The Ceremonial Grounds was the largest clearing reserved for the clan’s use. A sole paved path led to the Grand Hall. Where the throne of the reigning Patriarch, and the assembly of all the Elders who serve the Grittus clan take their seats adjacent of him. The equivalent to a monarch’s, at least in administration purposes. It is rare for the man himself to be thought of seated, for the thing seemed to crown the dust as its Patriarch more than its master.

Everything that made the Grittus clan was here. Pennants with their clan’s marking saluted him up on entry, and, bordering them were the parallel lines of clansmen; young, old, powerful, weak, and others. Kneeled to their clan. Kneeled for their Patriarch, and…

Kneeled for their Chosen.

Grisla walked through them. His steps, even and practiced, fit for the graceful deceit at a court, with the charming suggestion to match. He was a young master in a clan that already had its own. At the end of his stroll would be the last set of guards—four of the Thirteen themselves awaited him. Grisla’s fellow Chosen will so far have already be kneeled in their positions, awaiting to kick off the start of the coronation. Just he, if he dallied any longer, would’ve been shamed into dirt if he were to delay Brother Xinrei’s special day.

Behind Grisla, more of the crowd started to pour in. They were escorted to the outside theater specifically built for this day. An aging coliseum that needed renovations before anything, but, from what Grisla surmised—the higher-ups think otherwise.

He reached the stairs, and when he was up, the closest Elder raised his chin.

  “Grisla Orlith Grittus, of the Clan Grittus, of family Orlith. Representing Chosen One.”

  The Elder assessed him; a show meant only for the crowd that observed him from afar. Strangely to Grisla, the Elder squinted momentarily. As if he couldn’t figure out what needed to be figured in the first place, however, he sighed. His arm waved, the crack of the doors was the Chosen’s permission.

  “Honor to you, High Elder.”

Grisla was too preoccupied with making it on time, that he hadn’t noticed that the Elder in question missed the reply for him. Instead, his face was mired in an investigation that none but him, was worried about. On the last sightings of the boy before he passed the threshold, the Four were beginning to exchange… certain looks between themselves.

There were six Chosen in total. Three from Grisla’s Generation: Fang Lai, Xinrei Grittus, Grisla Orlith. The rest from Rangwha’s: Yulin Hanying, Nang Herma, Rei Rangwha. The Chosen Six, were kneeling and placed according to their rank. From ascending order, the very first spot was, of course, absent.

Violet torches enhanced the shadows on Grisla’s face. And they weren’t alone. For the silhouettes which surrounded the children of heaven; seated in full view of everything that would happen, watched their last Chosen come to take his place.

Rei Rangwha, even under observation managed to eke out a wink to him. While the others couldn’t give him the time of day. Eyelids closed, deep within meditation. The floorboards didn’t squeal—they wouldn’t dare to. The boy’s vision stole a glance at the throne, where a man sat.

Grisla stopped. His fist that met the palm broke the silence with its clap, then receded out. “Chosen One, Grisla Orlith.” he announced. The Patriarch acknowledged him, and he kneeled at his Chosen One place. Just next to Chosen Two, or the subsequent Chosen Two. They were ranked according to age and talent; this was the biggest point of contention between Xinrei and the boy. Even amongst the Elders themselves—both were, in a vacuum, highly valued talents that would bring the clan up to new heights, regardless if either did not exist. So, the miniscule differences in ability were made evident in battle.

However, what Grisla did lack was… the obvious.

  “Xinrei Grittus,” The Patriarch said.

The legitimate family name. It’s improper that one, although Grittus, does not hold the main household name and outshines them. A warping of the natural order.

Chosen Two was empty and was reserved as so as it was obvious who would take that spot—he kneeled there now. But it wasn’t always like that. In fact, Chosen Two would be Grisla Orlith’s spot if he were the weaker of the two. Fate is a nice comedian.

  “Blood of mine, named in Grittus, the clan has made their selection; heaven above has made theirs as well, and on this day, our conclusion coincides. Talent beyond others, and the fortitude to persevere; I, Patriarch Meng Grittus, have chosen you. To become our Second,” Abruptly, his voice quaked. “Chosen. A great tree to which the clansmen, your family will stand under for generations to come, and to raise our people to greater heights never seen. Do you swear to abide by this, simple code?”

  Xinrei declared, “I do.”

  “Do you swear to annihilate our enemies, foreign and domestic?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you swear to uphold the Grittus clan’s honor to any who might dare test it, in the now or later?”

  “I do.”

  “I accept your pledge,” Patriarch Meng nodded. “And, as a representation of your new post—a gift, from the clan, to you.”

One of the High Elders was by the Patriarch’s side. Holding up a long, wooden case that went beyond the withering man’s shoulders. In fact, it looked as if the thing would’ve snapped the spindly arms of such a creature by weight alone. The Patriarch waved a hand and the buckles popped off. Inside, the thing held in such care by a High Elder was understood to be why immediately. It was a handsome looking spear.

When the Patriarch hoisted it out, the masterwork of such a thing marveled some of the Elders, and of course Xinrei was subject to all kinds of envious glares from his fellow Chosen. They hadn’t seen that level of a gift in quite some time.

The recipient? Need it be described?

  “I’ve had it commissioned from the One-City Kingdom; Master Chen Rong’s personal work.”

A grave moment such as this was powerless to withhold the whispers between the Elders. Actually—it was probably all intended by the Patriarch. Bringing up his son’s fame with a shiny tool at his side. A prestigious thing that elevated him above his Chosen without a single hand lifted by the user of the weapon; it was difficult to get into contact with the hermit kingdom, and, as far as they knew, only the Patriarch had a word in to them. The only one sufficiently worthy to put one in, anyway.

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It is an open secret to the upper echelons of the clan and privy to the Chosen’s knowledge—that the Grittus clan is not an all-powerful entity independent on its own. Just like how the Jade Fate sect is a vassal underneath the Grittus clan’s power, so were they, just separated by many li’s of distance and bureaucracy. If they weren’t reminded, like, once every decade or so, they would’ve forgotten about it entirely.

The obligations their clan has to that foreign power are, rather unknown other than the obvious tributed taxes delivered to their doorstep. Should there be anything else in the clan’s servitude, it would surely be something allowed to be known for one person in all of Leimuth. That person needn’t to be said.

Who could ever have a thing that could match a master’s weapon, in price and quality hailing from the One-City Kingdom itself? Xinrei’s modest grin was the most blatant lie. He put his hands out.

  “This spear will serve you well; use it to judge the enemies,” the Patriarch lowered his head, “of the clan and make it into our people’s defense.” Then lowered the spear into his son’s palms, who claimed the spear as if it was destiny that brought him it and not a fat purse and privilege.

  “Stand, my Chosen Second.”

Xinrei Grittus’ eye flickered to Grisla’s the moment he was asked. Something’s coming. Grisla felt so the moment he stepped inside the hall. It sickened him, almost. Admittedly, Grisla wanted nothing more than for this ceremony to be done with, and to see himself back in bed to wake up for another circus with Xinrei.

The Patriarch’s son with his spear in hand looked like a hero from a legend. If, that hero was the precocious type sitting at the age of eleven. The thing was taller than him and it’d take two and a half Xinrei’s to be a match for it.

The Elders bowed. The High Elders bowed. The Patriarch returned to his throne, watching as a ruler’s supposed to do. They as the Chosen had to acknowledge their new member within their ranks, whether they agreed with it or not.

  “My Chosen, you have the option now, if you desire, to voice an opinion regarding what you wish to change about our clan.”

Grisla twitched.

  Him? What, is he gonna ask everyone stare at the floor when addressing him?

  The boy grinned. “May I ask for clarification? Any opinion, and it’s a suggestion for change?”

  “If I agree with it, or if I don’t but there’s a majority vote by the Elders then your suggestion will be carried out.”

Xinrei fell into a thought, and, in some way to signal to people that he had some intellectual capacity, true or otherwise, he made it visible on his face. Eyes closed, lips curled in wonder. Grisla was lost as to what’s coming. What could the son of heaven, the most privileged child in Leimuth, could possibly ask for that he couldn’t do before? It must’ve been a show for formality.

He’s being foolish. Grisla had a notion of what’s coming next. So inarguable that the thing itself was parked out on his front yard.

Xinrei smiled, “I’ve been sworn in as Chosen Two, and that is possibly the greatest honor I could ever achieve within my clan, and for that, I thank my people for allowing me this title,” then the serpent reared its head, “however, I am somewhat unsatisfied.”

  “Unsatisfied?” It was almost convincingly said. “Elaborate.”

  “To be one of the Chosen is part of my ambition, but, Patriarch—father, it is not where I will stop. Pursuing everything at the end of a road and wanting to find another beyond it—that is our goal, our ethos as cultivators. There will be no wordplay, I do not wish to be Chosen Two.”

Grisla sneered.

  He must’ve been plotting this all along.

  “I feel like,” Xinrei’s head finally swiveled to an individual, “I deserve to be Chosen One.”

  “You wish to press your claim? Here? Now of all times?” Grisla exclaimed.

  “That is correct, when else would there be a perfect time, Bro-ther Gris-la?”

The Clan Hall stirred. Now, it wasn’t a newfangled thing for the Chosen spots to be in flux, members change, and rarely, members die. Ordinarily, the Chosen and their hierarchy was set in stone, near permanent because the Elders—the highest judges of who deserves what, were infallible concerning good eyes for talent and potential. Chosen Six, Rangwha, was on a different level than Chosen One and Two, but that only meant anything if they were to decide off raw power alone. She was their senior by about six years.

And a Rangwha six years in the past couldn’t see the peak of the mountain One and Two stood on at their age. It was indisputable who would be of higher value six years in the future.

Sometimes, the Elders were wrong. Or could be convinced, through the only understanding in their world—strength.

They muttered between themselves for this reason. Most of them were there, they had already seen the results of just a measly spar, but now an official duel? Has he gone mad? Or is this desperation? If his confidence stems from a generous gift, then…

Some Elders, members of Xinrei’s family, protested from the stands.

  “Young Master Xinrei, please let this one go!”

  “There’s nothing to prove, accept your honor for today!”

  “What do you know about it?! I asked for a duel, I want a duel!” Xinrei snapped.

  “You! Grisla! You want a fight too, huh? You asked for one before! How about it?! We’ll settle this, once and for all.”

  Grisla frowned. “Brother Xinrei, I would be honored to take your request, however…”

  “I haven’t been feeling quite well lately.” he admitted.

Xinrei looked as if someone had called his mother a flavorful of insults, “Coward! My Patriarch, my request can’t be denied whatsoever! You said so! It is our tradition!”

The two boys, and all the Chosen looked to their Patriarch. Whose impartial face looked less than so. Grisla thought he was seeing things for a moment, a grin, a glance directed straight at him. But it was too short to ever be sure. The wise expert on his throne deliberated, and, in the time, it takes to brew tea, had his answer: “His request, shall not be denied. Chosen One, Grisla Orlith; Chosen Two, Xinrei Grittus…”

  “A duel is decided. Chosen Two’s claim, if victorious, will be honored. Chosen One will relinquish his title and be forced to take the one Xinrei abandoned.”

He was panic-stricken. There was something wrong in his body, and he didn’t know what, but it pervaded him the moment he awoke. If he didn’t find out what was going on and solved it, he will certainly feel the consequences of this. He had to speak out, “My Patriarch, it is in our code that the challenged has the right to set the conditions and time of the duel. I have to protest, currently I am not fit for—”

  “I’d have expected this, of a regular clansman,” the Patriarch growled, “but not my Chosen. You… are Chosen One of the Grittus clan. There are no suitable excuses, short of being wheelbarrowed as a corpse to our dueling floor.”

  “It is not just our village attending the coronation, but our vassals as well, neighbors and potential contacts that’ll help Leimuth’s aim. You’re proposing that I delay that because you might have a stomachache? Xinrei’s request is part of the coronation, whether you like it or not.”

  “Besides, what’re you worried about? You've just beaten my son, after all,” he chuckled, much to Xinrei’s chagrin.

When the formalities cleared, and the closed-door discussions were at an end; it was time to do the public crowning of Xinrei in front of all of Leimuth. The Patriarch stood, his son came to his side, smile beaming wide as if everything under heaven was meant to be from then on, and from so forth he was a dragon born again. Xinrei’s close allies within the Chosen followed behind as well, their allegiance to the clan—household Grittus—was a priority unchanged by the situation of today.

Should their commitment be valid, their rewards for their longstanding loyalty will not be slim. Grisla saw it in some of their eyes the moment Xinrei took hold of the spear. A fantastical dream to think they’ll be given something of equal value, but it needn’t be that, just only a sliver of a treasure like Xinrei’s, and they’ll be his forever.

As Grisla took sluggish steps down their grand staircase, that he was so eager to climb in a time that felt like a forever ago, the crowd of Leimuth—welcomed him. Their cries deafening coherent thought. To the side of him, Xinrei glowered.