecting. Ashura's movements were faster, sharper, than when he left five years ago.
But then…
The dojo master stopped.
One massive palm struck out, catching Ashura's wrist mid-attack. His other hand slammed into Ashura's chest — not just a strike, but a shockwave of raw force. Ashura staggered, ribs screaming in pain, nearly knocked off balance.
Dojo Master (mocking, voice booming):
"Is this all your suffering bought you? The howl of a wolf pup pretending to be a beast?"
Blood dripped from Ashura's lips. He straightened, shoulders heaving, his chest burning with each breath. And yet — his eyes never wavered.
Ashura (low, venomous):
"Keep laughing, old man… the weak find excuses, but the strong carve their place."
Then he launched forward again. This time, it was different. His strikes had fury, yes — but also purpose. Each kick landed closer, each claw threatened the master's throat, each dodge cut narrower margins. His body moved like a storm unchained.
For the first time in years — the dojo master narrowed his eyes.
Ashura had become something else.
The dojo floor was a battlefield of shattered wood and smeared blood. Ashura's movements were wild but precise — each kick and claw sharp enough to tear through flesh. The disciples watched in awe as he pressed the master back, forcing the old titan to defend.
Ashura roared, leaping with a spinning heel aimed for the master's temple. The air itself cracked under the force.
But the master did not flinch. With calm eyes, he stepped in. His arm rose, iron-hard, and blocked the strike as if swatting aside a child. The shockwave shook the hall.
Ashura's eyes widened. Before he could recover, the master's fist crashed into his chest — a strike so heavy it nearly caved his ribs. Blood sprayed from his lips as he stumbled back, gasping for air.
The master advanced, each step like thunder.
Ashura slashed forward, desperate, his claws aiming for the throat. The master leaned aside, caught his wrist midair, and twisted. Bones cracked. Ashura howled in pain.
Master (voice like stone):
"Strength without control is nothing but madness."
Then, with terrifying speed, he pulled Ashura in and drove his knee deep into Ashura's stomach. The young warrior's body folded, air and blood exploding from his lungs.
The dojo went silent as Ashura collapsed to his knees, clutching his stomach, eyes burning with disbelief.
The master stood tall above him, not even winded. His gaze swept over the hall, commanding absolute silence.
Master (cold, echoing):
"This… is the difference between the heir and the shadow."
Ashura spat blood, struggling to rise, but his body betrayed him. He fell forward, face hitting the splintered floor.
Ashura's body trembled as he pushed himself off the blood-stained floor. His vision blurred, his chest screamed with every breath, but his will burned hotter than ever. The disciples thought he'd collapse again, but slowly — stubbornly — he rose to his feet.
His lips curled into a defiant smirk, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth.
Ashura (hoarse but steady):
"Tch… don't celebrate yet, old man. This isn't defeat… it's just a delay."
The master's gaze narrowed, his fists still clenched, the veins on his forearms bulging like steel cables. His silence was heavier than any roar, as if daring Ashura to step forward again.
The disciples whispered among themselves:
"He's still standing?!"
"No… he can't keep fighting…"
Ashura spat blood onto the floor and turned toward the doors.
Ashura (growling, voice carrying through the hall):
"Mark my words — I'll return. And when I do, your throne, your dojo, your legacy… will all be mine."
His glare locked onto the master one last time, sharp as a blade. Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned his back to the stunned hall and walked away, each step leaving a crimson trail.
The silence was deafening.
The master finally exhaled, loosening his fists, though blood dripped from his palm where his own nails had dug deep. His voice was low, dangerous:
Master:
This really has been the closest battle I've had in a while!
Then back to the present:
Aira sat frozen, eyes fixed on the scar carved across the Sloth leader's ribs. The weight of his words pressed on her chest, suffocating in its heaviness. She had never imagined him — the laziest, most indifferent of all faction leaders — could carry such a wound, both on his body and in his memory.
For a moment, her lips refused to move. She should have been frightened, should have taken his story as a warning, but her heart pounded with something sharper — conviction.
Her fingers curled into fists against her knees.
Aira (trembling, yet firm):
"...I'm sorry. I can't see Bjorn that way."
The Sloth leader's half-lidded eyes lifted slightly, surprised at her refusal.
Aira (voice rising, desperate):
"Maybe he is like your brother — maybe he's angry, reckless, dangerous even. But I've seen more than that! I've seen the weight he carries, the pain that makes him fight like every moment is his last. If you call that dangerous, then fine — but don't say he's beyond saving!"
Her breath shuddered, but she pressed on, her voice breaking with raw defiance.
Aira:
"He's not just a storm waiting to destroy everything. He's… he's a man who's never been given a reason to believe in anyone! And if no one else will, then—"
She swallowed hard, eyes burning.
Aira (softly, but unyielding):
"—then I'll be the one to believe in him."
The silence that followed was heavy. Even the slow drip of water outside the tent seemed to pause.
The Sloth leader studied her for a long time, expression unreadable. His usual laziness didn't return — instead, there was something sharper in his gaze, as if her words stirred a memory he wished would stay buried.
Finally, he exhaled, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a bitter chuckle.
Sloth Leader (low, almost grudging):
"…You're either the bravest fool I've ever met… or the only one stubborn enough to keep that boy from drowning himself."
He slumped back onto the couch, dragging a hand across his face as if exhausted by even this much emotion. His voice dropped again into its usual lethargy, though a strange weight lingered beneath it.
Sloth Leader:
"Fine. Defend him all you want. But don't say I never warned you, girl… storms don't change their nature. They only grow stronger."
The scene cut sharply.
Moonlight spilled cold and silver across the Lust faction's camp. Their torches burned low, throwing jagged shadows against the crooked poles and tents.
At the center, Bjorn hung limp, wrists bound tightly to a rough wooden stake. His head lolled forward, his chest rising faintly with each shallow breath. He looked less like a man than a broken offering left to the night.
The air around him was heavy — not with silence, but with a presence.
A voice, smooth and lilting, rippled through the darkness like smoke curling from an unseen flame.
Witch (mocking, singsong yet sharp):
"Oh, how delightful… the mighty wolf, chained like a lamb. How fragile the flesh, how foolish the spirit… yet still, how entertaining you are to me."
Her laugh rang soft, almost childlike, but it twisted with venom.
Witch (amused):
"Humans… always so certain that strength is theirs to claim. They fight, they bleed, they burn, all for crowns and titles that crumble faster than dust in the wind. And still, they call it glory. I call it… comedy."
The shadows along the camp walls shifted as if bending toward her words.
Witch:
"But you, boy… ah, you are a different sort of comedy. You curse the world, and yet you cling to it. You spit on fate, yet march exactly where I want you. I couldn't have written a better tragedy if I tried."
A breeze swept through the camp, carrying her chuckle like a whisper across Bjorn's unconscious form.
Witch (mock-serious, witty):
"Tell me, little wolf — will you break your chains and howl at the moon, or will you simply lie there and rot? Either way… ohhh, either way, I win."
Her words lingered in the air, wrapping the camp in a suffocating amusement, until silence reclaimed the night once more.