The Weight of a Small World

"So," Victor murmured to himself, barely more than an exhale, "I have to convince her…"

His voice slipped into the dim room like a secret he wished he didn't have to say out loud.

A slow breath left him. His shoulders dropped. His fingers unconsciously brushed the side of his bed as if anchoring himself to something steady.

"…Fine."

The chandelier overhead burned softly, its warm glow casting long, slanted shadows across the stone walls—shadows that stretched and twisted like silent witnesses circling around him, waiting for his next step.

The winter competition waited.

His path waited.

His mother's wrath waited—sharp, absolute, unflinching.

Victor's jaw tightened as he looked toward the window, toward the night-dark sky. The world outside was quiet, unaware of the storm gathering in his chest.

He ran a hand through his hair and let the thoughts spill out inside him.

Convince her… huh.

Not because he adored the idea of fighting in a tournament.

Not because he craved applause or pride or fireworks.

He wasn't chasing the thrill of a battle. That wasn't what was pulling at him.

But power?

Yes—this world was built on it. Lived for it. Bent around it.

Yet there was another reason, one that scraped deeper beneath his ribs.

Something he inherited from the original Victor.

Something he discovered after arriving in this world.

This world—Rim—was tiny. A cramped little marble floating in a vast, ancient ocean. Five small kingdoms, two larger empires, all posturing and pretending they were the center of existence.

But the truth?

This world barely had anything.

A laugh ghosted out of him—short, humorless.

"The mana here… it's pathetic."

It was thin in the air, almost like breathing mist instead of water. Only the stubborn could cultivate in a place like this. Only the desperate survived.

And yet—despite how small Rim looked on maps—its history was anything but small.

Behind the kingdoms' bravado lay a reality only the royal families and ancient houses understood:

Beyond Rim, beyond its enchanted border, lay another world.

A world with richer mana. Stronger cultivators. Hungrier ambitions.

The winter competition wasn't a simple tournament.

It was a test.

A ritual.

A blood-stained bridge between two worlds.

Every young cultivator who entered had to swear an oath:

Never speak of what they saw beyond the border.

Never reveal what waited there.

Victory meant loot. Real loot.

Treasure rings stripped off warm corpses.

Cultivation pills scraped from defeated enemies.

Jade slips carrying techniques impossible to find in Rim.

Yes, it was barbaric.

Yes, it was cruel.

But cultivators didn't care about morality.

They cared about strength.

And what fueled strength?

Resources. Treasures. Power.

Victor leaned back slightly, fingers tapping the bedframe.

This is reality.

When the locals whispered rumors about the competition—calling it a grand tradition, a chance for honor, a clash of youthful pride—they weren't completely wrong.

But they were blind to the real reason the event existed.

Both sides wanted something.

Something ancient.

Something precious enough to cause centuries of restrained hostility.

The legacies.

Stories said three primordial beasts once existed within Rim:

The Terra Dragon, symbol of raw, unyielding power.

The Phoenix, symbol of endless rebirth and sacred fire.

And the Black Keeper Naga—mysterious, feared, and long lost.

Two were already claimed.

The empires held the legacies of the Dragon and the Phoenix.

Secured. Untouchable.

But the Naga?

Vanished.

Somewhere in Rim.

Hidden by time, buried by fate, or perhaps simply sleeping.

The other world—the invaders beyond the border—wanted it. They had always wanted it.

But they couldn't just walk in and take it.

Because Rim's border wasn't a simple wall.

It was a cursed line of ancient enchantments, a barrier that punished anyone too powerful who tried to cross. High cultivation meant instant death. A divine fail-safe that reduced even the proudest monster to ash.

Only younger, weaker cultivators could slip through using loopholes.

And finding a loophole?

Victor's lips curved faintly.

"Like trying to find a drop of water in dry grass."

Nearly impossible.

But not impossible enough to stop ambition.

Both sides sent their youths.

Both sides fought.

Both sides robbed, killed, and bled.

This wasn't tradition.

This was a silent war disguised as a friendly exchange.

Victor pressed his thumb into his temple, letting that small pressure pull his thoughts into focus. So… he really had to convince her. Not because he craved the thrill of a fight, but because of everything waiting on the other side of that invisible line he'd been too hesitant to cross.

If he wanted answers…

If he wanted to grow…

If he wanted the freedom to choose his own direction instead of being steered by fear or expectation…

Then he needed to walk into that battlefield.

He needed to step into that world.

His next breath slipped out slower, almost careful, as if organizing the pieces of his resolve one by one.

He straightened, spine drawing tall.

He knew perfectly well his mother wouldn't agree without a struggle. Her love was warm, yes, but wrapped in layers of fierce protectiveness—and beneath that, something sharper, something that never let go easily. Convincing her meant standing toe-to-toe with every part of that.

He would have to face her directly, speak with clarity, hold his ground no matter how her voice or eyes cut into him.

I can do that.

He let out one steadying breath—anchoring himself, gathering strength.

But before the air even fully left his lungs—

A soft pressure brushed against his back.

Warm.

Gentle.

Undeniably real.

His body tensed in a quick, instinctive ripple. His eyes widened just slightly, enough for surprise to break through his thoughts.

All those heavy ideas—borders, rival worlds, forgotten legacies—fractured instantly.

He blinked and was yanked straight out of his spiraling plans.

Back into the room.

Back into the heat hovering behind him.

Back into the subtle breath brushing the side of his neck—one that didn't belong to him.

Victor turned his head slowly—

—and finally came back to reality.

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