CHAPTER 1

Beauty’s Standpoint

I make a swift move to dodge her kick, and the moment she opens her defense, I finish the fight with a wide and proud smile.

I am not a pro, definitely not. I am just a fighter with average speed and shamefully below-average strength. I recently graduated from a prestigious school with my fraternal twin brother. Our school is among the most feared and respected participants in different interschool competitions, including sports. For over a decade, our school's taekwondo team has had a series of wins that culminated in the team's attainment of the title "Champion of the Decade".

Because of my parents' extensive connections, I once became part of this team – the sole fact that I have grown to hate so much. I saw the dedication of every member to win every match. I witnessed how they sacrificed their rest. I saw the glimmering tears of hope in their eyes amid their suffering from injuries. I recognized how they fought for the honor of the school, transparent in the strength of their kicks.

With the bit of courage I had, I left the team out of respect. I independently fought outside the school and detached my taekwondo journey from the reputable name of the school. A few years later, here I am, ashamed to admit that I still barely won my fights.

The media teams rush to throw me questions for their entertainment coverage, all trying to be gentle and friendly. Quite a lot of cameras flash around me, one after another. A buzz of questions fires like bullets. I do not know which to dismiss and which to answer. After a quarter minute of contemplation, I finally decided to talk. I gracefully responded to each question with a sweet smile and my head held high.

"As people always claim, every win I get is just out of pure luck. So, I'd better go for a night of celebration. Please excuse me," I state excitedly with a hint of sarcasm and flash an incredibly warm smile as part of my exquisite confidence scheme.

I love taekwondo. However, there are instances when a person's passion does not align with her skills. I believe I have tried my best, but I hardly make any progress. People always call me 'the wannabe taekwondo fighter' behind my back.

But I am Beauty Scott, the girl who seems to have confidence which is way taller than my pile of achievements. This roaring confidence comes from the fact that I have extraordinarily wealthy and influential parents. I was trained in how to command the public with my facial expressions and gestures. I was made to believe that confidence is everything. It scares and attracts people.

As I step into the waiting room, with the security team escorting me and stopping the media from following, familiar voices echo across the room.

"Hey, dude. Atlantis is just a fictional city. There's no such thing as lost cities and stuff," Damon says while his eyes are following me as I thank the security team and step inside. The door is then closed by one of the guards as I go straight to the table to get my bag. I am not surprised at all. I expected them to be here. I believe my friends are taking turns attending to my fights. I feel like they had this agreement a long time ago.

"Well, there are a lot of lost cities due to plate tectonics," Quinn responds, not leaving his eyes off his book. His long, wavy hair slightly covers his face.

"That's precisely my point, dude. Those are scientifically proven to be real. Those are not lost, just sunk due to plate movements. But that Atlantis is just a work of the mind, not lost because it never existed in the first place," Damon elaborates boringly while still gazing at me.

"That's why it is called 'lost kingdom' because we cannot find it at all, not even a single trace of it. It could have existed," Quinn replies exasperatedly.

"Oh, come on! Why are you up to such fictitious things, dude? The idea is just so insane," Damon replies wearily.

"But what if things like this do exist? Won't it be awesome? I'd pay millions to visit one," Quinn says, shrugging his shoulders at Damon.

Before Damon can fire his opinion, I butt in.

"Well, as far as I remember, this is a democratic country. Quinn is free to believe whatever he wants to believe and you, Damon, should stop meddling with it," I boringly utter as I pace through the door of a dressing room where I can change my dobok.

"Here you go, taking sides again," says Damon, which I vaguely hear. He hates that I always take people's side against him, as much as I hate him for sticking his nose into my business. I do not have a clear idea why he hates me so much, but I am used to it. So, stopping and debating with him will surely be a waste of time.

I lock the door and move opposite to the mirror, my eyes gaze deeply into my reflection. My eyes explore the contour of my face. I study my slightly high cheekbones that match my oval-shaped face. There reflect my bow-shaped lips appearing so feminine and my almond dark brown eyes that serve a little stronger look. My black hair perfectly suits my fair white skin; my body size and curves are just perfectly proportional to my 5'8" height. I am beautiful, and I am aware of that. But when I think of it, what more can I offer? Just a pretty face and a famous family name? I am completely aware that I am nothing but just a Scott. Remove my surname and I become nothing special.

Nevertheless, I am my parents' daughter. Hence, it is my responsibility to behave in a manner that upholds their reputation. As their daughter, I must embrace and embody the inherent inner power of Scotts – that thing called confidence.