Under the gaze of Zhuge Yui Lan
He had promised.
Not in the solemn way a cultivator swears before the clan, but as a brother who, between bandages and silence, says what he knows you need to hear.
"I won't get hurt so much next time."
The phrase had the weight of a stone tossed into a lake — it made short, pretty ripples, but soon dissolved. I still didn't know if Yu Jin intended to keep it… or if it was just a gentle lie, meant to stop me from staring at the wound on his flank as if I could close it with my eyes.
The arena before us breathed strangely. It wasn't the same air as before, when spectators whispered bets or commented on past matches. Now, the sound came heavier, as if every voice dragged along a weight that didn't belong to it. Perhaps because everyone understood this wasn't just another fight — it was a duel of heirs.
And heirs, in this world, do not fight only for victory. They fight to carve their family's name into stone.
Yu Jin stood, healed enough that the scars were only faint shadows on his skin. His body seemed ready, yet there was something in the way he breathed — not deep, not hurried — that told me pain was still there, only subdued. I knew that breath well. It's the same we use when we don't want anyone to notice that every movement still aches.
On the opposite side, Tie Xuan Hao looked like a freshly raised wall: firm, broad, with no rush to move. He didn't need to. His very presence told the crowd he would remain exactly where he stood until the world itself tried to push him — and even then, perhaps he would not move.
My eyes returned to my brother.
The promise was there, hidden somewhere beneath that calm face. But promises don't win battles. And battles do not follow promises.
The herald called their names, first Yu Jin's, then Tie Xuan Hao's. But both were already in the arena.
I did not fear for his life.
Not here.
Not now.
I had already seen his future — not as a mystical vision, but as the certainty of someone who understands the mechanics of fate. This was only the beginning of his road.
Still, my heart beat faster. Because knowing he will live does not prevent him from bleeding. And sometimes, it is the bleeding that hurts most for those who watch.
The formal bows were exchanged, and the judge lowered his hand.
The sound of the first step echoed, and the air changed. Yu Jin and Tie Xuan Hao didn't rush in like storms; they measured each other first, as if each waited for the other to make the first mistake. There was strength on both sides, but strength is not always what frightens. What frightens is patience.
My brother advanced first, and Tie Xuan Hao responded with the solidity that was already his mark. Their bodies moved quickly, but I didn't watch the weapons. I watched Yu Jin's face. I searched for signs. A crease in his brow, a shift in his gaze, anything to tell me the promise was about to break.
Nothing.
He fought as if his body was the extension of certainty, not of a debt. There was something almost cruel in his serenity — cruel to me, who needed a reason to breathe without tightening my chest.
The crowd began to react, but their voices were swallowed by the repeated clash of blades. I didn't count the strikes, nor try to discern which technique was in play. I counted the times Yu Jin stepped back. Twice. Three times. On the fourth, I realized it wasn't retreat — it was calculation.
He was measuring his opponent.
And yet, every step back was a cut into my own calm. Because I knew that measuring means, at some point, striking. And striking means exposure.
Tie Xuan Hao pressed forward with more weight, and Yu Jin's feet found space to respond. For an instant, I saw a glimmer in his eyes — not the fierce blaze of a warrior, but that fleeting spark Yu Jin has when he decides it is time to change the rhythm.
My body reacted before my mind. The air seemed thinner. And then came the dry sound of impact, the kind that goes through flesh to cling to bone.
He did not step back.
The promise still stood. Or perhaps it was only being delayed.
The duel went on, and time began to distort. Sometimes it felt like a whole minute fit inside a single clash of blades; other times, ten exchanges passed before I could blink. Yu Jin moved with a precision he hadn't learned from me, nor from anyone I knew — as if his body had been made for this.
But even bodies made to fight can be wounded.
When I saw the first red trace on his sleeve, my stomach turned cold. It was small, superficial. But red has a habit of spreading.
He didn't seem to notice. Or, more likely, he noticed and decided it wasn't worth caring about.
The crowd wavered between cheers and silence. For them, every cut, every block, every shift of stance was part of a spectacle. For me, it was accounting. Every blow taken, every wrong step, was a number I did not want to add.
I don't know when I began holding my breath. Perhaps when Tie Xuan Hao, for the first time, managed to push Yu Jin toward the edge of the arena. It wasn't a real threat of falling — my brother knows how to return to the center. But the sight of him near the boundary stiffened my whole body.
And then he came back, quick as someone remembering their own address.
There was sweat on his face now, but his gaze remained steady. I saw no anger, no fear. Only that unsettling firmness that makes you want to believe everything is under control… even when you know it isn't.
By what I guessed was the last third of the fight, their movements grew shorter. I don't know if by strategy or by fatigue, but both seemed to have decided there was no room left for dancing. Now, every exchange carried more weight. And weight is what breaks promises.
When Yu Jin advanced again, his shoulder met Tie Xuan Hao's blade. It wasn't a deep cut, but I saw the skin open. Small, pale, like a mouth learning to speak.
The promise broke there.
He didn't stop. Didn't step back. Didn't even look at the wound. His next strike came harder, and Tie Xuan Hao gave ground — only half a step, but enough to tip the balance.
The crowd erupted, and I felt something between relief and irritation. Relief that he had turned the tide. Irritation that he had done so in the most dangerous way possible.
And then, as quickly as it began, the fight ended. I won't pretend I understood the final strike — my eyes were too busy searching for new red marks. I only saw Tie Xuan Hao retreat, his blade lower, and the judge announce the winner's name.
Yu Jin.
The crowd roared. I exhaled.
He looked in my direction, but didn't smile. He only gave me that brief nod that said everything was fine — or that he wanted me to believe it was.
And I, as always, believed. Not because it was true, but because sometimes, believing is the only way to keep the heart whole.
When he returned to our side, he said nothing. He sat, and I approached with the box of needles and herbs. He let his arm relax so I could treat him. No words about the broken promise. No apology.
I said nothing either. I simply let the Qi flow to close the wound, feeling his warmth beneath the skin.
Deep down, perhaps I had known from the start: promises like that are not made to be kept. They are made so we can pretend, for a few moments, that the world can be less cruel than it is.
But as I closed the last cut, I decided something for myself — no matter how many times he breaks that promise, I will be here to mend it.
Because that is what sisters do. Even when they know the battle will never be his alone.