“Please be careful.We captured the artifacts, so hopefully that weakens him, but ...”
“I am ready.”Sunan’s preparations, his chemical enhancements, his growing army didn’t matter.Connor would prevail with her at his back.“Sophie, I will say this one last time.I love you.I’ll always love you.”
A long pause, then she whispered.“Win this.Please.Just ...win.”The line went dead.
Connor stared at the phone for a moment, then powered it off completely.
No more distractions.It strengthened him that she’d come at all.
“Master.”Niran, his new second since Feirn left, touched his shoulder.“The sun sets.It’s time.”
Connor nodded, rolling his shoulders beneath the raw silk whitegihe wore.Night challenges were more difficult—low visibility made the combat harder to navigate.But Sunan had insisted, and Connor had accepted.When he was in the zone he used all of his senses, not just his eyes.
The courtyard below his balcony blazed with torchlight, shadows dancing across stones worn smooth by centuries of bare feet.His soles knew every bump and crevice of that courtyard.
He descended the steps from his quarters, each movement deliberate, meditative.His closest men flanked him—Niran on his right, steady as granite; Yai on his left, young and fierce; others falling into formation behind.Twenty-three men out of hundreds who’d chosen him during the ascension, who’d stayed loyal through three years of reforms that had angered the old guard.Twenty-three who’d chosen exile if he lost tonight.The rest would accept a new Master.
The crowd of silent onlookers parted as he entered the courtyard.Three hundred of the Yam Khûmk?n had gathered, travelers from every camp between Bangkok and the Golden Triangle.He recognized most faces: men who’d trained beside him, women who’d stitched his wounds, elders.
Some met his gaze with respect and a bow.Others looked away.
At the courtyard’s center, a circle had been drawn with blessed chalk, ten meters across.That circle was ringed with torches that made the chalk glow like phosphorus.The drums shifted rhythm, and the eastern gate opened.
Sunan swaggered in like a conquering king wearing gold satin.Where Connor came with a modest escort, Sunan brought fifty Brotherhood warriors in black, moving in perfect synchronization, gleaming swords at their sides.The faction’s philosophy showed in modern tactical clothing marked with traditional symbols.
Sunan himself had transformed in the three years since Connor’s ascension.He wore a cloth of gold robe over fighting shorts, an outfit that cost more than most Thai families saw in a year.His body was oiled and gleaming, pumped-up muscles enhanced by whatever chemicals his pet doctors had prescribed.
Connor saw past the pompous display to the truth beneath.Sunan’s energy field was red and pulsing with aggression and pride.His hands were wrapped in hemp rope, the old way, his knuckles covered with resin and ground glass.He was ready to tear flesh, shatter bone.
“Brother,” Sunan said, his voice carrying across the courtyard.“For three years you’ve led us away from the old ways and the days of greatness.Tonight, when I defeat you, we’ll be great again.”
Connor didn’t respond.Words were wind.Only action mattered now.
Elder Prasong stepped forward.Ninety years old, he was still straight as a spear.He’d overseen challenges since before either of them were born and had watched the Yam Khûmk?n rise and fall and rise again.
“We gather as our ancestors did,” Prasong intoned.“To witness a leader revealed in blood.Who challenges this Master’s right?”
“I do.”Sunan had slipped his arms out of the sleeves of his robe and as he stepped forward, he rolled his shoulders back and raised his fists, tossing off the golden robe to be caught by an acolyte.“By right of blood spilled, by right of strength proven, by right of the old ways over the new, I challenge you.”
“And I accept.”Connor’s voice carried across the throng.“By right of honor maintained, by right of loyalty earned, by right of combat, I stand ready.”
Prasong raised his staff.“Then let all who would interfere be cursed.Let all who would flee be shamed.Let the circle be sealed until the truth is shown.”
The crowd pressed closer, forming an unbreakable wall of flesh.Somewhere above, out in the darkness, Sophie watched.Connor felt her hope and support as clearly as if she stood beside him.
She came.Even knowing it’s over, she came to witness.I'm not alone.I will prevail.
Both men entered the circle, moving to opposite edges.The drums stopped.
In the silence, Connor heard his own heartbeat, steady and sure.Heard the crowd’s collective breathing.Heard the torches crackling, casting wild shadows that made the fighters seem like giants, like gods.
Prasong’s staff came down and struck stone.
Sunan attacked instantly, crossing the distance in a blur.No feeling out, no testing—just pure violence aimed at ending the contest quickly.His right foot whipped toward Connor’s head with enough force to shatter his skull.
As Sunan’s kick moved through space, Connor slipped inside the arc.His elbow found Sunan’s ribs, drawing a grunt, but Sunan was already spinning away, a glass-encrusted fist whistling past Connor’s ear.
They separated, circling.First blood to Sunan—a cut had opened above Connor’s eye where his wrapped knuckle had grazed.He shook his head as blood ran into his eye, and the drops spattered on the courtyard’s rough surface.The crowd murmured.
