It was the prince who knocked.
The door creaked open slowly, revealing a red-haired boy frozen at the threshold. His wide eyes trembled, locked on the man sitting upright on the bed—a man the world had long since declared dead.
Yichen stood there, unmoving. Silent.
Feng Yun studied him calmly.
"He looks like my younger self... same skin tone, same silver-flecked irises. But the hair... that fiery red—his mother's. And yet, here he stands, keeping this crumbling mansion alive at such a young age. A mercenary prince. My son."
The boy's fists clenched, but tears spilled down his cheeks anyway. He wiped them away hastily, his lips quivering.
Feng Yun sighed.
He opened his arms without a word.
Yichen dropped his sword and ran forward, slamming into his father's chest with a force that nearly knocked the breath from him.
He gripped Feng Yun like he'd never let go.
"What was his name again… Yichen."
"…Mm. Yichen."
Hearing his name spoken aloud for the first time in years, the boy sobbed harder, his voice muffled against his father's shoulder.
"Father… you're awake. After all these years…"
Feng Yun's voice was soft, almost amused. "Yichen, you're crushing me. Can I breathe now?"
The boy jumped back, red-faced. "S-Sorry, Father!"
Feng Yun let out a chuckle that hadn't graced the room in years. "It's fine. It's just strange. Waking up to a son who's taller than I remember."
Yichen's smile returned, shy but glowing.
Feng Yun's gaze hardened slightly. "The maids said you stopped visiting me. Why?"
The boy hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't stop. I just... I've been busy. The Festival of the Strongest is coming up. The guild has been flooded with commissions, and I've been helping them prepare."
Feng Yun raised a brow. "Festival of the Strongest?"
Yichen nodded, eyes lighting up with excitement. "It's held once every ten years. Fighters compete in public matches for honor, fame—and the winner gets one wish granted by the reigning king. Anything within his power."
"Interesting," Feng Yun murmured. "And what would you have wished for?"
The boy looked down. "I was going to ask the king to summon the Divine Healer. To save you."
There was a pause.
Then Feng Yun reached out, resting a hand on his son's head.
"You've endured a lot. And you did it all for me," he said. "But you won't need that wish now. I'm not just going to sit in this bed while our enemies walk free. I'll enter that tournament myself—and reclaim what they stole."
Yichen's eyes widened. "You just woke up! Can you even fight? The deadline is tomorrow, and—"
"I have tricks," Feng Yun interrupted, smirking. "Tricks sharper than any blade."
As the first rays of dawn touched the window, the maids returned to clean the king's chambers and nearly dropped their brooms in shock. The room was open, airy, and the king was not only conscious—he was walking.
After a quick breakfast, Feng Yun and Yichen stepped into the city's sun-drenched streets. Colorful streamers fluttered above them, booths buzzed with merchants, and laughter echoed from alleys. The air was thick with spices, sweat, and anticipation.
People greeted Yichen warmly, bowing or waving as they passed. They glanced briefly at Feng Yun—then moved on.
"No one recognizes me. Perfect," Feng Yun thought. "Fame draws leeches. Silence lets me hunt."
They soon reached the festival's registration plaza—a large tented area flanked by guards and contestants milling about.
A lazy-looking man sat behind a wooden table, his feet propped up, eyes half-lidded. A small board hung above his head:
Festival Registration – Prove Your Worth
The man waved without looking. "Arm-wrestle the brute on my left. Win, and you're in."
Feng Yun squinted. "How many have passed?"
The man ignored him, flicking a toothpick from his mouth.
Feng Yun said nothing more. Instead, he turned toward the mountain of muscle seated nearby.
The man stood, cracking his neck.
"I'm Rin," he said with a gravelly voice. "Only nine have passed in five days. I'm Mortal Path, 10th Stage. If you're lower, don't embarrass yourself."
Feng Yun merely stepped forward.
"Feng Yun. Mortal Path, 5th Stage. This is my son, Yichen."
Rin frowned. "Feng… that name…"
But Feng Yun had already taken a seat, resting his elbow on the table.
"Let's not waste time."
They clasped hands.
Rin smirked. "Start."
He prepared to crush the stranger's wrist.
He'll give up when he feels it. Happens every time. I flaunt my realm, and the weak run—
CRACK.
Rin's knuckles slammed into the wood.
The plaza fell silent.
Even Yichen blinked in disbelief.
Rin looked at his hand, as if it had betrayed him.
Feng Yun stood up, brushing dust off his shoulder. "My match token?"
Rin shot to his feet. "You cheated! I'm five stages above—"
"In arm wrestling," Feng Yun said coolly, "raw strength is just noise. Precision and control? That's power."
He leaned closer. "Apologize."
Rin looked ready to argue—but something in Feng Yun's eyes made him pause.
"…Skill, huh?" Rin muttered bitterly. "Fine. But we'll see in the arena. I know someone in the Awakened Path. Let's see if tricks help you then."
He forced a grin and handed over the token.
"Forgive my earlier rudeness. Your match begins in two hours. Welcome to the festival."
Feng Yun pocketed the token and turned without a word.
Yichen followed, glancing nervously at the others whispering around them.
Feng Yun didn't speak.
But inwardly, he smiled.
"A test of strength? No. This is a test of resolve. And mine was forged in blood."
Yichen had never seen his father like this—calm, cold, calculating.
Not the weeping madman they all remembered. Not the husk that wasted away in silence for years. This… was someone else entirely.
Someone dangerous.
And he didn't know whether to be afraid… or proud.
Two hours passed.
The arena was alive with chaos. Roaring voices rose like thunder as spectators packed the stands shoulder to shoulder. Trumpets blared. Flags whipped in the breeze. The air carried the scent of sweat, metal, and festival spice.
The Festival of the Strongest had begun.
Feng Yun sat beside Yichen in the center stands, both unnoticed. But his eyes weren't on the combatants. No—they were fixed higher.
On the royal box.
Behind glass windows above the masses sat three ornate chairs. The central throne rose slightly above the others, polished to glint under the sun.
And seated on it was a man whose face mirrored Feng Yun's—only twisted with age, power, and a cruel, jagged scar across his cheek.
"My younger brother," Feng Yun muttered under his breath. "Still pretending to be king."
To the king's left sat Council Minister Van—once Feng Yun's dearest friend. To the right, his former general, the man who had once sworn loyalty until death.
All traitors.
A silver-haired man with a long beard walked into the arena's center, his voice booming through amplifying runes.
"Welcome, citizens of the realm, to this decade's Festival of the Strongest!"
The audience erupted in applause. Cheers bounced off the stone walls.
"I am Shin, champion of the last tournament. By order of our noble king, I shall serve as your referee and host."
He turned and bowed toward the royal box.
"I now ask His Majesty to bless this sacred event with his approval."
All eyes turned upward.
King Feng Han slowly raised his hand—and clapped once.
The crowd answered with thunderous applause.
"Let the tournament… begin!"
The first three matches blurred by in a whirl of shouts and clashing steel. The crowd cheered for every blow, every spell, every dramatic finish.
Then came the fourth match.
Shin stepped forward again, holding a wooden token.
"Next," he announced, "Riyal, the prodigy of the Arcane Academy! Mortal Path—Tenth Stage!"
Gasps followed. A lean young man with sharp silver hair entered the arena, spinning his wand with effortless flair.
He bowed low with a flourish, drinking in the audience's adoration.
"That's the genius from Rover Academy!"
"He reached Stage Ten at twenty!"
"Didn't he cast a First Circle spell with just one hand?!"
Cheers shook the stadium. Riyal soaked it in, confident and cocky.
Shin looked at the second token.
His expression froze.
Eyes flicked nervously toward the royal box.
"…And his opponent," he said at last, voice quieter, "a swordsman. Mortal Path—Fifth Stage."
A pause.
He exhaled. "Feng Yun."
A silence swept the stands like a crashing wave.
Then whispers.
"Feng Yun? Isn't that the old king's name?"
"No… that's our king's older brother! The one who fell into a coma!"
"Didn't they say he was dead?!"
Heads turned in unison toward the royal box.
King Feng Han's face twisted in fury.
"What is this?! He's supposed to be dead!"
He turned sharply toward Minister Van. "You swore the assassin succeeded!"
Van dropped to one knee. "F-forgive me, my king… he never returned. I assumed—"
"You assumed wrong."
The general leaned in close. "My lord. Eyes are watching. If we panic, we lose control. Do something—fast."
Feng Han clenched his fists.
"Then I'll kill him on this very stage."
He stood.
"From this moment," he declared, "I revoke the ancestral law: 'Slaying your opponent results in death.' From now on—killing is allowed."
Gasps rang through the arena.
Van's face paled. "My king, that law—your forefathers carved it into the foundation stones of the arena—"
"Shut up!" Han roared. "This is your fault. He dies today—no matter the cost."
But then—
The crowd cheered.
"LONG LIVE OUR GLORIOUS KING!"
Their praise rang out louder than the law they'd just lost.
In the box, all three traitors were stunned.
But on the field… Feng Yun simply stood. Unmoved. Unblinking. A shadow with eyes.
His face showed no emotion. But in his mind, his trap had just sprung.
"They think they've cornered me," he thought. "West, east, north, south… all their moves fall into my hands. But they forgot—I wrote the map they're following."
Riyal, meanwhile, was growing impatient.
He twirled his wand again and called out, "You… Are you really the former king?"
Feng Yun stepped into the arena.
Black robes rustled in the breeze. A long katana, unsheathed, glimmered like blood in moonlight.
He said nothing.
"I asked you a question," Riyal pressed, wand raised.
Feng Yun looked at him—finally—and spoke, voice calm as winter.
"And if I am?"
Riyal's expression sharpened. "Then I'll make sure I'm the last thing you ever see."
A pause.
Then, a smirk ghosted across Feng Yun's face.
He chuckled softly—just loud enough for the closest onlookers to hear.
"Hahaha… People don't flinch when others die. But pinch them? That's when they cry foul."
The crowd quieted again.
Even Riyal faltered.
Then, slowly, the mage lifted his wand—more cautiously now.
And Feng Yun lowered his blade… just an inch.
Ready.