Four years ago; seven since Mira’s leaving.

The Grittus road, wide enough to host an army of a thousand ran thoroughly straight for the ten li from the clan’s heart to the outer edges of the districts, to a slight touch at an intersection afterwards, which took a spiderweb’s division to wherever their travelers needed to be. Outside, it’s said that all roads of Hannamith, their cultivator’s island and paradise, were connected quite a long time ago. However, this didn’t necessarily mean such a privilege was taken advantage of, no, that’s not the case at all. Your average mortal—a farmer or tradesman within Leimuth, had no desire or need to go beyond the confines of what was defined for them. It served no purpose, economically to trade goods an extended way’s out, and, if hypothetically there was a need, to whom and from whom, really?

Below the cultivator’s caste sat the working man—commoners. A valuable good or service that would require the use of the long-distance roads just certainly wouldn’t exist for them, and above said commoners, the cultivators were too much of shut-ins to have anything of worth peddling so far, and if they did, there would be no chance they’d risk it on a perilous journey to who-knows-where, outside of the Grittus’ protection. A status-quo reinforced by the clan’s inclusive services, that allowed their young talents to raise their strength in… relative peace.

And because of it, they celebrate the new bolstering of their strength to uphold that idea.

Clouds of pedestrians stalked the roads, infecting the area with high spirits. Tonight, the peddler’s stands were decorated with lamps that allowed a kind warmth and light through. Children received treats as expected, with the additional wink and smile if the parents attended them. The villagers of Leimuth gave ample space, bows and prayers for good health to the members who were, without a doubt, not only cultivators, but members of Clan Grittus. Swaggering through; even the weakest amongst the rank and age groups were honored on this day, with both genders’ fantasies running amok in their heads as they watched their special someone from afar.

Even the canals were celebrating; the water’s clarity jumped three shades above where it usually sat, now whether it was an illusion brought upon by either a drunken stupor or the light’s trickery that’ll be saved for men who’ve nothing better to do, somehow, on this indescribable day.

To the center of the village, and a courtyard away from the clan’s gathering place, sat a building crowded with a select few. Inside was the layout of a sparring ring, instead of just a few semicircles sketched into solid stone outside; the entire interior was converted and used as a free-for-all. The sweat brought the humidity inside above a few, and the village’s canals didn’t hold enough water to mop away the smell inside. There was the claps of feet meeting fist, elbows being blocked, and Juva rising alongside their owner’s voices.

Above the silhouettes who warred, the Elders sat like spectators to the makeshift coliseum. Their clothes giving a vibrancy to their statures, each one had a special eye on a pupil, or possibly a descendant of theirs. But…

“Grisla Orlith—Victory by submission!”

“Apologies, Brother Xinrei.” Grisla said, scratching his head.

Xinrei, equally short and childlike, scowled. His undeveloped legs quivered as he picked himself up.

Grisla put a hand out, “I think I’ve gone a little bit overboard with myself, but that move of yours—”

“Don’t touch me!” Xinrei rebuffed that gesture, sending Grisla’s hand away as if he’d kicked it instead. Before anything else happened, the child’s glance shot above them. To what mattered most, to who, mattered most.

“Well, have it your way,” he shrugged. “Maybe we’ll take a break, then finish our last spar just before the ceremony?”

“No, I don’t want to do any of it! I don’t want to! Leave me alone!” Xinrei said.

Grisla blinked, then, feeling something, looked behind and up. Thirteen figures sat on the vestibule: the thirteen High Elders. The most advanced experts in their clan and who endured through decades to become what they are now. Pillars to their society, the guardians of the Grittus clan and Leimuth; the Chosen of generations ago. Between the thirteen, one figure sat as an emperor amongst kings. Wouldn’t have noticed if one weren’t informed exactly of who they were glancing at. And his name…

Meng Grittus. Patriarch, Meng Grittus—

Who stared from God’s perch to little Grisla’s eyes. His aura was restricted, held in a vise. If he were to let slip of his raw power, all these children’s foundations could be cracked; shattered by the giant’s boot over them. They weren’t ready, might never be to ever have a preview of what their ultimate guardian hid well. A practiced man in stoicism. Grisla wasn’t of age yet for social expertise, however as one learning up to it there was something… off about the way he looked at him.

His irises flickered to his descendant, his sole and only heir, struggling to pick himself up behind Grisla. Not a thing shown, but…

An older disciple appeared to Xinrei’s side, “Young Master, are you in need of help?”

“Touch me and see what happens,” he coughed.

If one wanted to see a nearly grown man tremble under the gaze of one half him in both age and maturity, now would be it. In such a future Grisla-like way, he hit the floorboards for a kowtow, “I apologize for my misstep! Young Master, please allow me to excuse myself then,” he said.

“So why are you still here,” Xinrei growled.

His attendant tried to pull a vanishing trick out of Xinrei’s sight and shrunk under the scrutinous gazes of the main household’s supporters. He would be disciplined tonight, that was a given. For what? Only the heavens and their agents know…

“My child, My Chosen,” the Patriarch said.

As if a dog asked for seconds, the room went quiet.

“My Lord Patriarch,” the children in question voiced. Both walked forwards, dropping into a bow after.

Patriarch Meng flexed his chin; a jawbreaker must’ve snuck into his mouth. One glance spared to Grisla—the other lingered on his offspring. The only person, other than the Ancestor himself with unchecked power stared at the two. If he willed it, blood-ties or not, their fates could change drastically. Forever.

His lips parted, “Two souls of my Grittus clan. Talents who’ll support our land and name for ages, yet…” The Patriarch paused, too short for hesitation, too long to be noticed as anything else, “why are your abilities so separate? One Chosen, the other to be.”

Xinrei’s shoulders briefly trembled. Grisla wasn’t even paying attention, beyond what lip service their Lord had to say.

One of the Elders beside the Patriarch muttered below her breath, a thing too low to catch for anyone but the one it’s meant to be heard by. The recipient? Blinked and did a deep, low, sigh. For whom and what, that remains to be seen.

“Young Grisla,” he voiced. “How’s your father?”

The boy twitched, for once. “H—he’s doing… fine, I think, Lord Patriarch.”

His age spoke for him; eyes drifting, shivers intermittent. “My father’s outside right now, waiting on me.”

“Are you not going to stay?”

“I apologize, Lord Patriarch; my father has other plans due until the ceremony.”

“Gihren’s still avoiding me then,” Patriarch Meng let out a rueful smile.

Nobody in the hall was surprised. They hadn’t forgotten. There wasn’t one soul here—who didn’t see what had happened that day, that fateful, regretful day. The crowd had their anticipation ready for what was to come at the Grand Finals, not from… what had happened back then.

“May I ask why?”

“It’s not my story to tell child. If Gihren hasn’t told you… I’d respect his wishes.”

“I can assure you, it’s not a merry tale.”

Oddly enough, he smiled. “That’s fine, I don’t mind! It’s okay! Because, one day I’ll be the best, and what happens after is I’ll protect our Grittus clan! Even Brother Xinrei! If I can’t handle some tale from long ago, then what will everything I’ve done so far amount to? I’m not a baby anymore, Lord Patriarch.”

“Protect, huh?” the Patriarch said. “Such a funny word…”

The Elders around stirred in their seats; rolled their shoulders as if a thing needed to be done so. Patriarch Meng was oblivious to all of it—the focus he has is better spent on what he determines so. Xinrei was up and shriveled under his gaze. He was so assured that he disappointed him that he hadn’t the courage to even meet him eye-to-eye like a man. A finger moved the stray strands of hair from his vision; how dare they.

“Xinrei, your Brother Grisla thinks he’ll be the strongest ever!” He laughed, somewhat. “I’m inclined to believe him; have you been slacking on your training?”

An undisguised shock hit the boy, “It was only a spar, father—”

“Lord Patriarch.”

“Yes, right. I’ve only been bested just this once, my Lord Patriarch. Is it not true that all warriors face loss and setbacks at any point during their journey?”

“True. That is so, however…” Patriarch Meng’s vision remembered there was more than those two in attendance. Absorbing the children behind them; the other Chosen. The older Chosen who looked at their successors with either envy, or possibly, albeit slight, disappointment—depending on who their eyes fell upon. There were other Elders scattered amongst the floor, who brought their branch families along to spectate; assessing the competition in the coming years or lamented what their clan might become after they are gone.

The High Elders whose age surpassed even his own, one or two would’ve been qualified for Ancestor, but unfortunately or, in Meng’s case, fortunately only the Grittus name can hold that illustrious title. For reasons he didn’t have to explain.

“I don’t think… I’ve heard of one who was soundly defeated on the day of their own coronation to become Chosen.” His very being felt as if it was in a twist at the end of that.

Xinrei too. “Uh… My Lord Patriarch,” he paused.

“Uhm,” Grisla wasn’t too well versed in manners yet. “Lord Patriarch, may I be excused?”

Meng nodded, in some very remote corner of his heart, thanked the boy’s temperament. However...

That did not stop him from resenting him as much.

His glare followed the boy’s way to the exit. Under the silence of his authority the taps of bare feet against wood were the only backdrop heard here.

Grisla Orlith, son of Gihren Orlith and—he looks more like him day after day. He acts more like her year by year. Same age and sharing the same cultivation and yet! And yet!

Suddenly, his lip was chewable.

“Lord Patriarch,” A withered voice said, “May I suggest…”

“Leave,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry?”

“LEAVE!” Patriarch Meng’s power cracked the floorboards beneath him. “ALL OF YOU, EVERYONE—LEAVE!”

The High Elders gave lasting looks as they vanished beside him. As for the rest, they in courteous fashion dispersed as if something important came to the fore. Social creatures that they are, there could be a thousand Patriarchs in the room and it would never cease the whisperings that go between them. When the last few reached the door, and the tepid silence kicked its feet up, there was one figure who hadn’t received his order. Or rather, knew it wasn’t for him.

Xinrei Grittus’ hair shielded his eyes.

“Father…”

“You’ve failed me.”

“I—I am sorry. But, I don’t… understand. Grisla Orlith is… if I may admit, strong. Very. Is it not wise, to divert attention to the both of us, equally?”

Patriarch Meng groaned. He was right. Reality talked a different language, though. A child’s world was on an exceptional world, too pure for a man like him to intrude upon. Yet, intrude he must. Popping that bubble is the first step to grooming his successor. To be a father, means cruelty is his practice.

His mouth moved, “In an ideal world, yes.” As he looked at his son, his mind crossed between time. “If you two were true brothers, I would be the happiest man in the world. Your grandfather wouldn’t be able to take himself away from the clan either. We do not live in that universe, though. In the now, in the present, is where we lie, and why I must educate you like this. You hate him, don’t you?"

“I do,” Xinrei replied. Without any of the hesitation that pervaded him before. But then— “I think.”

Huh?

Meng stood, blinked, then was in front of his son. The god-gifted muscle which shyly hid underneath his robes, sometimes peeked from the openings. An impassable mountain, just shorter.

“He has more than enough reason to seek our destruction. A snake in the grass. He’s only lived so long out of a semblance of respect for Gihren, my dislike for infanticide and, above all, my grandfather’s wish. You may be on some level of common ground now, but how about later in life? Will you be just a half-step behind him, or ten? Twenty? If that child learns the truth about Gihren and—”

“What truth?” Xinrei asked.

“Nothing,” he answered. “Anyways, just remember: Grisla Orlith is not your friend. Regard him as an acquaintance; in battle treat him as an enemy.”

“Yes, father.”

“Go get dressed, we’ll be waiting on you.”

After Xinrei left, Patriarch Meng hung around in the hall devoid of any soul but his own. But his eyes acted as if the two of his interest were still there. Then, the doors let their whine ring, he shot a venomous gaze at whoever dared to disturb his moment… or defy his order.

“You dare to—” He stopped.

“Dare to what? I’m not one of your women, Meng.” An aged voice said.

Patriarch Meng shot to attention, an image only presented to one man and one man alone. The sole superior to his might, his authority.

Ancestor Hao Grittus smiled, “What’s wrong? Did Xinrei ask you something stupid again?”

“Again,” he strained out.

The Patriarch, without warning, got down to his knees with his head kissing the sweat smeared floor. “My Ancestor, no… father. I need your help again, for the last time. Just one favor.”

“…Is it concerning the Orlith’s, again?”

He ever so wished to raise his head, but his devotion said otherwise, “How did you know?”

“A parent always knows what you think they don’t.” That smile of his stretched, now big and wide.