Rebirth of the Battle God

Chapter 7: Four Years to the Death

The air above the Valeblue Clan arena was thick—so thick it felt like every inhale might choke you. Tension hung heavy, quivering, suffocating. And then there was him. Jaren Shanley. His presence sliced through that charged atmosphere like a blade, sharp, cold, and utterly relentless. Even City Lord Valtor, seasoned and calm under pressure, found himself unconsciously gripping the edge of the viewing platform. One wrong move, one misjudgment, and the weight of this prodigy could crush anyone. Jaren’s reputation wasn’t empty boasting; it was carved in every fiber of his cultivation, radiating menace and absolute certainty.

All eyes snapped to Darian.

The Valeblue disciples froze instinctively. The aura emanating from the boy before them was not merely strong—it was humbling. A storm compressed into human form, pressing down on them as if daring any to resist. Even standing there, breathing felt like a challenge. Here, in this arena, was someone whose presence alone outshone the famed hundred major cities of the Eastern Lands. Jaren’s arrogance hung in the air like a blade to the throat, daring defiance.

“Darian,” Jaren said, smooth, deliberate, dripping with menace. “Ten years from now, your fate is mine. Refuse me… and kneel. Beg if you must—‘Spare this useless wretch.’ Only then might I allow you and your Uncle Theron to leave alive.”

A collective gasp ran through the crowd. Kneel? Beg? Surrender one’s dignity for survival? No one could imagine standing in Darian’s place.

Seraphina’s icy gaze never wavered. Her sharp eyes studied him carefully. Darian bowed his head slightly, thoughtful, composed, almost meditative. Could anyone truly endure such coercion and remain unbroken?

Jaren’s power pressed down like a living force. Even looking at him felt risky. Valeblue disciples stiffened, frozen with fear, imagining themselves crushed beneath the invisible weight.

Lucian’s chest tightened. He had never liked Jaren, yet seeing Darian cornered stirred something unexpected—a strange mix of dread, awe, and begrudging admiration.

“Darian, you’ve suffered,” Theron said, voice trembling slightly, weighted with years of shared hardship. His hand rested firmly on Darian’s shoulder. Ten years of humiliation, relentless training, ridicule—all etched into the boy’s spine. And yet, his resolve remained intact.

“Ten years haven’t been easy for me either,” Theron added softly. “But know this—I will protect your life. If you must flee, leave the Eastern Lands. There is no corner of this world where you won’t find safety.”

A slender, fair hand lifted Theron’s, pressing it against Darian’s in silent solidarity. Slowly, Darian lifted his head, eyes shimmering with warmth and determination—fierce, unyielding, brighter than any threat before him.

“Uncle Theron,” he said, calm yet commanding, “leave everything to me.”

Theron nodded, pride and worry warring in his expression. Darian’s resolve was a fortress of steel.

A long breath left Darian’s lips. He stepped forward, aura blazing with a power forged from a decade of torment and endless training. Even his quiet words carried weight, rolling through the arena like a tide.

“This… weakness. I cannot bear it.”

Jaren’s eyes flared, sharp as lightning. He had expected fear, hesitation, trembling. But in Darian’s calm gaze burned a storm—a force ready to consume everything.

“Jaren,” Darian said, voice steady, resonant, “why wait ten years? I, Darian, swear this: four years from now, we fight. Ten years ago, I defeated you. Four years later… I will do it again. This time, to the death.”

Silence fell. Every breath caught. Every eye was fixed on the boy speaking with absolute certainty. No idle boast. No theatrics. This was a gauntlet thrown, a challenge demanding acknowledgment.

Jaren laughed, sharp, echoing like a crack of thunder. “Hahaha! Darian, finally! Four years, you say? Fine! Four years from now, after I kill you, I’ll gouge out your eyes—keep them as trophies forever!”

The colossal bird-beast beneath him stirred, wings slicing the wind into violent gusts. Banners snapped, walls rattled. And yet Jaren’s arrogance lingered like storm clouds, sharp and inescapable.

“Darian… why must you be like this?” Theron’s voice trembled with a mix of frustration and helplessness.

“Uncle… this all began because of me,” Darian said, faint smile on his lips. Calm. Confident. “Let me see it through.”

Theron could only sigh. He knew he couldn’t sway him. Darian’s inner power surged, untamed but controlled, a perfect balance of fury and discipline.

“I’ll return soon. Tonight,” he added, before turning.

City Lord Valtor, who had observed silently, finally spoke, his voice carrying quiet respect.

“Darian… may I have a word?”

Darian halted, recalling the subtle support Valtor had extended before. “Of course, City Lord. What is it?”

Valtor’s smile was faint, meaningful. “A grand event approaches. I want to invite you. Will you consider it?”

Eldric’s instincts flared; unease surged.

“The Battle of the Thousand Realms,” Valtor said, low and deliberate. “A month from now. I want you to represent Lungrath Main City.”

The arena gasped. Even Lucian’s face paled, disbelief and fury contorting his features.

“City Lord… the Battle allows only three participants, right?” Darian asked, steady.

“Yes. Three spots. A young lady from the Lian family, a young man from the Saren family… and you. Three. No more, no less.”

Before Darian could answer, Lucian’s furious voice cut through. “City Lord! How can this be? What about me? You promised! Why Darian?”

Valtor’s cold reply silenced him. “Do I need your approval to decide who represents us?”

He turned to Darian quietly. “Will you accept?”

Darian hesitated. The honor was tempting—but in four years, he had a far greater challenge: Jaren. No distractions, no wasted time.

“Thank you, City Lord. But I do not wish to participate,” he said firmly. Shock rippled through the crowd. Only Theron understood. Lucian seethed, nearly losing control before Eldric restrained him.

Valtor’s gaze remained steady. “I know your plans. But if you join and succeed, your power will rise beyond expectation. And in the end… something awaits you.” His eyes glinted with unspoken promise.

Darian’s calm voice cut through the tension. “Very well. I will participate in the Battle of the Thousand Realms.”

The gauntlet was cast. The game began.

The walk back to his cabin was quiet, the night alive with strategy, calculations, contingencies. Valtor’s words echoed in his mind—a promise, a challenge. The Hundred Cities Battle was no mere contest. It was a crucible to test skill, sharpen resolve, and claim destiny.

The stone path crunched beneath his boots. Evening wind tossed black strands across his face. Disciples glanced his way, curiosity, admiration, and envy mixed in their eyes. Some girls watched him with awe rekindled, but Darian ignored them. His focus lay on the road ahead.

The duel with Lucian had drained him. Even with mastery of the Battle Saint Law, his control was not yet perfect. Restorative pills coursed through his veins, golden-red essence reigniting his strength. Lucian’s lingering grip left only faint bruises, fading with time.

Still too weak, he thought. Jaren’s overwhelming power did not intimidate him. It sharpened him. Four years—enough to kill that man.

“Four years will be enough,” he whispered. Riven’s voice teased in his mind: Today’s events have broken the silence of your ten lifeless years.

The Blood Dragon Jade warmed his hands, grounding him. Somewhere, perhaps, Uncle Felric lingered. The jade might guide him there.

Thoughts of competitors at the Battle of the Thousand Realms flickered across his mind: the sword-wielding youth from the Ancient Forest, the cultivator from the Mortal Soul Cleansing Realm. Intrigue sparked a faint smile.

Moonlight silvered the Valeblue estate. Darian moved toward Theron’s quarters, passing Liora’s secluded residence. Suddenly, a flare of energy, a pained cry.

“Not good! Liora!”

Saint Dao Battle Aura surged as he leapt, crashing through the locked door. Upstairs, she was there—the source of the cry.

A phantom bird of pure flame hovered, wings wide, heat like molten iron radiating. Waves of fiery spiritual power poured into her.

“Foul beast! How dare you!” Darian roared, golden-red aura flaring. He struck, seizing the creature. Skin blistered, blood welled—but he held firm.

Riven’s sharp voice warned, Do not attack! This is the True Spirit Fusion of the Phoenix-Luan Heavenly Maiden. Stand down!

The fiery bird dove gracefully into Liora. Her breathing steadied, and color returned.

Darian exhaled, sliding into a chair beside her. Night passed in quiet silence.

At dawn, her lashes fluttered. Eyes opened, clear and bright, fixing on him. For the first time, he saw it: recognition deeper than gratitude.

And as the sun rose over the Valeblue estate, a storm stirred on the horizon—four years from now, destiny would demand a reckoning unlike anything the Eastern Lands had seen.