The chains clinked at her wrists as Aya was dragged through the broad, echoing corridor.
The stone beneath her bare feet was polished smooth, a marble so pristine it reflected torchlight in silvery streaks. Each step rang with a hollow weight, like she was marching deeper into the belly of some slumbering beast. Soldiers flanked her on both sides, armored boots scraping with practiced menace, spears occasionally tapping against the stone floor to remind her how little freedom she had left.
But Aya didn't lower her gaze. She kept her head high. Her breath was steady, though her heart was a drum in her chest.
So this is the seat of power in the region, she thought, scanning the looming walls, the murals of conquests, the heavy drapery embroidered with lions and eagles. Opulence built on the bones of villagers who break their backs just to survive.
At the end of the corridor, doors twice as tall as a man groaned open.
The hall beyond was immense. Pillars of alabaster rose like petrified trees. Stained glass scattered colored light across the polished floor. A dais stood at the far end, layered in steps, and upon it lounged the man who ruled this territory: the Regional Chairman.
He was exactly what Aya had expected—and somehow worse.
Obese to the point of grotesque, his body spilled across a cushioned seat more like a throne than a chair. Golden rings glinted on fingers as thick as sausages. His face was flushed, his jowls quivering as he reached for a goblet of wine. And when his piggish eyes landed on Aya, he smirked.
"Well, well," the Chairman drawled, his voice syrupy and smug. "So this is the infamous troublemaker who dared strike Imperial soldiers."
Aya's chains rattled as the guards forced her to kneel. She ignored the order, staying on her feet until one soldier shoved her down by the shoulder.
The Chairman chuckled. "Fiery, are we? It is no wonder the peasants whisper about you."
Aya's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
The Chairman leaned forward slightly, studying her with all the subtlety of a butcher eyeing a choice cut of meat. "Pretty face. Eyes that burn with spirit. I admire that. Truly." He sipped his wine, then set it down. "And because I am a merciful man, I will give you a choice."
Aya's pulse throbbed in her temple. She already hated where this was going.
The Chairman spread his arms, his rings glittering. "Become mine. Marry me, and all your charges will vanish. Your family will be protected. Your village… forgiven. You will live here, draped in silks and jewels, never knowing hunger again."
A hush fell over the guards. Some shifted uncomfortably, others smirked as though they had heard this proposition before.
Aya stared at him for a long moment.
Then she let a laugh slip out. Sharp, humorless, cold. "You disgust me."
The Chairman blinked. "What did you say?"
"I said," Aya's voice cut through the hall like a blade, "you disgust me. You sit on a throne of stolen coin, gorging yourself while villages starve, and you think I'd ever lower myself to you? You're not a man. You're a melon stuffed in brocade."
The hall froze. A few soldiers stifled laughter but were silenced by the Chairman's glare. His face turned scarlet, his jowls trembling with rage.
"You dare—!" He surged half out of his chair, wheezing from the exertion, pointing a fat finger at her. "Lock her up! Put her in the dungeons! Let her rot until she learns respect!"
Two soldiers yanked Aya to her feet. She didn't resist. She met the Chairman's eyes one last time, her gaze sharp as steel.
"I'll rot before I kneel to you," she said evenly.
The Chairman's roar echoed off the marble. "Take her away!"
Chains clattered. Aya was dragged from the hall, her laughter echoing faintly behind her, a sound that cut deeper into the Chairman's pride than any blade could have.
The descent into the dungeons was like being swallowed by the earth itself. Each step down the spiral stairwell bled away light, until torches sputtered dimly, their smoke clinging to the low ceilings like a choking fog.
Aya was shoved forward into a corridor where moisture slicked the stone, and the air smelled of mold and rust. Rats skittered through cracks. The guards dragged her to an iron-barred cell, the door screeching open on ungreased hinges.
"Welcome to your palace," one guard jeered, shoving her inside. Chains rattled as the door slammed shut and locked. Their laughter followed them back up the hall until only silence remained.
Aya stood still, letting her eyes adjust. The cell was barely wide enough to lie flat. A cot stuffed with rotting straw sat in one corner, and a bucket for waste in the other. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, counting time like a cruel metronome.
She inhaled slowly. Exhaled. Sat cross-legged in the center of the cell.
So this is their punishment. Darkness. Silence. A cage.
She touched her wrists, the skin raw where the shackles bit deep. Her Healing Factor soothed the welts almost immediately, though she willed it to slow. She couldn't afford to waste stamina on minor pain.
The first night, they came.
Three soldiers stopped outside her bars, the light of their torches pooling in her cell. Their faces were shadowed by helmets, but their grins were audible.
"Well, well," one drawled. "The Chairman's little prize."
Another chuckled. "Bet he wouldn't notice if we had some fun first."
Aya's body tensed. Her nails bit into her palms, every instinct screaming at her to strike. But she forced herself calm, her voice steady, even mocking.
"Touch me," she said, "and the Chairman will know. Do you think he'll forgive you for laying hands on the girl he wants for himself?"
The silence was sharp. Then, reluctantly, the soldiers laughed it off. "Tch. She's got a point."
"Not worth losing our heads over," another muttered. "But we'll be back. Sooner or later, he'll get bored of you."
Their footsteps faded. Aya unclenched her fists, breathing out slowly.
Buy time. Survive. Wait for the right moment.
And so the routine began.
Every day, a thin bowl of watery gruel was shoved through the bars. Every night, soldiers came to taunt her, testing the edges of her composure. And every time, Aya turned their greed against them. "The Chairman will kill you if you touch me," she repeated like a mantra, her eyes hard enough to make them hesitate.
They laughed, mocked her, cursed her—but they never crossed the line. Not yet.
Aya used the time.
By day, she meditated, focusing her breathing, feeling the flow of her body. She replayed every move of her Quadra Emperor Style, every stance, every pivot, every strike—first in her mind, then in her cramped cell. The guards laughed when they saw her shadowboxing in chains, but she ignored them.
Her body remembered. Her blood remembered. Even here, caged, she could become even stronger.
System Notification:[Quadra Emperor Style: Damage Output +1%]
Aya smiled faintly. The system never slept.
At night, when the soldiers left, she spoke softly into the dark. To herself. To Tessa.
"You hated fighting," she whispered. "But I can't afford to. If I have to become a weapon to survive, then so be it. I'll carry this body forward, even in a place like this."
Her voice echoed faintly, lost in stone.
Days bled into each other. Weeks, perhaps. Time was meaningless in the dungeon. But her resolve did not waver. She was an ant once—patient, enduring, relentless. That instinct still burned in her.
And then came the day the Chairman himself descended.
The guards straightened nervously as he waddled down the corridor, fanning himself with a gilded fan. His sweat gleamed in torchlight, his breath wheezing with each step. When he stopped outside Aya's cell, he smiled, a grotesque imitation of kindness.
"My dear," he said, his voice oily. "Have you reconsidered? Your spirit is admirable, but why waste it in the dark? Marry me. Live in comfort. All this—" he gestured at the dungeon, "—will be behind you."
Aya met his gaze without hesitation. "Behind me? You'd still be in front of me. That's worse."
The Chairman's smile faltered. "Careful, girl."
"You're a melon in brocade," Aya said evenly. "A bloated fruit trying to call itself a man."
The corridor went deathly still. The guards turned pale, as though waiting for lightning to strike.
The Chairman's face purpled, sweat dripping down his jowls. His fan snapped in half in his fist.
"You insolent wretch!" he roared. "You dare mock me? Then so be it! If you will not bend, you will break!"
He leaned closer to the bars, spittle flying. "I sentence you to Trial by Combat. Let us see how long your arrogance lasts when you face death itself."
Aya's lips curved into the faintest smile. Not joy—something sharper.
"Finally," she whispered.
The Chairman sputtered, mistaking her calm for madness. He stormed back up the corridor, his guards scurrying after him, his rage echoing long after he was gone.
Aya closed her eyes. Her fists tightened. Her heart pounded with something she hadn't felt since the forest battles—anticipation.
Trial by Combat.
Her chance had come.
The dungeon had never been quiet. There was always dripping water, squeaking rats, chains groaning in the dark. Yet after the Chairman's declaration, Aya felt the silence differently—weighted, oppressive, brimming with anticipation.
The guards, once lazy, now came in pairs. They leaned against the bars and smirked, eager for entertainment.
"Trial's tomorrow," one said, grinning through bad teeth. "Bet you don't last a minute."
"Minute? She won't last a breath," the other sneered. "She's just a girl. A frail little villager."
Aya ignored them, eyes closed in meditation.
Frail little villager.
Her lips twitched. If only they knew.
In her mind, she replayed the forms of Quadra Emperor Style. Karate's rooted strikes. Muay Thai's knees and elbows. Taekwondo's sweeping kicks. Judo's throws and pivots. Her imagination made them flow like water, weaving one into the next.
System Notification:[Quadra Emperor Style: Flow Transition II refined. Adaptability +2%.]
Her shackles limited her body, but not her mind. She breathed slowly, centering herself. Trial by Combat wasn't a death sentence—it was an opportunity.
Rumors spread fast in the empire, faster still in villages desperate for gossip. By the third day, Aya could hear snatches of whispers carried down the dungeon stairs as merchants and messengers lingered above.
"They say she flipped one of the Emperor's soldiers like a sack of grain…""No, no, she shattered the floor itself. Some cursed art, they say.""She insulted the Chairman to his face. Called him… a melon?""Gods preserve her. She's doomed."
Aya listened without reaction. But her chest tightened when she overheard other words.
"Tessa's family has been taken in for questioning.""The villagers plead for mercy. If she dies, they say, their honor dies with her."
Aya's fists clenched. So even here, I'm binding them to me. Tessa's parents, Tessa's friends… I drag them into danger just by existing.
Yet she couldn't regret what she'd done. She would do it again, a hundred times, rather than see soldiers take what they wanted.
The night before the trial, the Chairman himself paraded through the dungeons again. He was dressed in silks far too fine for his sweat-slicked body, jewels glittering on pudgy fingers. Torches flared as he waddled to her cell, surrounded by armored guards.
"Well, my little melon-tongued sparrow," he said mockingly. "Tomorrow you will face judgment before the gods and men. Trial by Combat. Perhaps when you lie broken, begging for your life, you will reconsider my generous proposal."
Aya stood slowly, shackled but tall, her gaze steady. "When I win, perhaps you'll reconsider your gluttony. Maybe you'll even decide to go on a diet. It'll do you a world of good."
The guards snickered, then flinched as the Chairman's face turned beet-red. He spat, waving his fan. "Arrogant! Insolent! You think you can defeat the empire's champion? Ha! Tomorrow, you'll feed the crows."
He stomped off, his laughter echoing in the halls, trying and failing to mask his fury.
Aya exhaled through her nose, a faint smile curling her lips.
Champion, is it? Good. Strong prey makes strong hunters.
That final night stretched long. Aya sat cross-legged on the straw, the moonlight filtering faintly through the cracks of a high window. She whispered into the silence.
"Tessa… if you can hear me somewhere, forgive me. I can't be you. I can only be me. But tomorrow, I'll fight in your name. For your family. For your village. For everyone who believed you were worth protecting."
Her eyes burned, but she did not cry.
System Notification:[Mental Fortitude +1. Willpower increased.]
She tilted her head back against the cold stone, a strange peace settling over her.
At dawn, they came for her. Chains rattled as soldiers marched her up into blinding sunlight. For weeks she had been buried underground, so the sudden brightness stabbed her eyes. She squinted, adjusting slowly.
The courtyard was filled with people. Nobles seated in pavilions, soldiers lining the perimeter, villagers packed behind wooden barricades. A raised platform stood at the center, ringed with banners—the arena.
Whispers surged like a tide as Aya was dragged forward.
"She looks so small…""That's the one who defied the Chairman?""She'll die. Poor thing."
From the crowd, she glimpsed them—Tessa's parents. Her mother's hands clasped tight in prayer. Her father, bandaged from his earlier wound, glaring at the soldiers with helpless fury. Aya's chest tightened.
Don't look at me with pity. Look at me with belief.
The guards shoved her to the center of the platform. The chains were struck loose. Aya rubbed her wrists, breathing slow.
The Chairman reclined in a cushioned seat overlooking the ring, goblet in hand. His voice boomed across the crowd, oily and smug.
"Citizens of the Empire! Today, we witness divine justice. This girl, this insolent peasant, dared raise her hand against imperial soldiers and mock your Chairman! But mercy grants her a chance—Trial by Combat! If she triumphs, she walks free. If she fails… the gods themselves condemn her."
The crowd roared. Some cheered for blood, others whispered prayers for her life.
Aya flexed her fists, her heart steady.
"Bring forth the champion!"
The gates opposite her creaked open.
The gates groaned open, spilling light into the arena's shadow. Out stepped the empire's champion.
He was not what Aya expected.
Not a mountain of muscle nor a beast in armor. Instead, a lean man with scars that traced his arms like rivers, a glaive slung casually across his shoulders. His movements were quiet, too quiet, as though the ground bent itself not to betray his steps. His face was hidden under a half-mask, but his eyes gleamed like cold steel.
The crowd cheered. "The Fang of the South! The Fang!"
Aya steadied her breath. Every fiber of her frail human body screamed retreat, but her Willpower shone through, tightening her stance.
Quadra Emperor Style, she told herself, and her mind whispered the mantras. Rooted. Flowing. Unyielding.
The champion lowered his glaive. "Ready yourself, girl. I don't go easy, even on lambs led to slaughter."
Aya's chest rose and fell once. "Good. Because I'm no lamb."
The gong rang.
He moved first. A blur of steel swept across the sand, his glaive flashing with impossible reach. Aya threw herself back, too slow—the blade kissed her cheek, carving a shallow line. The crowd gasped.
She clenched her fists. Flow. Flow. Her body slid into the first form she had created.
Quadra Emperor Style: Crashing Waterfall.
She pivoted low, catching the glaive's shaft with both hands and rolling her hip as if to throw a judoka's partner. The arena floor cracked as she slammed the haft downward, the move designed to redirect a foe's weight into the earth itself.
But the champion was no fool. He released the glaive before she could finish the flip, spinning to drive a boot into her ribs. Aya skidded back, choking on air.
Wrong technique. Too slow. But… alive.
System Notification:[Quadra Emperor Style – Improvised Application. Effectiveness reduced by 40%.]
Aya spat blood and raised her guard again.
The champion lunged, glaive spinning like a storm. Aya ducked under the first arc and lashed upward.
Quadra Emperor Style: Rising Dragon Current.
A Taekwondo-inspired strike, her foot snapped up like a dragon breaching from waves. It caught the champion's chin, staggering him—but only for a blink. His backhand sweep caught her shoulder, opening flesh.
Aya hissed, pain flooding her vision. But the crowd roared at the sight of blood on both fighters.
It landed. Barely, but it landed.
Her stance wavered, her body screaming weakness. Yet she forced herself into rhythm.
The glaive's blade whistled down. Aya's eyes widened—too close, too sharp. She twisted, desperation guiding her limbs.
Quadra Emperor Style: Splintering Boulder Drop.
She dove forward under the arc, slamming her elbow into the champion's knee like a collapsing mountain. Bone gave slightly, forcing him to stumble.
It saved her from death—but his gauntleted fist cracked across her face, sending her sprawling in the sand. The crowd howled.
Her breath rattled. Every form felt wrong, every execution sloppy. She was surviving by edges, not dominance. And yet, her heart pounded steady.
Keep breathing. Don't stop flowing.
The champion circled. "You fight like water without a riverbed. Too wild. Too wasteful. If you weren't so foolish as to defy the chairman we could have been sparring parners."
Aya dragged herself up, blood in her mouth. "And you fight like stone. Strong… until water wears it away."
Her words masked her pain, but inside she knew the truth: she was one mistake away from death.
The glaive spun again, a whirlwind aimed to cut her in half. Aya's body moved almost on instinct, no longer matching technique to need but flinging everything she had.
Quadra Emperor Style -Tempest's Turning Tide.
A Muay Thai elbow strike flowed into a pivot, her momentum redirecting the glaive's spin. The blade tore a shallow gash along her arm but whirled wide, embedding itself in the arena floor. Aya struck, heel dropping like an axe onto the weapon's shaft, pinning it.
The champion snarled and released the glaive again. His fist came like thunder.
Aya tried to counter.
Quadra Emperor Style -Falling Star Descent.
A Judo-inspired throw, meant to take a charging enemy's momentum and crash them into the ground. But her body was too light, her muscles too weak. The technique faltered, leaving her half-committed.
The champion wrenched free, slamming her into the sand instead.
System Notification:[Quadra Emperor Style – Failed Execution. Effectiveness: 15%. HP -23%.]
Aya coughed, vision swimming. Damn it… I can't match him cleanly. These techniques… they aren't perfect. They're mine, but they're… still growing.
Still, she rose again, legs trembling.
The champion retrieved his glaive. "Stay down. No one will fault you for dying in a fight against me."
Aya wiped the blood from her mouth. "You don't understand."
Her eyes blazed. "Dying here isn't mine to choose. Living—that's mine to take."
The crowd hushed, the defiance in her voice carrying across the arena.
She inhaled deeply, steadying her core, feeling every bruise, every wound. The rhythm of her martial art pulsed in her veins—not as perfect forms, but as living improvisation. She thought of Demon Slayer's breathing, the way each name marked a fragment of survival. For her, the names were rivers she carved through impossible stone.
Quadra Emperor Style… Sixth Cascade.
Her body slid into stance, not because the situation demanded it, but because her spirit did.
Quadra Emperor Style – Sixth Cascade: Thousand Currents Converge.
Every strike she knew flowed at once. Karate's straight punch cracked against his chestplate, Muay Thai's knee rammed into his gut, Taekwondo's spinning kick scraped across his jaw, Judo's pivot threw his balance sideways. None landed perfectly. None were enough to end him.
But together—they stalled the Fang of the South. For the first time, his rhythm broke.
The crowd erupted.
System Notification:[Quadra Emperor Style -"Thousand Currents Converge." Proficiency: 1%.]
Aya gasped, blood running down her arm, but her eyes never wavered.
This is it. I'm barely holding on. But as long as blood in my veins flows… I'm alive.
The glaive rose again, and the trial surged into its final act.