The Supreme Commander of the Immortal Guard

Chapter 7

The central stadium of Harlow Cross was packed. Over ten thousand spectators filled the seats, while bright television spotlights illuminated the central ring.

Dozens of camera crews broadcasted the scene live across the country, capturing every detail for millions of viewers watching from home.

Master Seth sat in the front row of the VIP family box, wearing an expensive robe and holding a glass of imported wine. Beside him, Clara sat rigidly, her hands clenched so tightly in her lap that her knuckles turned white.

Far in the back row of the massive stadium, seated amidst the roaring crowd, Logan sat silently. He wore his plain clothes, his bandaged hands resting quietly on his knees as his calm eyes scanned the ring.

A loud cheer erupted through the stadium as the announcer spoke into the microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen! The moment Harlow Cross has been waiting for. Representing the Northern Wind Dojo, our Regional Champion, Senior Brother Elliot."

Elliot stepped onto the ring to a thunderous roar from the crowd. He wore robes with gold thread, holding a longsword.

He raised his weapon proudly toward the flashing camera lenses, basking in the roaring applause of his supporters.

From the opposite tunnel, a single figure walked out into the bright lights.

Master Wesley wore a plain traditional robe. At his waist rested a long black katana. He walked with total silence, his eyes cold. He didn't bow to the crowd, nor did he look at the television cameras.

Elliot drew his blade, pointing the tip directly at Wesley's chest.

"You've come to the wrong city, Wesley!" Elliot taunted loudly, "Today, your streak of violence ends. I will break your blade in front of the entire nation!"

Wesley didn't speak, he simply stood in his basic stance, his left hand resting lightly on his katana.

The referee raised his hand, his voice tight with nerves.

"Life-or-death duel! Begin!"

Beep!

The instant the signal was given, Elliot lunged forward with speed. Channeling every bit of his strength, he executed his signature ultimate move, the Rising Wind Strike, a flashy three-stage slash aimed straight at Wesley's neck.

"Go to hell!" Elliot roared, swinging his sword.

In the back row, Logan’s eyes didn't even flicker. To him, Elliot’s stance was completely open, his center of gravity exposed.

Wesley didn't even draw his blade.

CRACK!

Moments later, Wesley slipped half a step to the side, so slight it was almost invisible, letting Elliot's swinging blade cut harmlessly past him.

Before Elliot could even realize he had missed, Wesley’s boot slammed directly into the side of Elliot’s right knee.

A sound of shattering bone echoed through the front row microphones.

"AAGHH!" Elliot let out an anguished cry as his leg twisted backward, bending the wrong way.

Before Elliot’s body could hit the ground, Wesley’s left hand struck out like a striking cobra. Using the wooden pommel of his sword, he delivered a brutal backhand strike directly into Elliot’s jaw.

BANG!

The impact fractured Elliot's jaw instantly, sending three teeth flying across the marble stage. Elliot’s body spun twice before crashing, coughing up a spray of blood.

He lay there twitching, his expensive robe ruined, his eyes rolling back into his head as he gasped for air through a crushed jaw.

The entire fight had taken exactly three minutes.

A deathly silence fell over the ten thousand spectators in the arena.

The roaring cheers vanished, the television commentators were shock, staring at their monitors in disbelief.

Millions of viewers across the country watched in silence as the regional champion, who had bragged for days about his victory, lay bleeding and broken on the floor without landing a single blow.

In the VIP box, the wine glass slipped from Master Seth’s trembling hand, shattering against the floor. His face turned purple, his mouth agape as he stared at the scene before him.

Clara gasped, covering her mouth with both hands as a wave of uncertainty and fear washed over her.

On the ring, Wesley slowly stepped forward.

He didn't pay any attention to the referee, who had backed away.

Wesley raised his boot and placed it directly onto Elliot’s bloody chest, pressing down with force to crack two ribs.

Elliot let out a pitiful whimper, tears of agony and humiliation welling in his eyes as he stared up at the man who had destroyed him without effort.

"Is this the best swordsman in Harlow Cross?" Wesley spoke for the first time, his cold voice echoing through the stadium. "A weak and arrogant insect who builds a reputation out of dust and lies."

Wesley slowly reached down to the hilt of his katana.

He held the blade over Elliot's chest, turning his gaze toward the massive VIP box where two disciples sat holding the ancestral plaque of the Northern Wind Dojo, the ancient oak sign that Master Seth had brought to the arena to display during their planned victory celebration.

"Harlow Cross has no real swordsmen," Wesley declared coldly, raising his blade. "Your champion is a coward, and your heritage is a fraud. This plaque dies today.”