As he heard his master's abrupt declaration, the disciple slowly tilted his head until he couldn't.
His expression contorted in accord with his current feelings of incredulousness.
He had literally just woken up from his self-induced coma, and was immediately being asked—no… demanded—to duel some guy who he had never met before.
"Huh, what—why?!" he exclaimed loudly.
Hearing her disciple's remark, Livia's already wide smirk widened even more as her pupils shrunk impossibly small.
Seeing her expression, Rue involuntarily shivered.
"I'll tell you why, Rue," she spoke in a threatening whisper. Livia paused, her hands balled, trembling from pent-up frustration.
Swoooth!
A bright magenta aura exploded from her body, encompassing the interior of the room.
"...It's because I want to see you prove to those bastards in the council that my decision to choose you as my disciple over the shit of the Reigner house wasn't the incorrect one." Livia said with a bright, cold smile that would make any man reconsider his options.
Livia's prideful utterance was made from the spite of her hurt pride.
How dare those old senile bastards challenge her authority and decision-making, all because she wouldn't choose their damn grandchildren.
And they even had the gall to threaten her into submission?!
All because they managed to find some dirty details from her past, so naturally she was forced to comply… kinda.
She made a wager with the council.
This 'wager' was in the form of a duel.
Both parties were to send their finest Fourth Destination disciple—obviously Livia only had Rue to rely on—the victor between these two would decide their fate.
Either for the better or worse.
The person who won would become Livia's permanent disciple regardless of her 'taste', and to the unfortunate soul who lost… well, they would be killed.
And to seal the deal of this little arrangement, all parties were expected to sign a soul restriction contract with their own unique energy.
Anyone who signed the contract and broke it would immediately fall into a catatonic state for the better part of a century.
'Fuck off you old rotting sacks of flesh!' Livia seethed with internal mockery.
As the master vented through her thoughts, the disciple began to think.
'So she's crazy, but I gotta give credit where credit's due, I kinda respect that.' Rue considered with a nod. 'Well this duel is not all that bad right? I'll get to see and test the strength of a talented peer in Terminus.' He reasoned, hyping himself up much more than necessary.
The chaos of Rue's Initial was now in full bloom.
The bristling volatile excitement of his chaotic side thirsted, love-stricken, for the possibility of a true fight.
While oppositely, Rue's calm tranquil side desired a fair restitution for both correspondents. Even more, the thrilling prospect that he'd be able to further resolute his resilience against adversity seemed frankly very enticing.
Both sides shared the same sediment.
His chaos desired the fight to draw blood, while his peace-beckoning side saw a hidden silver lining in the possibility of self-growth.
Each side held a different reason for the cause, but in essence they had the same end goal.
If he had to duel, then why not make the most out of it.
Rue sighed, as a small smile tugged at the ends of his mouth.
His eyes wandered with conviction, his expression marred with the confidence of a veteran, and his mind was left with nothing but the end game.
Loss wasn't even a consideration he had.
He already knew he was going to win.
"Fine, fine, I will," the disciple hummed with a shit-eating grin.
"Show me the little puppet sent by the bastards who dared to challenge my master's will."
"Now that's the spirit!" Livia enthusiastically gloated.
Both parties began to laugh hysterically.
gulp
Watching the demented concourse from the sidelines, Liana gulped.
She couldn't help but pity the poor bastard who made her master mad.
~~~
~~~
~~~
Shing!
Shing!...
….shing!
Clang!
The training hall's current tract was the same constant loudness resonating through the chaotic song of metal singing in joy.
Metal ringing.
Metal screeching!
Metal straining through effort!!
In the center of the vast indoor training hall, a man circled a polearm across his gait before he made a roundabout back endlessly repeating the same mundane movement with his weapon as before.
The man clad a striking white set of garments that fluttered softly in sync with his endlessly repeated pattern.
With each powerful thrust of the polearm, stray droplets of sweat rained down towards the ground as they detached themselves from the ends of his matted green hair.
His brilliant gemstone crimson eyes never wavered, bored or not, but danced with a certain noble tenet.
'Efforts never betray you'
A quote widely known and repeatedly preached across the world.
Hard work, a term synonymous with success.
An abstract concept countless placed their hopes in.
Most of the poor take refuge in a dead-end job that demands back-breaking labor, never-ending stress, and to top it all off, minimal pay.
They endure this suffering in order to keep their families financially stable or afloat long enough for their children to take over.
They take this quote to the extreme, fruitlessly repeating it like a mantra.
'If I work hard enough now, then my future self will thank me.'
It was only natural, after all.
This phrase after all was one our parents always told us whenever they found us slacking or squandering the opportunity they were given in exchange for their parents' suffering.
Thus the common satirical stereotypes parents tend to portray in order to guilt-trip their children.
"When I was your age I had to run BAREFOOT across twenty mountains, fending off sharks, bears, and Russian mercenaries! All while having to work a full-time job—do my homework and eat my breakfast!" they would say.
The ideal hard work portrayed was in truth more complicated than the media depicted.
Luck, your timing, your connections, and a plethora of other factors played roles in this so-called 'hard work'.
With this said, hard work was a non-negotiable.
You had to do it.
Tough luck.
However, like how men were not all created equal, not all hard work is done equal.
There was a difference between stacking pallets in a warehouse and coding software.
One was physically demanding, while the other was mentally taxing.
What would you choose?
Yet, regardless of this, the green-haired man believed in this tenet nonetheless, and he had good reason for it.
He was hard-working, he possessed connections with high-ranking court officials, his grandfather was the head of the council, and with his influence the green-haired man—any goal he desired was within his grasp, albeit if he gave the satisfaction of hard work.
The young man was one of the few cases where he only had to work hard.
He already had everything else.
CLANG!
The man gave a final thrust before vertically resting his polearm with the blade pointed toward the sky. Using its shaft as leverage, the man leaned against the metal body of the spear.
'Phew'
His skin glistened shiny from the sweat.
Reaching into his pocket, the man drew a white silk towel that he used to gingerly dab across his face of any annoying sweat—
The green-haired man, sensing a presence nearing him, broke from his just-begun rest.
Swing!
Taking hold of the center of his spear, the man pivoted his body along with his spear.
Cutting through the air lethally silent, the spear's blade, as suddenly as it began to move, stopped.
The atomically sharp blade of the spear pressed with surgical precision against the neck of a female attendant.
The platinum blonde-haired attendant, not noticing the blade at first, opened her mouth to speak but stopped after feeling a cold sharp stinging sensation rising from her neck.
Glancing at the blade placed by her neck, she began to shiver uncontrollably out of fear.
"Speak?" the green haired man suddenly voiced, snapping the woman out of her daze.
Resisting the urge to cry, the woman spoke, "Master sends his regards. Your duel against Lady Livia's disciple is scheduled later in the evening."
The green-haired man nodded. Lifting the blade from her neck, he returned his polearm to his side.
"Did grandfather say anything else?"
"Yes sir, he had left you a message" She confirmed with a nod.
"Don't fret like you always do, Minho… but don't hold back either, and don't give in to arrogance, not even for a second. I have a bad feeling about that kid your up against.'" the attendant recited.
"Is that all?"
The maid respectfully nodded.
"Then you are dismissed," he said dismissively before returning to his tidy-up.
Curtsying a final bow, the attendant left.
several seconds passed.
Feeling the sharp pain from her neck increasing, the attendant curiously tapped where Minho's blade had been only seconds prior.
She saw crimson.
A thin line of blood began to spill.
Seeing the sight of her blood-coated fingers, the attendant, without sparing a second thought, frantically rushed toward the infirmary while applying pressure onto the fresh wound.