A human skull. Smooth, bleached bone, grinning up from the loose earth. Targen stared, his internal clock ticking like a death knell. Pogo, the iridescent pangolin, let out another satisfied chirp, nudging the jade token closer with its snout. Oyun’s token. Her identity. Buried with… this. His jaw did not clench; instead, his gaze drifted to his own arm, where faint, crimson veins pulsed beneath his skin, the chaotic dragon blood a vibrant, terrifying calligraphy. One year. And he was standing over a grave in a collapsed cave, flat broke, with a pangolin for company. “Jochi,” Targen murmured, his voice as calm as a placid lake, despite the gnawing dread. “About those ancient arts you mentioned.” *“Arts? Boy, you just used one! Sent that boulder flying like a pebble,”* a deep, lazy voice rumbled in his mind, thick with the drowsy contentment of an ancient god barely roused. *“But if you want more, let’s talk business. This primeval lineage of yours… it sings for fine spirits. The kind that sloshes in crystal decanters, not the watery swill those Iron-Lotus brats brew.”* Targen sighed. “I have no money, Jochi. I am, in fact, the poorest member of the entire sect. And I have exactly 365 days to ascend to the Divine Realm or explode.” *“Details, details,”* Jochi scoffed. *“A true reptile of the storm finds a way. Now, about that wine…”* The Spring Selection Tournament. The very mention of it brought a faint tremor to Targen’s polite demeanor. It was the largest gathering of the sect, a brutal spectacle held in the Grand Lotus Arena, where ambitious initiates vied for glory, resources, and the attention of elders. More importantly, it was where wealth exchanged hands, where opportunities arose. He could perhaps… politely acquire some coin. And find wine for Jochi. He arrived at the arena late, his threadbare robes a stark contrast to the shimmering silks and embroidered tunics of the other students. The stands, carved into the jagged mountain face, hummed with a thousand voices. His eyes, however, were drawn to his own hands. The crimson veins were glowing brighter now, a faint internal inferno that warmed his skin. He needed to meditate on his meridians. Immediately. Below, in the vast, circular arena, a single figure stood bathed in the light of the noon sun. Oyun, his erstwhile fiancée. Her robes, the color of fresh snow, billowed around her as she struck a dramatic pose, her features sculpted into an expression of disdain. The crowd, a sea of faces, leaned forward, captivated. He could hear her voice, amplified by a subtle spiritual artifact, ringing through the arena. “For too long,” Oyun declared, her voice sharp as splintered jade, “the esteemed and ancient Clan Vash has endured this… arrangement.” Her gaze swept over the crowd, finally settling on Targen, though she looked through him, not at him. “A betrothal pact born of antiquated traditions, binding me, an initiate of the Inner Ring and a rising talent, to a cripple. To Targen, the sect’s most lamentable failure!” A ripple of snickers spread through the stands. Targen blinked, a faint flush touching his cheeks. He had almost forgotten about the marital pledge. Such a minor detail, given the impending spontaneous combustion. The crimson lines beneath his skin pulsed, a gentle thrumming that made him momentarily dizzy. Jochi, no doubt, was reminding him of the wine. Oyun held up a scroll, its edges gilded. “Today, before all of Yaksha-Var, I sever these ties! I, Oyun Vash, formally renounce my promise of marriage to Targen, forever removing this stain upon my honor and the prestige of Clan Vash!” With a theatrical flourish, she tore the scroll in half, letting the pieces drift to the arena floor like fallen leaves. The crowd roared, a mix of approval and schadenfreude. Targen, however, had already begun to move. He navigated the steps, his gait still favoring his left leg, his mind fixated on the increasing warmth in his veins. He politely pushed through the throng, reaching the arena floor just as Oyun was soaking in the applause. “Excuse me, Lady Oyun,” Targen said, his voice quiet but clear, cutting through the lingering echoes of her proclamation. He held out a small, folded piece of parchment. “I believe this belongs to you. It’s the other half of the pact parchment. I found it, quite by accident, buried in a cave this morning. With your token, actually.” He paused, then added, with genuine sincerity, “I wish you all the best in your future endeavors. May your path of ascension flourish, and your journey be free of… well, of any untoward complications.” The arena went silent. A thousand eyes, which had been fixed on Oyun, now swiveled to Targen. Oyun’s face, moments before radiating triumph, twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated fury. He hadn’t reacted with shame or despair. He’d simply… returned the pact. Politely. As if it were a misplaced accessory, not the ruined remnants of her grand public humiliation. The insufferable, indifferent bastard. “You… you dare?!” Oyun shrieked, her spiritual aura flaring, sending a minor gust of wind across the dust-laden arena. “You dare to mock me with your feigned civility? After I have just cleansed my name of your very existence?” From the VIP stands, Sarnai, a senior swordswoman whose reputation for ruthlessness preceded her like a shadow, watched. Her glacial eyes, usually devoid of all but calculated intent, narrowed. This Targen… he was different. The public spectacle, the absolute calm. Her fingers subtly traced the hilt of her legendary frost-blade, *Sundered Dawn*. Before Targen could offer another polite platitude, a blur of green and gold launched from the crowd. A silk-robed youth, a favored protégé of an Outer Ring Elder, his face contorted with outrage on Oyun’s behalf. “Worthless cripple! You insult Lady Oyun? You shall pay for this insolence!” The youth's fist, wreathed in crackling azure energy, arced directly for the back of Targen’s head. This was not a challenge; it was an execution. Targen, still contemplating the correct etiquette for returning a discarded alliance pact, felt a sudden surge of heat in his limbs. Jochi’s voice, for once, was sharp. *“Move, you dolt! Drunken Serpent Step!”* Instinct took over. Targen swayed, a fluid, almost comical lurch, but his footwork was impossibly fast, a blur of motion that defied his limp. He pivoted, not to dodge, but to bring his arm up. His hand, still holding the folded parchment, moved in a loose, almost accidental arc, a palm-strike disguised as a dismissive swat. The azure energy of the attacker's fist met Targen’s outstretched palm. There was no explosion, no clash of force. Instead, the youth simply… *disappeared*. The crowd gasped. A thundering crash echoed from the far side of the arena. The assailant, a young master renowned for his robust physical strength, was embedded head-first in a massive, ornamental stone pillar, which now resembled a splintered tooth. Dust plumed into the air. Targen stared at his hand, then at the destruction, a faint frown creasing his brow. “Oh dear,” he mumbled. “I do apologize. I truly only meant to return the parchment.” Sarnai sat forward, pupils dilating as a flicker of predatory fascination ignited across her face. A cripple? A worthless failure? This was no ordinary strength. This was something ancient, terrifying, and utterly untamed. He was the key. Her mission, the one that had consumed her for years, suddenly had a path forward. She moved. A silent, swift descent from the VIP stand, her figure a blur against the bright sky. The crowd parted, awestruck. Her boots barely touched the arena floor, raising no dust. Her hand, lean and elegant, went to her side, drawing the frost-blade, *Sundered Dawn*, from its sheath. The blade hummed, radiating an aura of absolute cold. Sarnai stalked towards Targen, her gaze unwavering, her legendary weapon glinting in the sun, pointing directly at his throat.

Canceling the Engagement with Utmost Respect