The whisper of steel had stirred the city since dawn.

Word spread like pollen on wind: the famed General was holding open challenges at the central dueling platform in the heart of Huanlan's capital. It was a rare occasion—an open arena where any brave soul could step forward and test their skill against a living legend. The duels were ritualized, performed with wooden swords and watched by hundreds. No lives risked, only pride, honor, and the measure of one's soul through the clash of technique.

Wei Mo Chen had heard it in the rustle of servant gossip before the sun rose. He'd said nothing. Only nodded politely, as if the thought barely brushed him.

But before the hour of horse, his chambers were empty.

The Fifth Prince shed his embroidered robes for something simpler—a plain tunic of pale cloud-white, the cuffs tied high, hair braided and tucked into a cloth wrap beneath a light traveling cloak. His blade, though dulled and wooden, was wrapped reverently in silk and hidden beneath the folds of his sleeve.

The journey to the capital was veiled in stolen glances and careful steps. Guards bowed as he passed, none suspecting. He was a shadow beneath cherry boughs, wind among rice stalks. When he reached the dueling square, the platform already thrummed with the rhythm of sparring feet and wooden clatter.

And there he stayed.

Mo Chen stood silent at the edge of the crowd, barely breathing, amber eyes fixed on the figure atop the platform. The General moved like calligraphy in motion, blade and breath as one. Every strike told a story. Every parry carved truth from air.

Mo Chen's heart stirred like flame teased by wind.

He watched duel after duel, drinking in every motion with the hunger of one who had long studied in secret. When the sun began to lean westward, painting the sky in soft vermilion, his hand finally moved.

He stepped from the shadow of the awning, silk-wrapped blade in hand. His cloak whispered to the stone as he approached the platform. His breath trembled, but his eyes were steady.

"I request to cross blades with the General," he said.

A murmur rose from the crowd as he bowed—not as a prince, but as a disciple before a master. The silk slipped away from the wooden sword like morning mist, revealing not royal grandeur, but the sincerity of a hidden student.

"I have waited a long time for this moment," he added, voice low yet clear.

His fingers, curled firm around the hilt, trembled ever so slightly as he raised his gaze—not with challenge, but reverence.

"Please."