Four days after the fleet departed, Kaizen called for open sparring.
No formations.No restrictions.No holding back.
The training grounds of the Zaiton sect filled quickly, disciples forming wide circles as Kaizen stepped onto the stone platform with his spear resting casually in one hand.
"Come at me," he said calmly.
The first group consisted of five inner-disciples—each one a proven fighter, each one forged through scarcity and discipline. They moved together, angles perfect, timing flawless.
They did not last three moves.
Kaizen stepped forward once.
His spear tapped the ground.
The vibration alone disrupted their circulation paths. Before the first disciple could react, Kaizen's spear shaft struck his wrist—not hard, not fast—yet the man's grip shattered as if crushed by a mountain. The second disciple tried to flank.
Kaizen turned.
One thrust.
The fight ended.
The remaining three froze as pressure flooded the space—not killing intent, not bloodlust, but something heavier.
Control.
Two more moves followed. Two more defeats.
Kaizen lowered his spear.
"Next."
Groups rotated in. Veterans. Squad leaders. Formation specialists. All of them fell the same way—three moves, sometimes fewer.
Not because Kaizen unleashed his full strength.
But because he didn't.
He dismantled them with positioning, timing, compressed force, and absolute understanding of combat rhythm. He ended fights before they properly began.
After the final bout, silence gripped the training grounds.
Not humiliation.
Reverence.
Arron Zaiton stepped forward, gaze sharp but steady. "You've shown them the gap."
Kaizen nodded. "And the direction."
He turned to the kneeling disciples.
"You are not weak," he said. "You are simply facing the wrong scale."
His eyes lifted toward the horizon, toward lands none of them had ever seen.
"The Dragon Continent will not forgive mistakes," he continued. "Neither will its champions. You will not win by matching them blow for blow."
He tapped his spear lightly against the ground.
"You will win by making their strength irrelevant."
The disciples bowed deeply.
They understood.
The Dragon Continent
Six months before the Tournament of Power, the Dragon Continent stirred.
At its center stood the Dragon Empire, ruled by the Supreme Dragon Sovereign—
Dragomof.
A colossal existence wrapped in gilded scales and eternal flame, Dragomof was ancient even by dragon standards. His rule was absolute, not because he enforced it ruthlessly, but because he was bored easily—and boredom made him dangerous.
There was one thing that always captured his attention.
Gambling.
He gambled on wars.He gambled on bloodlines.He gambled on the rise and fall of entire civilizations.
The Tournament of Power was his favorite event.
"It's not about victory," Dragomof often said. "It's about risk."
Standing beside him during court assemblies was his daughter—
Nala Dragomof.
Her beauty was legendary even among dragons, but it was not what kept the empire in balance.
It was her mind.
Nala observed everything. She spoke rarely. When she did, even ancient elders listened. Where Dragomof sought excitement, she sought inevitability—and knew exactly how to prevent it.
Suitors flooded the Dragon Empire from every race.
Dragon princes with pure bloodlines.Elven immortals bearing ancient vows.Orc champions promising conquest.Even giants who offered mountain-forges as dowries.
All were rejected.
Not one met her standard.
The Elven Dominion arrived next.
At their head stood Saron Sylvaris, the Verdant Crown.
His presence softened mana fluctuations simply by existing. He was neither arrogant nor humble—only certain. Saron viewed the Tournament as a necessary disruption to prevent stagnation.
He did not gamble heavily.
He invested selectively.
The High Orc Clans thundered onto the continent under the banner of Brontes Orcas.
Brontes was brutal honesty made flesh. He hated politics, despised manipulation, and respected only strength proven in action. The Tournament was sacred to him—not for wealth, but for honor.
Those who tried to cheat him rarely survived the accusation.
Last to arrive were the Giants.
Their ruler, Gorath Gigantos, was impossible to miss.
Each step he took shook the land. His title—Right-Foot Gorath—was earned when he ended a three-year siege with a single kick that reduced a fortified city gate to dust.
Giants rarely participated directly.
But when they did, the world paid attention.
All these powers gathered for the hundred-year Tournament of Power.
The Dragon Continent prepared arenas, betting halls, diplomatic chambers, and neutral zones where bloodshed was forbidden by ancient law.
And six months before the first match—
A message arrived by ship.
The Zaiton Message
The vessel was modest.
Its banner bore the insignia of the Zaiton Empire, a name unfamiliar to most on the Dragon Continent. The message it carried was simple, formal, and respectful.
The Zaiton Empire declared its intent to participate in the Tournament of Power.
The Dragon Empire acknowledged it.
And dismissed it.
What no one noticed—
Was what happened next.
The Survey
The envoys did not leave immediately.
Some stayed behind under the guise of merchants. Others registered as translators, dock workers, or caravan escorts. A few vanished into the city crowds entirely.
They observed.
They recorded.
Food prices in tournament season—triple near the central arena.Accommodation costs—skyrocketing within dragon-controlled districts.Neutral zones—controlled indirectly through shell businesses.Betting halls—layered, interconnected, and manipulated through timing rather than odds.
They mapped everything.
Trade routes.Mana wells.Artifact auction houses.Political safe zones.Informal black markets.
Most importantly—they watched Princess Nala.
They noted how she visited betting halls without placing wagers. How odds shifted after her arrival. How certain matches were quietly rebalanced days before announcements.
They returned in stages, never together.
And when they finally stood before Kaizen—
They spoke.
Kaizen listened without interruption.
The Book of All Knowledge lay open before him, pages glowing faintly as reports aligned with recorded truths. Names matched. Patterns overlapped.
Then came Nala.
"She has many suitors," one spy reported carefully. "Dragon princes, elven lords, even orc champions."
"And?" Kaizen asked.
"She has accepted none."
Another added, "They say she measures worth not by power… but by consequence."
Kaizen's eyes lingered on the page.
The Book described her as:
A variable that stabilizes chaos.A mind that disrupts certainty without force.A ruler who understands systems better than individuals.
Kaizen closed the book slowly.
Of all the names within its pages—
Hers intrigued him the most.
Not for her beauty.
But because she was like him.
She did not fight fate.
She regulated it.
"She will be a problem," Arron said quietly.
Kaizen smiled faintly.
"No," he replied. "She will be a mirror."
Outside, the fleet continued its steady advance.
Six months remained.
Six months before the Tournament began.
Six months before Kaizen Zaiton stepped onto a continent that believed it understood power—
And introduced it to something far more dangerous.
Preparation.