Alex laughed in a visibly demonstrative manner, his voice cutting through the tension lingering in the meeting room. “Brother, have you gone mad?” he stated, slapping his own knee. “You have never even gotten close to beating me. What are you going to do now, tickle me to death?”

  The echo of Alex’s mocking laughter seemed to hang in the air, bouncing off the paneled walls and polished table as though amplifying his scorn. A subtle hush fell over the rest of the room, broken only by the rustle of clothing as Jonathan shifted in his seat.

  “Alex!” Jonathan shouted. “Do not underestimate him!”

  Jonathan’s normally amiable expression now bore a dark edge, a tightness at the corners of his eyes and jaw. Though he was the one who had shouted, there was an unmistakable tension in his voice—part protectiveness, part anger.

  Then, suddenly, a maid knocked on the doors to the conference room. She walked in holding the young girl, now dressed in a puffy yellow dress, into the room.

  The room’s atmosphere softened momentarily as all eyes turned to the small figure. The bright color of the dress set her apart in a space dominated by serious expressions and subdued tones, transforming the child into a delicate burst of sunshine amidst a thundercloud of familial conflict. The girl’s gaze flicked around nervously, her hand clinging to the maid’s sleeve.

  “Excuse me, I bought the girl here, as instructed.” The maid spoke.

  She cast a timid glance at the patriarch and matriarch, showing the deference that came with her station. The young girl’s hair, still slightly damp from the earlier bath, curled around her cheeks, and her tense, uncertain posture revealed that the earlier show of force in the courtyard was not forgotten.

  “Yes! Perfect!” the matriarch replied, standing up from her seat. She approached the door, kneeling down to the girl’s eye level. “My dear do you like cookies?”

  The matriarch’s gentle smile crinkled the corners of her eyes, and her soft voice was a balm to the room’s charged silence. The girl’s eyes went wide as she nodded, a small flicker of hope sparking behind her guarded expression. She blinked, her breath catching in her chest, as though unsure if this promise of something sweet was truly real.

  “My dear,” the matriarch spoke to the maid. “Could you bring her one of my favorite chocolate ship cookies.”

  “Yes, madam,” the maid replied, nodding, as she left the conference room.

  The madam held the girl’s hand, bringing her closer to the table where the discussion was still taking place.

  A faint rustle of fabric accompanied them as they approached, the child’s timid footsteps growing surer under the matriarch’s warm guidance.

  “Oh, on the contrary brother!” Alex spoke, replying to Jonathan’s previous remark. “I have nothing but praise for our youngest. He is a capable tactician and a very out of the box mage. But once you know his tricks, he loses a lot of that wow factor. Don’t get me wrong, being so capable with two stigmas placed on him is impressive. But not being able to utilize mana properly makes his body as weak as a human’s and because every spell he uses also harms him I doubt he could stand a chance against me in 1 on 1 combat.”

  His pride was palpable, the self-assuredness in his tone filling the air like a slow-building drumbeat. A smug smile tugged at his lips as he cast a sidelong glance at Michael, whose face remained frustratingly impassive.

  The girl listened intently, shifting her gaze from Alex to Michael, eyeing both of them in turn. Jonathan stood, barely able to contain his anger, the muscles of his jaw tightening and flexing on their own. Michael, on the other hand, was calm, composed, with a slight intrigued smirk—almost as though the battle was already won in his mind.

  “So, you’re saying you won’t fight?” Michael asked as he leaned in.

  His words came out in a measured tone, carefully avoiding any tremor of provocation. Yet beneath his calm exterior, an electric tension bristled.

  “No, I’m not saying that at all.” Alex raised an eyebrow. “I said that it wouldn’t be fair for me for fight you under such conditions, weren’t you listening?”

  He exhaled, his arrogance a clear counterpoint to Michael’s composure. There was a silent challenge in his gaze, one that flicked briefly to Jonathan before settling back on Michael.

  “Fine then how about this! You I’ll make another demand that the Patriarch will have to grant if I win,” Micheal smiled. “Seeing as it’s so unlikely that I’ll win I might as well get a proper reward if something like that happens, right?”

  His voice was deceptively light, laced with a subtle confidence that belied Alex’s accusations of frailty. Jonathan bit the inside of his cheek, torn between stepping in or letting Michael handle the verbal sparring alone. In the corner of the room, Nia’s wide eyes darted anxiously among them, the tension registering in her posture even if she didn’t fully grasp the significance of the words.

  The patriarch frowned, releasing a slight sigh. “Fine, what is it that you want?”

  His voice carried the same heavy authority as before, but now there was a faint undercurrent of exasperation, as though the news of yet another confrontation was wearing thin on his patience.

  “I want that little girl to be adopted into the family as per Jonathan’s request,” Michael replied.

  A hush fell over the table. Jonathan’s eyes flicked between Michael and his father, aware that such a bold demand, regardless of intention, skirted the boundary of what the patriarch might permit. In the background, the matriarch’s expression—though kind—showed a flicker of anxiety, as if bracing for her husband’s reaction.

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  “And if you lose, you’ll leave the family?” The patriarch clarified.

  The words reverberated around the room, a challenge that refused to be ignored. The air felt charged, crackling with an unseen electricity born from the high stakes involved.

  “Yes,” Michael nodded.

  The finality in that single word was stark—an unspoken vow that radiated through the stillness.

  “No! don’t do this!” Jonathan raised his voice.

  He lurched to his feet, palms pressing onto the table, as though the physical act of standing might somehow halt the escalation.

  “Fine, I swear on my name that if you beat Alex in a duel I will adopt this girl and treat her as one of my own children, granting her all of the privileges of the Mercer family. I will also pardon your earlier transgression.” The patriarch spoke, closing his eyes. His tone carried the gravity of a royal edict. Every word dripped with finality, setting a course no one could stray from.

  “I swear on my name that if I lose this duel against Alex I will give up my name as a Mercer and leave the family of my own accord,” Michael declared. He met his father’s gaze, voice unwavering. Though only a few heartbeats had passed since he spoke, it felt like an eternity—time itself bowing under the weight of that commitment.

  “Then it’s decided. Do you need time to prepare?” The patriarch stood up.

  His gaze moved from Michael to Jonathan, to Alex, and finally to the matriarch, weighing each participant’s reaction in turn.

  “No,” Michael stood up. “I’d rather do it right now.” The lines of his face betrayed neither hesitation nor fear; if anything, a certain determination sharpened his features.

  “Alright, then use the master training hall. I’ll head to the observation deck on right now,” the patriarch stated, walking off into the corridor.

  His footsteps, measured and resonant, set the pace for what felt like the beginning of a march toward fate. The matriarch trailed after him, her expression locked in worried contemplation. The child, still clinging to the matriarch’s hand, wore a new, clean dress—yet her eyes remained haunted by the tension swirling around her. Before disappearing from view, she craned her head back, her gaze lingering on Michael’s face for a moment, as though silently begging him to come back safe.

  “You’ll come to regret this, brother,” Alex said, grabbing Michael’s shoulder before leaving. He paused only long enough to let the warning sink in, then swept out of the room, the proud lines of his posture emphasizing his confidence.

  Michael stood up, stretching his arms while his brother leaped from his chair. The shift in energy was immediate: Jonathan nearly vaulted over the table, agitation crackling from every tense muscle.

  “Why the hell would you do that?!” Jonathan shouted, slamming the table with his palms. “Are you crazy?” A faint tremor ran through the table, shaking a few stray documents in its wake.

  “No,” Michael replied. “You know that I always plan the most effective route for things to go down. And this seemed like the most effective way of killing multiple birds at once.” He delivered his explanation with an air of calculated calm.

  “Killing what birds? You’re a step away from getting kicked out of the family!” Jonathan shouted, his voice cracked on the last word, betraying the depth of his worry.

  “Yes, I am also a step away from sweeping this mess under the rug, keeping your promise—one that I honestly think you shouldn’t have made—and shutting up that older brother of ours. And besides–“ Michael smiled. “I don’t plan to lose.”

  In the tense quiet that followed, that faint, self-assured smile radiated a startling confidence. It was as if, for Michael, the outcome was preordained.

  Jonathan exhaled heavily as a certain subconscious smirk began tugging at the corners of his mouth before he even realized. It was the sort of half-smile that arises unbidden, a reflection of the relief and admiration he felt for his brother’s unwavering resolve.

  “You’ve always been like this,” he said. “So, what do you plan to do?” His tone, now quieter, carried a resignation that was quickly being outpaced by genuine curiosity.

  “For now? Get to the training hall?” Michael replied. He ran a hand through his hair, as if brushing away any lingering doubts. The swish of fabric as he turned on his heel served as punctuation to the finality of his statement.

  “Fine, if you say so,” Jonathan shook his head. The corners of his mouth still twitched with that reluctant smile. He was torn between admonishing his brother for taking such a risk and acknowledging that Michael’s certainty was often well-placed.

  “Let’s go through the west wing. I want to enjoy the scenery as we walk.” In those simple words, Michael signaled a desire not just to face the challenge ahead, but to do so on his own terms.

  The two left the conference room and ventured towards the west wing, an area carved into the side of a hill, featuring hundreds of panoramic windows directed towards the city.

  Outside each floor-to-ceiling pane, the world opened up in a glittering vista: rows of neon-lit skyscrapers pierced the dark sky, and in the distance, they could see the space elevator towering to the sky. As countless skyscrapers stood in its wake, their glass fa?ades shimmered like stars in an inverted cosmos. The muted glow of streetlights and the pulsing hum of distant traffic lent a surreal quality to the scene.

  On the way, the two passed the kitchen, where Michael, without anyone noticing, picked up a pack of toothpicks. The clamor of bustling staff and the warmth of overhead lighting briefly replaced the hush of the corridor. Without breaking stride, Michael slipped the small box into his jacket pocket.

  Eventually, they reached the master training hall, a large ornate arena filled with sand. Its interiors were covered by fortifications, capable of withstanding even the strongest magic.

  A subdued hush enveloped them as they stepped inside, every grain of sand seeming to absorb sound. Tall pillars lined the perimeter, each bearing insignias of the Mercer family’s storied history. Faint, arcane symbols were etched into the stone, their purpose to protect the structure from catastrophic magical backlash. Archways soared overhead, the tips of their sculpted forms illuminated by a series of floating orbs that cast pale, steady light onto the sand below.

  A viewing deck was placed at the very top of the arena, covered with reinforced glass, a room where their father was already waiting. Even at a distance, the weight of his presence pressed down on the arena.

  “Well, brother,” Jonathan spoke. “I wish you luck,” he said with a worried tone. His gaze flitted between the arena’s walls and Michael’s impassive features.

  “Yeah, don’t worry,” Michael replied with a calm expression. “This will be easier than you think.”

  His voice was even and measured, a quiet confidence threading through his words.

  Jonathan left, taking the elevator up to the observation deck. He cast one last glance over his shoulder—hovering between concern and faith—before stepping into the lift. The doors slid shut with a hiss, leaving Michael alone on the sand-dusted floor. High above, the flicker of movement on the viewing deck signaled that the patriarch and his retinue were ready. Soon, Alex would arrive, and the decisive battle would begin under the glare of lights and the watchful gaze of the Mercer family’s legacy.