The announcer stepped onto the stage, and the crowd fell into an electric silence. The final match was moments away.
"Representing the Royal Guard, the prodigy of the academy, Kalavan!" the announcer bellowed.
Cheers erupted as Kalavan strode onto the platform. His posture was precise; every step grounded in discipline. He gave a short nod to the referee, calm and collected beneath the pressure.
"And his opponent... Competitor Number Eleven!"
A hush fell. Then came footsteps.
Number Eleven walked forward, hood drawn low, face hidden in shadow. No fanfare. No posturing. Just silence, and a quiet confidence that rippled through the arena.
Ryu frowned. They're allowing that. You can't win the tournament anonymously... right? But no officials stopped him. No rules were called into question.
The fighters met at the centre of the ring. Kalavan, sharp and focused. Number Eleven, still as stone.
The referee stepped back and raised his hand.
"Fight!"
Kalavan moved first, fast and precise. He tried to press an early advantage and force a ring out before his opponent could find rhythm.
But something was wrong.
Number Eleven didn't flinch. Didn't even guard.
Each strike Kalavan threw, kicks, jabs, elbows, was dodged effortlessly. Not with flash, but with efficiency. Small, subtle steps made Kalavan's precision look frantic.
How...? Kalavan thought.
He gritted his teeth and shifted into Flowing Water Techniques. His attacks became smoother, less readable. He unleashed a flurry of strikes, but still, nothing landed.
Finally, a punch hit clean to the ribs.
Number Eleven staggered back.
Kalavan surged forward.
That's when it hit.
A jarring impact exploded in his side. He gasped.
Number Eleven's foot was buried in his ribs. The crack echoed through the stands.
Kalavan stumbled back, stunned.
Before he could recover, a flash of movement, a palm strike to his elbow. Heat spread where it connected. A red streak marked the point of impact.
I'm losing this, he thought, eyes wide.
Number Eleven advanced. Not aggressive, just unstoppable. Their strikes were fast, layered, and controlled. Not to overwhelm, to dominate.
Kalavan backed up. Breath shallow. Thoughts scattered.
Who is this? No ordinary student fights like this. Noble family? Hidden master?
Desperate, he swung a broad strike just to disrupt rhythm.
It missed but caught something.
The hood.
It tore.
It fell.
Gasps echoed through the arena. Not cheers. Shock.
She was a woman.
Long, silver-white hair shimmered beneath the lights. Slender, poised. Breathing calm and steady.
Ryu's heart skipped. His pen slipped from his hand.
A girl? No... not just a girl.
Her face was fierce, eyes sharp with focus and quiet authority. Even flushed from battle, she radiated elegance and danger.
Kalavan froze, not from pain, but something deeper.
She moved.
A devastating kick smashed into his chest, sending him airborne. The crowd gasped again as his body twisted mid-air, the sound of cracking ribs unmistakable.
She was already there, waiting.
Another strike, a palm to the chest, landed with brutal finality.
A shockwave rippled outward.
Kalavan flew out of the ring and hit the ground hard.
Silence.
Then the referee raised a hand.
"RING OUT! The winner is... Competitor Eleven!"
No cheers. Just silence.
Then whispers. Murmurs. And finally, a tidal wave of noise rolled across the arena.
Kalavan stirred, coughing, and pushed himself upright. He stared at the platform, pain etched into his face, and something else.
"Princess..." he whispered.
The murmurs stopped.
People turned.
Kalavan, still kneeling, lowered himself onto one knee.
"My apologies... Princess of Ayon. Daughter of the Phoenix King."
Gasps again. Louder. Unified.
Ryu felt a chill.
Not a noble. Not a transfer.
Royalty.
Not just any royalty.
Yan Phoenix, daughter of the Phoenix King, stood at the centre of the stage. Her silver hair danced in the wind, her stance unwavering. Her expression, calm. Not boastful. Not proud.
She hadn't come for applause.
She had come to prove herself.
Not as a princess.
As a warrior.
The crowd rippled with tension. No one knew what to say. Even the instructors were frozen in disbelief.
But Ryu wasn't speaking.
He sat, eyes wide, thoughts drifting.
He remembered a lecture earlier that week. An old cartographer's voice had rambled through kingdom names and population charts. Ryu hadn't meant to remember them.
But he had.
Ayon. The second smallest, but the strongest in martial heritage. A kingdom of cliffside fortresses and forested isles. Its capital, Phoenix City, was home to over 700,000.
TyLing? A regional hub by comparison.
Back in the arena, cheers slowly returned.
Yan stood alone, silver hair catching the light like a blade drawn under moonlight. Her gaze swept the crowd.
Then, for just a second, she paused.
Her eyes flicked to the back row.
Ryu froze.
Their eyes met.
Or maybe they didn't.
But in that breathless second, something passed between them. Not recognition. Not familiarity.
Acknowledgment.
Ryu didn't move. Didn't blink.
His hands reached for his notebook.
The first sketch was clumsy.
The second, better.
The third, perfect.
He didn't know why he kept drawing her.
He just... couldn't stop.
She wasn't just royalty.
She wasn't just a fighter.
She was the future.
And somehow, she had seen him too.
The excitement from the tournament still lingered, like static electricity crackling through hallways, whispering in conversations, woven into every sideways glance.
Kalavan had officially taken second place, but all talk was about the unexpected victor, the Princess of Ayon, now known across campus as the Silver Phoenix.
Two days passed in a blur.
Ryu spent most of it buried in notes, replaying matches in his mind like a sacred ritual. He refined diagrams, analysed angles of impact, and rewatched fight clips on his old tablet. His current obsession was the Roaring Thunder technique, grounded force and spiralled energy, likely rooted in a lost style.
He barely slept. But he didn't mind.
The morning of the field trip came with a soft chill. Ryu walked toward the academy's main building just after sunrise, sketchbook tucked into his satchel and a chipped flask of lukewarm tea in hand. The scent was more metallic than soothing, but it helped.
He expected thirty students and a couple of instructors.
Instead, he walked into a sea of people.
The courtyard overflowed with excited chatter. Selfies. Livestreams. Fan theories. Ryu blinked.
"What the…" he muttered.
A familiar voice popped up behind him. "Bro, did we accidentally sign up for a royal parade?"
Soka, scarf lazy around his neck and hair as unkempt as ever, grinned wide. "Wasn't this supposed to be a nerd trip to some dusty ruins? What happened to cursed rocks and awkward ghost flirting?"
Ryu shrugged, then froze as the crowd parted.
At the edge of the lot, surrounded by a respectful buffer enforced by academy guards, stood her.
Yan Phoenix.
Silver hair glimmered in the morning light like frost beneath sun. She wore the standard travel uniform, but it looked regal on her. Her posture was calm. Composed. Untouchable.
Next to her stood Kalavan, posture taut. His gaze swept the crowd with trained alertness. He wasn't annoyed, just vigilant. The kind of presence that didn't relax unless ordered to.
"Does she even need guards?" Ryu murmured.
"She doesn't," Soka whispered. "They're just props."
Ryu was already zoning out, watching her stance, the silent way she commanded space.
Then the instructors arrived. Out of over a hundred gathered, only thirty-two had signed up for the ruins trip. The rest were just there to bask in her presence.
On the bus, Ryu claimed a quiet window seat, three-quarters down. He opened his notebook and resumed notes. The noise faded. Diagrams bloomed, strike arcs, stance shifts, energy vectors.
He didn't notice her approach.
"Is this seat taken?"
He looked up mid-line and nearly dropped his pen.
It was her.
Princess Yan. One hand resting on the headrest, her eyes calm and curious.
His mouth opened, then closed. "N-no."
She sat with quiet grace, then nodded at his notebook.
"I saw you sketching during the tournament," she said. "You're… very focused."
He blinked.
"May I look?"
"I… it's just personal stuff," he muttered, clutching the notebook instinctively.
She leaned in. "Personal? I think I saw silver hair in there. Might've been me."
His heart nearly exploded.
"That, uh, it's not a portrait!" he stammered. "Just a reference. For… the Roaring Thunder stance."
She laughed. Not diplomatic, real. Soft. Warm.
"If you didn't want me to see it, you could've just said no."
His face burned. She was teasing him, but gently.
He sighed, handed her the notebook.
She flipped through pages. Notes. Diagrams. Theory. Her brows raised more than once.
Then she reached the drawing.
Not perfect, but honest. Capturing her in motion, eyes blazing, hair caught in the wind. Inked energy frozen mid-technique.
She stared longer than he expected.
"…Did you really draw this?" she asked quietly.
"I did," he said. "Didn't plan to. It just… happened."
She nodded.
"It's beautiful."
He said nothing.
"You caught everything. The tension. The movement. Even the wind."
She closed the notebook and rested her hand on it.
"Can I keep it?"
It took him a second. That sketch had taken hours.
But the way she asked…
"Yeah," he said. "Of course."
She accepted it with care. Then smiled, a small, genuine smile.
"I guess that means I owe you a favour," she said as she stood. "Try to remember that."
She returned to her seat in the back. His notebook still in her hands.
Ryu sat frozen. Wait, wasn't she only taking the one page?
Around him, students whispered. Some glared daggers. Soka popped up, grinning and wide-eyed, giving Ryu a dramatic wink.
But Ryu barely noticed.
The bus rolled forward. The city faded behind them.
Fields passed. Valleys. Mist.
But Ryu saw none of it.
He saw her.