“And the Qihuang Shin forces are preparing their supply routes,” another elder added, his hand moving gracefully as though casting a net that ensnares the truth. “If we do not act swiftly, Yamato will be trapped! We cannot let this come to pass!”
Nobuzan's father merely nodded slowly, his expression utterly unreadable. His eyes shifted to Fitran, who stood alone in the corner of the room, creating a stark divide between himself and the oppressive atmosphere surrounding them.
“You, foreign man,” Ayah Nobuzan's voice was hoarse yet filled with firmness. “You speak boldly in the presence of my child. But what can you offer to strengthen this fortress? Are your hands capable of wielding a sword?” He raised an eyebrow, awaiting a response, the deep-seated doubt evident on his face.
The room fell silent. All gazes turned towards Fitran. He took a breath, a faint smile spreading across his face, yet there was undeniable resolve behind it. “A sword,” he said, locking eyes with Ayah Nobuzan, “is merely a tool. What should protect this fortress is not gleaming steel, but a sharp mind that can chart every step with precision. That is what I bring with me.”
After delivering those words, his expression radiated confidence—a look so intense it seemed to pierce through the skeptical atmosphere that enveloped the room. He placed both hands, one on his chest and the other outstretched as if to grasp the essence of a mission far greater than mere physical combat.
Ayah Nobuzan struck his staff against the floor with a resounding thud; the noise reverberated through the silence of the hall. “You hold yourself in too high regard!” His voice was filled with authority, challenging, as if compelling everyone present to feel the weight of that assertion.
“This is not about arrogance,” Fitran replied in a calm tone, his eyes shining with conviction. “It is simply about the truth.”
An air of tension enveloped the atmosphere. The gathered crowd bowed their heads in respect, yet in their silence, they sensed a looming uncertainty. Nobuzan's father was an unwavering figure—like a mountain towering above, a head held high. Even Fitran recognized that this elder was the last bastion in the minds of the people, the solitary barrier dividing hope from despair.
Dawn began to creep toward the horizon, shrouding the city of Yamato in a thick white mist that radiated a sacred aura. At the heart of the sturdy fortress, a grand stone hall rose majestically, distinguishing itself among the ordinary wooden homes. Its roof was designed to resemble a coiling dragon, its maw gaping toward the east, as if eagerly awaiting the sun's gradual ascent. This was the Dragon's Altar, believed to be a resting place for the voices of the Oda ancestors, lying in wait to rekindle the spirits of fallen warriors.
Today, the hall was filled with elders, warriors, and common folk who gathered, stirring a blend of hope and tension in the air. All eyes were fixated on a singular point: awaiting the verdict from the stranger known as Fitran Fate—would he prove worthy to sit on the Yamato Council, alongside Nobuzan, who now seemed increasingly burdened by the fate that lay ahead.
In the center of the hall stood Oda Ryumaru, an aged figure with a silver beard, father to Nobuzan. With a sturdy black dragon staff in his hand, he struck it against the floor, sending vibrations through every corner of the space. His voice thundered, powerful and commanding: “Our ancestors watch with the eyes of dragons! No one shall take a seat on this council without passing this trial. Not even you, foreign man.”
Fitran stepped forward, his black cloak billowing gently, like a wisp of night sweeping across the floor. “I respect that rule, Ryumaru. And I am determined to face it, in my own way.” His face bore the mark of deep resolve, as if he vowed not just to himself but to every soul present in that hall.
A small cheer arose within the room, creating an atmosphere heavy with tension. Some faces twisted with cynicism, while others gazed with a deep sense of curiosity, as if awaiting an inevitable and crucial moment. In the corner, Nobuzan stood tall, his face pale yet his spirit clearly defiant, as if challenging any obstacle that lay in his path.
Ryumaru raised his hand gracefully, calling for the crowd's attention. “Enough!” His commanding voice cut through the turmoil sharply. From behind the altar, an elder with white hair stepped forward with a steady gait, holding a black wooden board adorned with spirals and the curling form of a dragon. With an intense, penetrating gaze, he appraised everyone present; his eyes sparkled with profound wisdom.
“This is a riddle from our ancestors,” Ryumaru explained, his voice resonating with authority, binding every ear in rapt attention. “Only those who truly understand the roots of Yamato can navigate through it. Listen carefully. One mistake, and everything could come to an end here.”
The elder, with a heavy and tremorous voice, began the reading:
“Three dragons spiral around the sun. The first dragon opens its eyes only in darkness.
The second dragon opens its mouth only in light.
The third dragon sleeps eternally.
Yet every thousand years, they unite, giving birth to a new world.
Who is the dragon that brings true light?”
The room fell silent, every pair of eyes fixed upon Fitran, waiting for the long-anticipated answer. The atmosphere thickened with stillness, only the rhythmic thump of heartbeats audible, intertwining with the tension. The elders, seasoned from various trials and watchful over many who had faltered in solving this riddle, observed with keen attention.
Fitran did not respond immediately. He closed his eyes for a moment, feigning contemplation, delving deep within himself. However, his thoughts raced rapidly. This is not merely about the dragons… it is about illusion, he thought intensely. They yearn for an answer that reflects an understanding of cycles, time, and hope emerging from the impossible.
With caution, he slowly opened his eyes. “The third dragon,” he declared firmly, his gaze sparkling with conviction. “The one that sleeps eternally.”
Gasps of shock spread among those present, as if awakening every spirit in the room. An elder approached, his brow furrowed in confusion, astonishment etched across his features. “Why have you chosen it?” he inquired, his voice trembling, reflecting the turmoil that surged within his heart.
Fitran glared sharply at Ryumaru, his eyes unblinking. “Because the first and second dragons are merely two sides of the same coin. Light and shadow,” he replied confidently, clenching his fists at his sides. “Yet it is only the third dragon—who has never awakened—that can give birth to something truly new. Sleeping forever carries the meaning of holding onto dreams that will never fade.” He took a deep breath, continuing, “And from that dream emerges true light.”
The room trembled, the cacophony of whispers from the elders filled the air, creating a tense atmosphere thick with significance. Some among them nodded slowly, their expressions reflecting an acknowledgment of a truth long buried. “That answer may not be inscribed in any tome, yet it will resonate clearly in our minds,” whispered one, responding to the unvoiced doubts lingering in their hearts.
Ryumaru slammed his staff down with fervor, the sharp crack of wood slicing through the air. “You speak with a sharp tongue,” he declared, his voice thrumming with an undeniable challenge. He stepped forward, his gaze as piercing as a blade, wholly fixated on Fitran. “Yet, mere words are insufficient. Ancestors do not merely test one’s tongue, but also the strength of their hands.”
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The altar courtyard suddenly became a stage for substantial wooden boards sprawled across the ground, resembling a game of chess but adorned with symbols of dragons, spirals, and suns that radiated a gentle glow. Two rows of wooden pieces stood meticulously arranged: red and black—a battle was poised to commence. Ryumaru regarded Fitran, his smile hinting at a challenge held in tension, awaiting a response.
“A duel of strategy,” Ryumaru stated firmly, his voice carrying the weight of authority that demanded attention. “You shall face me. Should you lose, you must depart Yamato. However, if you emerge victorious…” He shifted his gaze towards Nobuzan, then to the onlookers infused with hope. “…you will earn the right to sit on the council, though there remains the likelihood I shall refuse you.”
The crowd’s voices surged like a tempest, cutting through the charged atmosphere. They recognized Ryumaru as the master strategist of Yamato, undefeated for four decades. This acknowledgment ignited a blend of admiration and anxiety within their hearts.
Fitran lifted the corners of his mouth, displaying a subtle smile that hinted at tranquility yet at the same time posed an undeniable challenge. “Very well,” he declared with a steady voice filled with conviction. “Let us commence this game.” With a gentle yet firm motion, he placed his piece upon the board, as though etching destiny itself. Ryumaru, brimming with confidence, began by deploying his Winged Dragon formation, his forces coiling tightly like the tail of a serpent ready to strike. Fitran scrutinized his strategy intently before advancing his central piece by a single square. His breaths remained even, even though his heart raced, marking the tension that enveloped the atmosphere.
The elders whispered in the corner, their voices barely audible, “A feeble move.” Their brows furrowed as they evaluated the situation with skepticism, as if observing an alien creature entering their domain.
“Foolishness! He is but an outsider,” retorted another elder, waving his hand dismissively, as if to erase the thought from the minds of the others. Though the air in the room was thick with doubt, Fitran refused to be swayed by such uncertainty; he heard the whispers, yet chose to disregard them. Within his heart, he devised a layered plan, patiently awaiting the opportune moment. Let him underestimate me. Let that old dragon savor his fleeting victory. When the time comes and he is ensnared in his own overconfidence, I shall reveal the trap I have set.
Ryumaru moved his second force with unwavering resolve, his face appearing cold and resolute, forming a tight circle that radiated menace. Fitran, with careful precision, slid a small piece as if aimless; his eyes sparkled with a hidden fervor, plotting something far grander than mere visible moves.
The next ten steps unfolded at a startling pace. Ryumaru pressed on, his expression frigid and filled with determination, while Fitran held firm, erecting defenses with every ounce of patience he could muster. The cheers of the crowd reverberated each time Ryumaru “cornered” an opposing pawn; that cacophony seeped into Fitran's very soul, yet he remained composed, unshaken by the jubilation.
Yet, behind Fitran's calm gaze, his mind whirled, meticulously calculating every possibility. Each of his movements in shifting the small pieces toward the corner of the board was laden with thought, always mindful of the opponent's maneuvers while keeping his strategy tightly under wraps.
Nobuzan observed from the edge of the arena, his breath held, his heart racing. “He seems not to grasp the strategy of a dragon's game,” he thought with concern, “but that gaze... always suggests that Fitran is preparing something.” Nobuzan's hands suddenly felt icy, tension-laden tears streaming down his temples.
“You are like a rat!” Ryumaru raised an eyebrow, his tone dripping with blatant scorn, distancing himself as much as possible from arrogance. “You’ll only flee without power.” He grinned, the belief that victory was within his grasp further inflating his confidence.
Fitran merely shrugged, a flat smile gracing his face, “Rats can survive even when dragons starve.” His voice carried a firmness that struck at Ryumaru's pride, like an unexpected blow.
Step 20. Ryumaru's patience began to wane, urging his large contingent to the center of the board—as if determined to end this game in a heartbeat. The crowd roared, their cheers echoing with a triumphant fervor that felt ever-increasing. “Ryumaru wins! The foreign man will feel most embarrassed!” Each word sliced through the air like an arrow, piercing Fitran’s heart with an unexpected sharpness.
Yet, amid the clamor of victory, Fitran merely smiled faintly. With unwavering certainty, he moved a small piece in the corner of the board—and suddenly, a breathtaking spiral pattern began to take shape, where each previously insignificant piece now served as a marker of brilliant strategy. The path of attack now led directly to the center, creating a wave of unforeseen power.
The elder fell silent, his brow lifted high, his expression reflecting disbelief. “It… it’s an inverted spiral!” His voice trembled, filled with astonishment. Ryumaru, who had once stood defiantly with arrogance, now appeared momentarily stunned, his eyes narrowing with cynicism as he pierced through Fitran’s gaze with a look brimming with skepticism. “You…” The tone of his voice was heavy with incredulity, as if he felt crushed by a painful truth.
With one final stride laden with confidence, Fitran brought down Ryumaru’s primary dragon onto the board, and with a voice that was calm yet resonant with power, he proclaimed, “This game is over!”
Silence enveloped the room. Every eye was fixed upon the corner board, as if an enchanting force had suspended time itself. Then, surprised whispers began to sweep through the space. The sound echoed like thunder across a darkened sky, “No one has ever defeated Ryumaru using the Yamato strategy!” a young man shouted, his eyes ablaze with hope, his voice trembling with disbelief.
Fitran bowed his head for a moment, feeling the weight of the gazes fixed upon him. “The ancient dragon is formidable! Yet, a dragon too full of confidence, like you, forgets that currents do not always run straight,” he remarked with a thin smile playing on his lips. “There is always a winding path, waiting for the precise moment to strike!” His eyes shone with fervor, reflecting a burning resolve.
Ryumaru raised his staff resolutely, his expression stern while his eyes betrayed a bubbling fury. “You’ve achieved victory today, indeed! But remember, our ancestors are watching!” he shouted, his voice quaking, shaking the hearts of all who heard him.
The elder nodded, sensing the stillness beginning to envelop the space, transforming into whispers that flowed among the people. Slowly, the voice began to echo, proclaiming a singular phrase that must be heard: “Fitran… is worthy to sit on the council.”
Nobuzan exhaled a sigh of relief; his eyes brimmed with gratitude, despite the heaviness in his heart. He understood that Fitran was not merely winning in this game; he had just planted a flag at the very heart of Yamato, demonstrating that change is an inseparable part of fate.
Fitran looked at Ryumaru with a peaceful yet piercing gaze, as if peering directly into his soul. “I did not come here to steal your honor,” he said, his tone low yet filled with emotion, subtly challenging. “But this world is in a state of change. Only those who can comprehend the currents and transformations shall endure.”
Ryumaru stared intensely at him, pondering every word that slipped from Fitran's lips. “You are clever. Too clever for an outsider. I will watch your every move closely,” his voice turned cold, like the biting wind howling through the mountains at night.
Fitran gave a faint smile, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Observe me as much as you wish. I have already sown the seeds at your ancestral altar,” he said, confidence bubbling within him, gazing at Ryumaru with a challenge that blazed bright. “And from those seeds, only I know what shall sprout.” In every word spoken, there was an inevitable promise, a shadow of something greater and more dangerous yet to come.
That day, amidst the resounding call of the morning prayers, the people of Yamato witnessed something unexpected unfold before their eyes: Ryumaru, the unyielding symbol who had long stood firm as a pillar of hope, was successfully shattered by a foreign man. “I can’t believe it, this is impossible!” cried one observer, his eyes wide with panic. “Ryumaru cannot be defeated!”
Yet, despite the waning authority of Ryumaru still standing, the first cracks in the faith of his people began to show. With a sharp, fiery gaze full of courage, Ryumaru swore to defend the remnants of his honor, “I shall restore this dignity! Anyone who dares to stand in my way will feel my wrath!” He gripped his sword tightly, allowing an aura of magic to surround him, as if reflecting a spirit that would not be extinguished.
Amidst the cries of joy that filled the air, Fitran gazed at the sky, which gradually blushed with hues of dawn, as stars began to fade one by one. He watched the sunrise break into a splash of red and orange, seemingly depicting a new hope. The souls praying at the dragon altar seemed to whisper gently to his conscience. In his heart, he murmured, his eyes lost in the stillness of the night, “The first step has been taken. From the dragon altar to the council seat… and one day, from Yamato to the Sanctuary.”
His face wore a calm demeanor, yet a flash of burning ambition ignited in the depths of his eyes. In a fleeting moment, the image of a colossal dragon hovered in his mind, reminding him of an ancient ritual rich with symbolism and power. “Never underestimate the seed I have sown,” he added, his voice soft yet brimming with resolve, “The spiral road is now laid out before me, and in truth, I can feel the impact of every decision I make.”