Vivian
The Li estate's upper courtyard shimmered with ceremonial grace. Morning haze drifted over stone tiles etched with ancestral runes, each glowing softly beneath the enchanted arena circle. A floating bell orb pulsed above, waiting for the match to begin.
Vivian stood at the edge of the platform, arms folded loosely across her chest, lips pressed in a line. Her brothers flanked her—Lucas on her left, Gavin on her right—while elders, cousins, and high-ranking retainers gathered around the perimeter.
It was supposed to be a simple presentation.
She had given him the blade.
He had accepted it without ceremony. Without error.
And now Nathan—her youngest brother, cocky and cheerful—had stepped forward with that ever-present grin and said, "Let me be the one. I'll keep it gentle. Can't have the groom bruised up too badly on his first day on the estate."
The elders had chuckled. The cousins had whispered. Her mother had smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes.
Ethan had simply nodded.
Not defiant. Not nervous.
Just calm.
Vivian's attention sharpened as she watched him step barefoot into the arena.
He moved with deliberate care, robes of dark grey trimmed in soft Li-gold, Zhou-cut on the inner layers—sharp-collared, unbending. A quiet union of both houses sewn into every fold.
He bowed—first to the elders, then to her parents, then to Nathan.
And then, with slow grace, he drew Qinglan's Silence.
The blade sang as it left the sheath, a breath of white-blue light sweeping over the runes at the arena's edge. The temperature shifted. The ambient mana bent slightly toward him—then recoiled.
Vivian felt it. So did everyone else.
Ethan started to move.
It looked like a warm-up—an elegant form exercise, half martial, half ceremonial. It was an unspoken tradition, a show of respect and preparation.
How did he know that?
She hadn't told him. It wasn't in the public scrolls. The information had only been exchanged between the families during the final arrangements.
He actually read that?
Who does that?
Still, he moved well. And while there were moments—glimpses—of what could only be called brilliance, his use of mana was… off.
Too much.
He was channeling—but not shaping. The rush, the push—it was far too much for the intended effect. When it came to battle application of mana, it was clear Ethan was an amateur.
Still, that part had been known—even expected.
What wasn't expected was Qinglan's Silence reacting to him.
The blade pulsed.
It jump-started his mana rotation.
Raw power surged from his core into his limbs and rippled outward in waves. Not unstable. Not corrupted. Just overpowered. A furnace with no exhaust valve.
And yet, that wasn't the part that truly unnerved her.
It was what she saw within him.
She could see his paths—his meridians, his spiritual lattice, his soul's pressure points—and they weren't resisting the flow. They were moving with it, responding to overload with perfect clarity. Yes, the mana was excessive, but the structure wasn't breaking.
It was flowing too well.
What was happening right now?
That wasn't all.
His meridians… they looked clear. Perfectly aligned.
No ruptures from overuse.
No spiritual scarring from failed breakthroughs.
Not even the subtle bruising that came from advanced techniques or reckless advancement.
And there was something else—no residue.
His mana was untainted. No trace of forbidden shortcuts. No leeching rituals. No borrowed power.
Just raw, clean flow—and a purity of internal mana that bordered on the sacred.
That wasn't normal. Not for a man with no formal training. Not for someone her family hadn't personally refined.
It made her uneasy.
Because it meant one of two things:
Either he was lying about his origin.
Or he was something else entirely.
But that couldn't be possible.
Her family didn't make mistakes like that.
He was Ethan Zhou. She wasn't personally acquainted with him before the arrangement, but her mother had vetted him extensively—spoken about him to exhaustion.
He's a scholar. How are his meridians this refined?
Every major channel was open. Tempered. Clean.
This level of internal development wasn't possible without years of advanced training—or a master's direct intervention. Certainly not at his age.
Is this why Mother wanted him? Could this be the hidden potential of the Zhou bloodline?
Before she could think further, the bell chimed.
Both Ethan's and Nathan's pre-match displays were completed.
They bowed to one another, flared their mana in sporting challenge, and took up mirrored fighting stances.
There was a breath. A pause.
Then—
Nathan moved.
Vivian barely had time to exhale before her brother flickered forward—fast, precise—activating Fleet Foot, a movement technique that flooded mana into his legs and lower back, launching him forward in a burst.
His blade came low—an opening strike that turned into a feint. He adjusted his angle mid-stride and swept his weapon in a sharp arc toward Ethan's ribs.
Ethan twisted to intercept—too late.
The instinct was good, but his mana flared again, wild and unsynchronized. The surge forced his sword arm—and most of his body—farther than he intended. He stumbled three paces, skidding across the polished stone.
Nathan didn't hesitate.
He flicked his wrist and cast Ghost Palm, a mid-tier construct spell. Ethan dodged the construct—barely—but wasn't ready for the Wind-Forge Pressure Strike that followed along the edge of Nathan's blade.
Thankfully, Nathan used the flat.
Ethan took the hit—and responded. A short jab that forced Nathan to step back.
That seemed to surprise her brother.
But only for a second.
Then Nathan struck again—faster, sharper—and landed a clean blow across Ethan's ribs.
The sound echoed like wood splitting.
Ethan staggered.
But didn't fall.
Vivian narrowed her eyes.
He was absorbing the hit wrong—bracing with raw muscle and body tension instead of using breath control and mana layering to disperse impact. Too much energy kept flooding toward his core, clashing against untrained spiritual gates.
He didn't know how to slow it down. He wasn't adjusting.
He was just enduring.
Not the worst instinct.
But certainly not the right one.
He looked like someone trying to carry fire in bare hands.
Nathan came again—high this time. Ethan parried, but Nathan dropped his weight and added mana density to the blow. Then swept Ethan's legs from under him in a fast, spinning floor kick.
It was beautiful. Precise.
The crowd groaned.
Ethan hit the stone hard.
But the blade never left his hand.
He rolled. Pushed himself up.
Too fast.
The mana surged again—this time visible—light flaring down his arms like overloaded circuits. His face remained calm, but the sheen of sweat across his jawline was undeniable.
Nathan paused, reading the signs.
"You want to scale it back?" he asked, tone light.
Ethan shook his head slowly.
"This is good training, brother," he said, bowing. "Please continue to instruct me."
Nathan returned the bow with a grin. "As you wish."
Vivian didn't know whether to be impressed or irritated.
Why wasn't he giving up? He'd already done more than enough for the sake of appearance. Everyone knew he wasn't a warrior. Why was he still pushing?
Especially when he was getting stomped all over the arena.
Vivian suddenly regretted letting the Path Icons record the event.
The next clash ended with Ethan on one knee, sword raised to block, his body rattling from the impact. His shoulder looked bruised. His internal energy was fraying—no longer running smooth.
He was losing—badly.
Still, he hadn't yielded.
Nathan lunged again—pulse-forged strikes in a high-low combo followed by a kinetic burst kick.
Ethan braced—too hard, again.
The mana blew out through his spine, chaotic and painful to watch.
The final strike landed center mass.
Ethan hit the stone with a thud.
The bell didn't chime.
But a voice did—deep, commanding, resonant with the weight of a man who had commanded hundreds of thousands.
"Enough," General Li said.
The entire courtyard froze.
The tone was calm—but it left no room for question.
Nathan stepped back immediately.
Ethan didn't move.
For one terrible moment, Vivian thought he'd lost consciousness.
Then he rolled to one side, sat up slowly. His breath was steady, even now.
Her father raised a hand, ready to dismiss the match.
But Ethan—still seated—bowed low.
"I thank you for the instruction," he said, voice rough but clear.
Nathan blinked. "Why didn't you yield?"
Ethan lifted his gaze.
"Because I know my wife's honor is tied to my actions. I understand the Li family's traditions. Being a scholar is no excuse. All warriors are called to defend the Empire—skilled or not, capable or not."
He exhaled softly.
"I was still conscious," he added. "And until I'm not, I have a duty to stand and fight."
Silence.
One of the elders coughed softly.
Vivian felt a chill crawl across her skin.
He meant it.
Not as bravado. Not as theater.
As duty.
Her mother made a soft, thoughtful sound. Her father didn't speak, but his stance shifted—just slightly—behind his back.
Nathan extended a hand.
To everyone's surprise—including Vivian's—Ethan took it.
They clasped wrists. Nathan helped him to his feet.
"You're not trained in the sword or mana arts," Nathan said bluntly. "But your foundation's... absurd. You've got an incredible amount of mana. But you're pushing your flow too much."
Ethan nodded. "I'm working on it."
Nathan grinned. "You're no swordsman. But you clearly have a foundation in fists and feet techniques. What do you say, brother-in-law—rematch? No mana. Hand to hand."
Ethan turned to General Li.
Vivian's breath caught.
What was Nathan doing?
Her father looked around, reading the mood. Then to Ethan.
"You've done more than enough to honor your wife and this house," he said. "You may walk away without shame. You are clearly injured. Do you wish to continue?"
Ethan gave a faint smile and bowed.
"If my lord permits... I dare not lose a chance to honor the household."
Her father glanced at her mother, who looked both amused and intrigued.
"Go ahead," he said.
The bell shimmered.
Vivian almost stepped forward to protest. He was bruised. Overheated. His energy was still unstable, and there was a very real chance of backlash.
But she stopped herself.
Why did she care?
They weren't… a real couple.
Why should she protect—or worry about—him?
Nathan dropped into a martial stance. No blade. No channeling. Just form.
Ethan matched it—calm again. Collected.
The second match began.
This time, it was different.
Nathan moved fast—sharp elbows and a leg sweep meant to unbalance.
Ethan pivoted, ducked, and countered with a palm strike that cracked like thunder across Nathan's ribs.
No mana.
Just perfect mechanics and devastating timing.
Nathan staggered.
Came again.
A feint into a shoulder drop.
Ethan caught the hand, turned the weight, and flipped it into a wrist lock.
Nathan barely escaped—landed off-balance.
Now he looked rattled.
They clashed again.
Fists. Elbows. Breath and bone.
It wasn't flashy. It was clean.
Ethan's form moved like a diagram—minimal steps, flawless timing. No panic. No flourish.
Just logic.
Precision.
He moved like someone who had drilled a thousand hours in silence.
Now Nathan was the one defending.
Vivian's pulse quickened.
Ethan slipped behind her brother and tapped the back of his knee with surgical ease.
Nathan dropped.
Ethan didn't strike again.
He just let him fall.
The bell rang.
Vivian didn't realize she'd stepped forward until she felt the edge of the arena under her foot.
Ethan bowed.
"General Li," he said calmly, "if it pleases, I will take my leave and tend to my injuries."
The general nodded—shock barely concealed.
Before leaving, Ethan helped Nathan to his feet. Then bowed again.
And without another word, he walked off the platform—bruised, bloodied... but steady.
Vivian stood in the silence he left behind.