The Supreme Commander of the Immortal Guard

Chapter 8

The silence inside the arena was broken only by the hum of the television cameras still broadcasting live to millions of households.

Master Seth gasped for air, his chest heaving as he collapsed backward onto his chair. The wine glass lay shattered at his feet, its red liquid spreading across the floor like blood.

Around him, the senior disciples of the Northern Wind Dojo, who had spent the entire morning boasting of Elliot's strength, were silent and scattered in panic, abandoning their posts near the VIP box.

Ten of Wesley’s personal disciples stepped out from the entrance tunnel, taking positions around the ring. They looked at the terrified crowd laughing openly at the city's helpless state.

"No, please." Clara cried out, her voice breaking as she rushed out of the VIP box toward the ring.

She couldn't let them destroy her father's ancestral plaque. It was all she had left of his memory. She stepped toward the stage, but before she could reach the steps, Wesley tilted his head slightly toward her.

A wave of pressure erupted from Wesley’s body, sweeping outward like an invisible wall of wind. The heavy force hit Clara’s shoulders, sending her stumbling backward onto the floor. She fell to her knees, gasping for breath.

On the ring, Elliot lay pinned beneath Wesley's boot. His shattered jaw bled profusely, his crushed knee throbbing with unbearable agony.

As he looked up at the blade, a wave of profound terror swept over him.

For years, he had believed he was a true genius born to rule the martial world. But in just four minutes, that illusion had been shattered. He was nothing. His pride, his fame, his titles and all of it was a lie built on sand.

"Destroy it," Wesley commanded coldly, raising his katana high above his shoulder, aiming the point straight at the center of the one-hundred-year-old plaque resting beside the ring.

"Stop!" Clara screamed from the floor, tears streaming down her face as she reached out helplessly.

A sound echoed through the deathly silent stadium.

Every camera lens shifted, Spectators in the lower tiers turned their heads, confused by the sudden presence of a figure walking down the main walk path from the back exit.

Logan walked alone, he wore his plain clothes, the sleeves lightly rolled up to reveal the clean linen bandages wrapped around his wrists. His pace was neither fast nor slow.

As he passed a small potted decorative garden, Logan paused briefly. He reached out with his bandaged hand, casually snapping off a thin, dry tree branch, a small piece of wood no longer than two feet, stripped of its leaves.

He held the dry branch loosely at his side, continuing his walk toward the fighting ring.

"Hey, Useless caretaker, what are you doing?" a disciple shouted from the front row,

"Get back. Are you trying to get killed?"

"Is he insane?" a spectator whispered from the upper stands.

"The champion was just broken in four minutes, and he's walking up there with a stick?"

Master Seth stared down from the VIP box, his mouth agape in confusion. "Logan, what is that fool doing?"

Clara turned her head from the floor, her tearful eyes widening as she saw her husband walking past her.

"Logan." she gasped, her voice trembling with desperation. "No, Stay back! He'll kill you. Please, Logan, don't!"

Logan stopped beside Clara for a second. He did not look at the black katana raised, nor did he look at the disciples surrounding the stage.

He looked down at Clara, his eyes steady, and filled with a calmness that instantly silenced the panic in her heart.

"Stay here, Clara," Logan said softly, "I told you that you would never lose your home."

Without waiting for her reply, Logan ascended the ring.

Wesley paused his descent toward the plaque, his cold eyes shifting away from the broken body of Elliot to look at the man who had just stepped onto his stage.

"Another insect comes to die?" Wesley sneered, his grip tightening on his katana. "You bring a dried leaf and a twig to face my blade?"

Logan stood near the stage. He held the thin wooden branch at his side, pointing its tip toward the floor.

Murmurs rippled through the stadium.

“Is he out of his mind? Does he want to die?”

“What is this useless caretaker doing?

“He refused to listen to his wife, he will not even last a second.”