The next day, the news exploded—not like fire, but like a magical bomb shaking the very foundations of Rose Valley.
Massacre at Grand Luxor Hotel. The Fall of the Zenith Family.
Holographic news screens on every street corner flashed the faces of Jonathan and Sierra Zenith, accompanied by brutal headlines:
TWO GIANTS DEAD. HEIR MISSING. LEIVA IN POWER.
The police issued a short statement, calling it "a tragic incident caused by uncontrollable business rivalry"—a diplomatic way of saying, "Our hands are tied."
Atop the soaring tower of Leiva Industries, a week after the massacre, the atmosphere reeked of cold triumph. Lucas Leiva stood before the panoramic window, a web of holographic data floating around him. With an elegant swipe, he observed the Zenith Corp stock—plummeting like a crimson blade to zero. Beside it, Leiva Industries' graph surged upward, emerald green.
"Complete annihilation. Those idiot investors ran like rats from a sinking ship," Lucas said, his eyes reflecting the dancing numbers.
Gustav Leiva, seated in his grand leather chair, sipped wine from a crystal goblet.
"Rats always know where to run, son. To the bigger ship. To our ship."
A hesitant assistant, Anton, entered holding a datapad.
"Mr. Gustav, Mr. Lucas… all search teams across eight districts have come up empty."
Gustav didn't even glance his way.
"He's just a 13-year-old boy. Spoiled and weak. If that cursed portal didn't kill him, the winter will. Call off the large-scale search. Waste of money."
"But Father," Lucas interjected, eyes still on the data, "a cornered rat can grow into something far more troublesome. We can't afford even the smallest risk."
He turned to Anton.
"What about the draft I requested?"
Anton brought up an image—a terrified Clive Zenith, taken from the banquet's archive footage. Below, the word "WANTED" was stamped, with a generous reward listed.
Lucas studied the image with a cold, calculating gaze.
"Not enough," he said flatly.
"Not enough, sir?" Anton blinked.
"Raise the bounty to 200 million Ravelinz Dollars," Lucas ordered. "And change the notice. Add: DEAD OR ALIVE. I want every elite bounty hunter in District 1 to every gutter thug in District 9 hungry to find him. I want him sleepless, starving, unable to trust a single soul. I want him to feel like the whole world is hunting him."
Gustav burst into booming laughter.
"Hahaha! That's my son! Defeating your enemies not just on the battlefield, but in their minds!"
Anton bowed nervously and left in haste.
"Now all we need to do is enjoy the fruits of our labor," Gustav said, raising his glass.
Lucas finally turned from the window.
"What we need to consider, Father, is what seeds we've unknowingly planted in those shadows. Even the weakest tree can bring down a tower if its roots find the right cracks."
"You think too much, boy," Gustav said, patting his shoulder.
"This world belongs to the strong. And the weak… they exist only to become fertilizer for our victory."
---
Celestial Temple, Nordia Province
Far from that city of iron and glass, deep within pine forests veiled in morning mist, stood an ancient temple. Here, the air was scented with incense and wet earth. Here, the only sounds were rustling winds and pounding hearts.
Clive Zenith, now 13, stood at the center of the training courtyard. Sweat drenched his brow, his breath ragged. Eyes closed, focus unshaken. Around him, dry maple leaves not only trembled—they rose, swirling into two opposing spirals.
One spiral burned with wild, golden light—Tension, a legacy from his father, now ignited by rage. The other spiral glowed with tranquil blue—Chi, drawn from the surrounding nature. They clashed, collided, searching for balance.
"Clive… rest," came the soft voice of Grandmaster Yuan Shao, the old monk standing beneath a Bodhi tree, his robe blending with the forest.
"Not yet, Grandpa! I'm so close!" Clive rasped. "I almost have it!"
Suddenly, the golden spiral burst, burning several leaves to ash. The formation shattered. Clive staggered, fell to his knees, and slammed the ground in frustration.
"Your anger is a double-edged sword, Clive," Yuan said as he approached.
"It gives you the strength to lift that sword—but it will also cut your own hands if you fail to hold it properly."
Clive looked up, his eyes—hardened by grief—burning with fury.
"My anger is what keeps me alive, Grandpa! When I close my eyes, I see their faces! Their laughter! This rage is all I have left!"
Yuan placed a wrinkled hand on his shoulder—its warmth calming.
"I'm not asking you to cast the sword aside, child. I'm asking you to master it. Control it, and you will be a warrior. Let it control you… and you'll become just another monster."
At that moment, Wing Shao, Yuan's grandson, approached with a bowl of hot herbal soup and a bamboo cup of water. The 28-year-old warrior moved with calm precision.
"Even the hardest steel cracks if it's heated too long without being cooled," Wing said as he crouched beside Clive. "Eat."
Clive looked at him, his fury slowly fading, replaced by gratitude.
"Thank you, Brother Wing. I… I'll never forget."
A flash of memory: cold mud, the metallic stench of blood from a gash on his temple, and the growl of a silver-fanged tiger about to strike. Then—Wing's silhouette, a wooden spear piercing the air, a firm hand dragging Clive from death.
Wing offered a faint smile.
"We've all been pulled from the mud, Clive. What matters isn't who pushed you in, but who teaches you how to stand after."
Clive accepted the bowl.
In the quiet of the Celestial Temple, the shadows of Gustav and Lucas Leiva danced once more in his mind. He closed his eyes, and a silent vow etched itself in fire across his heart.
'Gustav Leiva, Lucas Leiva… wait for me. Burn your money. Spread my face. Hunt me like an animal. But every second you sit on that stolen throne, I train. Every breath you take in luxury, I forge myself in silence. I will come bearing the storm you created. And I… will show no mercy.'
---
Ten Years Later…
Ten years of grinding and growth had passed. Clive Zenith, now a 23-year-old man, stood atop a cliff, gazing at the full moon. His aura no longer wild. The golden Tension and blue Chi now swirled around him in lethal harmony—a storm mastered.
Grandmaster Yuan and Wing Shao watched from a distance.
"The time is near," Wing whispered.
Yuan nodded, his wise eyes fixed on his student's proud back.
"When the moment comes, he won't just bring vengeance. He'll carry heaven and hell both. The only question is… which one will he unleash."
As if sensing their gaze, Clive turned.
On his wrist, a simple wooden prayer bead—his master's gift. He clenched it, feeling its warmth amid the cold fire in his heart.
"Leiva…" he whispered into the wind, calm voice rumbling like distant thunder.
"Your time is up."