The training arena lay open beneath the moon, pale silver light casting long shadows across the stone platforms. A breeze stirred the silence, rustling robes and setting torch flames to flicker. No one in the gathered crowd spoke. The stillness wasn't out of politeness—it was awe.

Aaryan stood tall, chest rising with steady breath, his silver Qi dimming slightly as the last trails of steam from the water spear curled into the night. He had been pushed back, but only a few steps. It shouldn't have been possible. Three small stages was a canyon, not a gap—and yet, here he stood.

Shravan's eyes glinted. A moment of surprise had flickered across his face, but it was gone now, replaced by a quiet, blooming pride. His arms crossed slowly, and his weight shifted to one leg—more relaxed than before.

Beside him, Babita had forgotten to mask her expression. Her lips parted faintly, brows slightly raised, the poised air of a young noblewoman broken by disbelief. She quickly caught herself, smoothing her expression into impassive grace, but her eyes didn't leave the platform.

Elder Kel leaned forward with a frown, while Mithun's scoff had frozen halfway. "Not even seventh stage," he muttered, but there was no strength in the words. Only Subhash, standing beside Pramod and the Green Fairy at the front, remained unmoved—his arms folded, eyes narrowed, the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth the only sign he was even paying attention.

On the platform, Simmi tilted her head slightly. Her long lashes dipped, her eyes briefly lowering—not in shame or anger, but in reconsideration.

"It seems I underestimated you," she said, her voice like water running beneath ice—measured, composed, but carrying an undercurrent.

Aaryan exhaled through his nose, lips curving in a half-smile. "I'll take that as a compliment." But in his chest, his heartbeat quickened. He had felt something sharp in her Qi, restrained until now.

With a flick of her wrist, a sword appeared in her hand—a long, elegant weapon with a translucent hue, tinged with blue. It caught the moonlight like water flowing over glass, like it wasn't entirely part of this world.

Aaryan's pupils narrowed. Spirit weapon.

Simmi raised her other hand. Her fingers swept in precise, flowing gestures—graceful but firm. Five copies of the sword blinked into existence above her, forming a floating ring that revolved slowly. The real sword dissolved into the formation, indistinguishable among them.

Gasps rippled through the watching clan members. Even Aaryan's brows twitched upward.

The humming blades stirred, then danced.

They didn't shoot straight—they glided, curved, swirled, almost like dancers tracing deadly arcs in the air. He stepped sideways, then rolled back, dodging one—only for another to spiral toward him. The next two mirrored his dodge, veering to flank him. One slipped past his shoulder—close enough to sting.

Pramod murmured, arms crossed, "I didn't know Simmi had such mastery over Mirrored Flow Dance at her age."

"She's hailed as the prodigy of the century," the Green Fairy replied calmly, her tone laced with pride. "This is the culmination of five years of training."

On the stage, Aaryan gritted his teeth, backpedalling as another blade nicked past his forearm. The cluster moved like a mind of its own. He could feel her control—clean, fluid, and unrelenting. There were no gaps, only pressure.

There shouldn't be such a technique that multiplies a single strike, Aaryan thought as he darted backward, bare feet skimming the cracked stone surface. The six identical swords wheeled around him like hawks—relentless, dancing on windstreams only they seemed to command. Either only one is real… or none of them carry the original's weight. But he couldn't afford to gamble. Even one wrong guess could end it.

He clenched his jaw. 'At best, I can handle two. The rest… too risky.'

Something flared behind his eyes—calm, but final.

Simmi remained at the far end of the platform, unhurried. Her robes fluttered in the night breeze, her control absolute. She stood like a weaver, fingers dancing through invisible threads, directing the swords with precise, delicate movements.

Aaryan's body twisted mid-air to evade another phantom blade.

His gaze narrowed, sharp as flint. And then he moved—fast as a thought, silent as a falling star.

Still in motion, his soul sense coiled inward—compressed into a needle-thin strand of will. Invisible to all but the most sensitive. With a flicker of thought, he launched it.

A ripple in the air. Subtle, quiet.

Pramod's eyes narrowed. "A soul attack," he muttered.

Beside him, the Green Fairy leaned forward slightly, recognizing it in an instant. Her lips parted in surprise.

Simmi's own soul sense, honed far beyond her years, caught the disturbance a heartbeat before it reached her. Her brows knit. She drew her spirit inward—defending the depths of her soul sea with swift precision.

Aaryan's mind throbbed under the strain. He clenched his fists tight, teeth gritted. He didn't want to crush her spirit—just rattle her hold. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face, but he steeled himself and released the full force of his Anvil Strike.

At the same moment, one of the illusionary swords caught him in the shoulder.

A deep gash bloomed across his upper arm. Blood sprayed as he staggered—but didn't scream. His focus didn't waver. All his energy remained directed at Simmi.

Her defence cracked—not shattered, but pushed.

Her breath caught, and for a brief moment, her pupils lost focus. A faint trail of crimson slid from the corner of her lips.

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That was enough.

The hovering swords, without her guidance, slowed in their arc. Their unified rhythm stuttered.

He didn't wait. Fire burst from his palm—silver, focused, and fast. It surged across the platform like a comet, the heat cutting through the night air.

Simmi, recovering, raised a flowing water barrier with a sweep of her hand. The flame met it with a violent hiss. Steam exploded outward. The platform trembled under the clash of elements.

Spectators shielded their faces as smoke poured out.

The silver fire flared but began to dim—too small to last. Simmi's barrier, though thinned, held fast, sustained by a steady stream of Qi.

Until—

Nothing.

Then—

A whisper of motion.

Three silver needles tore through the mist—silent, precise—and froze a breath away from her neck.

A thin red line bloomed across her skin.

Simmi froze.

The crowd inhaled as one.

A hush fell once more across the arena—deeper than before. All eyes locked on the trembling silver needles, hovering like executioners awaiting a final breath.

Simmi blinked, her fingers still raised mid-casting. A single drop of blood slid down her neck.

A flicker of something unreadable passed through her eyes. Not anger. Or shame. Something closer to quiet acceptance. Then, she lowered her hand.

The five swords vanished mid-air with a flicker of light—silent as vanishing mist. The trio of silver needles clinked softly against the stone platform, their gleam dulled by the faint smear of blood on one.

For a heartbeat, no one moved.

Then Shravan's fingers twitched beside his robe's hem. "He really won," he murmured, voice hushed as if he feared breaking the moment. His eyes locked on Aaryan's shoulder—blood soaking through black robes, a stark bloom of red.

Without waiting, Shravan strode forward. "You're hurt—!"

"I'm fine." Aaryan raised a hand, smiling despite the tightness around his eyes. His fingers were pale, trembling faintly from the strain. Still, he reached into his ring and sprinkled a pale green powder onto the wound. The bleeding ceased in seconds, a faint wisp of steam rising as the powder sealed flesh.

Pramod ascended the platform steps with measured grace, Green Fairy at his side—her expression unreadable behind her veil of jade silk. The rest followed, footsteps echoing like distant drumbeats in the stillness. Their eyes, one by one, fixed on the youth who stood, bloodied but unbeaten.

"Well done," Pramod said simply, his voice calm, authoritative.

"I just used a trick," Aaryan replied, bowing slightly. His breath still hadn't fully steadied. "It wasn't strength. I merely found a gap."

"Tricks?" Simmi's voice was sharp, but not unkind. She stepped forward, brushing away the blood on her chin. "A loss is still a loss. Doesn't matter if it's a trick, talent, or luck."

"Luck favours the prepared," Green Fairy said, her voice flowing like wind-chimes in moonlight. Her gaze was fixed on him, curious. "That soul-based attack… such techniques are rare. And among them, offensive types even rarer. Where did you learn it?"

Aaryan gave a faint shrug, lips tugging into a crooked smile. "I… stumbled across it while traveling."

A pause. Pramod and Green Fairy exchanged a glance—silent, fleeting. The boy had revealed nothing, again.

Then came a weighty hand on Aaryan's back. Subhash, broad-shouldered and grinning like a wolf, patted him hard enough to make him flinch.

"This one's to my liking," the First Elder said. "You don't win battles with clean moves and flowery techniques. You win by daring to bleed. To risk everything for an opening." His eyes glittered. "Good. Very good."

Aaryan dipped his head. "It was just recklessness, Elder. Nothing to praise."

"Hah." Subhash's chuckle was thunder in the quiet. "Call it what you want."

Even Mithun, who had earlier scoffed about 'five moves,' remained silent, arms folded, lips pressed thin. His eyes flicked between Pramod and Green Fairy, calculating.

Babita stood farther back. Her arms were still crossed, but the sharpness in her gaze had softened. She didn't speak—only watched. Whatever annoyance she held earlier had shifted into something else. Something quieter.

Then Pramod's voice rang out like a gavel. "It's settled then. You'll be the designated helper in the upcoming competition. I believe no one has objections now."

Nods came from all sides.

Except one.

"Clan Leader," Aaryan said, his voice calm, "this junior hasn't agreed to it… yet."

The silence that followed stretched—deep, expectant.

And above them all, the moon continued its slow crawl across the sky, casting its silver light across the cracked stone platform where blood, steam, and the faint scent of burnt air still lingered.

The crowd watched from a respectful distance, murmurs stilled, uncertain eyes darting between the figures atop the stone platform. The three fallen needles gleamed faintly under the slanting sun, untouched. In the centre of it all, Aaryan stood with one hand still resting lightly over his healing shoulder, his gaze steady—neither confrontational nor deferential, just unshaken.

Elder Kel looked like a pot about to boil over, his thin mustache twitching. "Brat, what are you playing at? Isn't that why you were summoned?"

Aaryan didn't flinch. His tone was calm, like water smoothing over stone. "I'd like to correct Elder here. I was invited for a dinner—and only after I arrived was I informed about this matter. Even if I had known earlier, that doesn't obligate me to accept."

The words, spoken without heat, still cut with precision. Elder Kel opened his mouth again but caught the expression on Clan Leader Pramod's face and froze.

The platform turned still.

Babita frowned. She didn't like this—didn't like how everyone kept getting drawn into the orbit of this annoying stranger, as if he'd always been meant to stand here, in their estate, commanding attention.

But even she had to admit—it didn't feel wrong.

Shravan's fingers twitched beside his robe's hem. His usual composed expression had thinned, lips tight. This was still the Megh Estate. His father had spoken. And yet—

And yet Aaryan stood there, neither bowing nor backing down.

Elder Mithun, flustered, barked, "If you didn't want to be the helper, why not say so earlier? Why waste everyone's time?"

"I can assure you, Elder," Aaryan said, "I had no intention of wasting anyone's time. At the start, I was merely one of two candidates. The wording was: if Clan Leader Pramod chose me. Not that I had agreed to be chosen."

A faint huff of laughter escaped the green-robed girl beside Pramod. "Oh? And what exactly is the difference?" she asked, voice silvery with amusement.

Aaryan smiled slightly. "Green Fairy is embarrassing me by spelling it out."

Green Fairy's brows rose in intrigue. Somewhere behind her teasing smile, calculation flickered.

Pramod remained still, arms crossed, watching like a man weighing a blade's edge. Subhash beside him had folded his arms but wore a satisfied look—like someone watching his favourite boulder roll downhill faster than expected.

Simmi didn't speak either. She watched carefully, her arms crossed lightly under her chest, chin tilted just enough to mask her own conflicted thoughts. Babita leaned in beside her, voice a whisper. "Cousin… what is this idiot saying?"

Simmi's lips curled, just barely. "Earlier, he had no leverage. If he spoke up then, they'd have dismissed him outright. But now? He beat me—cleanly. Everyone here wants him as helper. So now he speaks. And now… he gets to make demands."

Babita blinked. Her brow furrowed, and for the first time, her eyes held something uncomfortably close to respect.

Green Fairy leaned closer to Pramod, eyes never leaving Aaryan. "As far as I know, we both don't want the Dravhals to win. Didn't you have a… dispute with Aran?"

Aaryan's face didn't shift, but something in his eyes turned flinty. "Green Fairy is right. I have a minor issue with Aran. But not enough to drag the whole Dravhal clan into it. If I participate, though… I'll come under their radar. And unlike the clans, I'm just one person."

A pause.

And then, with eerie ease, he added, "But if I want to leave, I can assure you… no one here could stop me."

A flicker of tension rippled through the gathered elders. It wasn't arrogance. That would've been easy to dismiss. It was something worse—certainty.

Pramod's eyes narrowed, unreadable.

Green Fairy, lips parted slightly, regarded him as if seeing a piece of sky that didn't belong to the horizon.

"Very well," said Pramod finally, voice low but resolute. "State your conditions."

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