The chamber was heavy with silence, the air thick with power. Nine figures sat around the long obsidian table, each a ruler in their own right, each commanding a piece of Velmara's vast dominion. They did not speak often, but when they did, their words shaped the kingdom's future.
At the northern end sat Baek-Du, a mountain of a man, his fur-lined cloak draped over his broad shoulders. A deep scar ran from his cheek to his collarbone, a reminder of wars fought and won. His presence alone was enough to make lesser men tremble. He was a warrior, born and bred, and he ruled the North as one—where the cold was merciless and so was he.
Beside him, Hye-Jin of the West sat upright, her sharp features framed by a sleek coil of hair. She dressed in black, a contrast to the gold accents of her blade resting against the table's edge. Unlike Baek-Du, she did not rely on brute strength. She ruled through whispers, through shadows, through blades that found their marks long before they were seen.
Across from her, Jina of the Southwest remained still, veiled in ivory, her face unreadable. She spoke little, but when she did, her voice was silk over steel. No one truly knew her, yet all feared her. Her domain was rich in trade, her power silent but absolute.
To her right, Sang-Min of the Northeast lounged carelessly, draped in emerald robes, fingers idly toying with a ring. His smile never reached his eyes. Where others wielded steel, he wielded ink and parchment, his contracts binding as chains. His words were his weapons, and his enemies often found themselves trapped before they even realized there was a battle.
Seated closer to the center, Eun-Woo of the Southeast exuded wealth. Rings gleamed on his fingers, silks draped over his shoulders, and the scent of exotic spices lingered in the air around him. He was not a warrior, nor did he pretend to be. Gold was his sword, trade routes his battlefield, and those who stood in his way always found themselves mysteriously… missing.
At the far end, Ji-Ho of the South sat stiffly, his armor worn even within these walls, his hands rough with the calluses of war. A soldier first, a ruler second. His men followed him because he bled beside them, not from a throne. He was strong, loyal, but loyalty was a weakness when surrounded by wolves.
Next to him, Seo-Hwan of the East was the opposite—calm, composed, his robes plain but his gaze carrying the weight of inevitability. He did not rule with kindness or cruelty, only with purpose. Every move he made felt like it had already been decided long ago, as if he simply walked the path fate had laid before him.
Beside him, Mi-Ran of the Northwest sat with an effortless grace, her deep-blue robes flowing as if they commanded the air itself. Her nails were painted blood-red, her smile practiced, perfected. She did not raise her voice, nor did she need to. Mi-Ran was a queen in all but name, and she carried herself as such. But behind that elegance lurked venom, waiting for the right moment to strike.
And then there was Won-Tae of the West-Central lands, a massive man, his presence undeniable. He was the only one who laughed in these meetings—but never out of warmth. His empire was built on industry, on mines that ran deep, on debts that ran deeper. Those who crossed him rarely lived long enough to regret it.
They sat in silence, the weight of their power pressing against the stone walls of the chamber. Nine rulers. Nine domains. And one throne that would soon belong to only one.
Arthur Seo stood at the edge of the arena, watching the fight unfold. The afternoon sun hung high, casting long shadows across the stone-paved battleground. The air crackled with anticipation, every descendant's eyes locked onto the two figures in the center.
Do-Yun, son of Baek-Du, stood firm, muscles coiled like steel cables, his stance wide and unshakable. His arms, wrapped in cloth, bore the scars of countless battles. His opponent, Joon-Sang, heir of Hye-Jin, was lighter, faster, flames curling around his fingertips like restless serpents.
The match began.
Joon-Sang moved first. A burst of fire exploded beneath his feet, launching him forward. He twisted mid-air, fist engulfed in flames, and struck.
Do-Yun didn't evade.
He stepped into the blow.
At the last second, his leg shot up—a brutal knee strike straight into Joon-Sang's ribs. The impact sent a deep, sickening thud through the arena.
Joon-Sang gasped.
Do-Yun didn't stop. He grabbed the back of Joon-Sang's head and yanked it downward, driving another knee into his stomach. The flames flickered and faltered.
A savage elbow crashed into Joon-Sang's cheek. His body twisted from the force, blood spraying into the dust. He staggered, but Do-Yun was relentless.
A roundhouse kick to the temple.
A devastating punch to the chest.
Each strike landed like a hammer on iron.
Joon-Sang tried to breathe, but the blows came too fast. He barely had time to raise his arms before another elbow sent him sprawling.
The crowd held its breath.
Do-Yun towered over him, fists clenched. One more strike would end it.
"That's enough."
The instructor's voice rang out, sharp and final.
The fight was over.
Joon-Sang lay on his back, barely conscious, his flames reduced to embers. A healer rushed in—Hana, the only one allowed in these fights. Golden light flared at her fingertips as she worked to mend Joon-Sang's broken body.
Arthur exhaled.
My turn.
He stepped forward.
Across from him, Gwan-Ri, heir of Won-Tae, cracked his knuckles. He was massive, his shoulders broad, his smirk filled with amusement.
Laughter rippled through the stands.
"Him?"
"He'll barely last a minute."
"Why does he even try?"
From the instructor's podium, the teacher of the ninth descendant lowered his head.
Arthur had fought before. And Arthur had lost.
Why does he keep fighting battles he cannot win?
Arthur clenched his fists.
This time would be different.
Gwan-Ri launched forward at blinding speed, his massive fist hurtling toward Arthur with unstoppable force.
Boom!
The moment his punch landed, the ground beneath them exploded. A crater formed instantly, cracks splintering outward like shattered glass. Dust and debris filled the air, blinding the onlookers.
The descendants shielded their eyes, coughing as the dust settled. Then the complaints began.
"That was too fast! I didn't even see the impact!"
"Wait, where's Arthur? Did he get crushed?"
"No way he survived that."
But then—Gwan-Ri's fist was frozen in place.
It hadn't crushed Arthur. It hadn't even reached him.
A single hand gripped Gwan-Ri's wrist, holding it firm—not Arthur's, but his instructor's.
Master Jin-Su stood between them, his grip effortless, his expression calm.
"I regret to inform you," he said, his voice smooth, almost apologetic, "but my student has surrendered."
A ripple of shock passed through the crowd.
Gwan-Ri's lip curled into a sneer.
"Surrender?" he spat. "Pathetic. You're both a disgrace."
He yanked his arm free and turned, walking away with a scoff. But just as he reached the edge of the ring—he stopped.
The smirk returned to his face.
Without warning, he whirled around and threw a punch, this time straight at Jin-Su.
The force behind it was monstrous.
But Jin-Su barely moved.
At the last second, he tilted his body ever so slightly, letting the punch sail past him. The force of the blow cut through the air like a blade, brushing Arthur's hair aside.
Then, in one smooth motion, Jin-Su countered.
His movements were effortless, precise.
One hand pressed against Gwan-Ri's ribs. A shift of weight. A twist of the wrist.
A sickening crack.
Gwan-Ri's entire body spasmed. The air left his lungs in a single, broken gasp. His legs buckled, his ribs shattering under the force of the strike.
Before he could collapse, his own instructor stormed forward.
"This is outrageous!" he roared. "That was excessive! You deliberately—"
Jin-Su remained unmoved.
"I only redirected his force," he said smoothly. "Had I not, your student would have been responsible for far worse."
Gwan-Ri's instructor clenched his fists. "You—"
He took a step forward, but before another fight could break out, several others leapt between them.
"Enough!"
The voice was sharp as a blade.
Lady Na-Eun stepped forward, her piercing gaze sweeping over them both.
"You are instructors, not reckless children," she snapped. "If you wish to fight, do it in the arena like warriors. Not over undisciplined students who lack control."
The silence was deafening.
Gwan-Ri clutched his ribs, pride shattered alongside them. His instructor glared but backed down.
Arthur exhaled slowly, watching it all.
This wasn't over.