Lost of Pride but no grief.

Majestic couldn't believe what he had just heard. He was in complete denial... but not for his brother's death. 

"He died??!!. No, this can't happen.." he murmured, his voice a mixture of disbelief and frustration. His sharp gaze fixed on the messenger, searching for any sign of doubt. 

"Are you sure it was him??" Majestic inquired, gripping the messenger's shoulders tightly. 

"We are certain, sir. You should see for yourself." 

Majestic let go abruptly. Without wasting a second, he turned and rushed to pack his equipment. Every movement was sharp, efficient—there was no hesitation. He didn't bother with extra supplies, only what was needed. 

Within minutes, he was on his horse. The cold wind bit at his face, but he didn't feel it. 

Hours passed in a blur. He reached the town gates, slowing his horse slightly as he caught his breath. 

"It's not him. It can't be him." 

He whispered the words under his breath, almost like a prayer, as if saying them enough times would make them true. But then... his eyes landed on the town square. 

In the distance, barely visible through the falling snow, was a body tied to a pole. A severed head hung above it, lifeless and cold. The sight made his chest tighten, his fingers curling into fists. 

Majestic walked forward, his steps slow but heavy, each one more reluctant than the last. The market was silent, yet he could feel the weight of the townspeople's gazes on him. 

None of them knew who he was. But they all felt the storm he carried. 

As he reached the center, the truth was undeniable. The face staring back at him—frozen in death, covered in streaks of blood—was Majestir. 

Majestic stopped. 

For a long moment, he just stared. 

Then, his hand shot forward, tearing a note from the body with such force it nearly crumpled. His eyes darted across the words. 

"Send someone stronger…" 

His breath hitched. His face turned red—not from sorrow, but from uncontainable fury. 

"This cannot happen. No. This must be a dream." 

He muttered, his voice low and dangerous. Then, suddenly, he slammed his forehead against the pole. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Three times. 

The impact echoed through the silent square, but he didn't care. 

"How can someone I trained... die?? Especially my own brother?" 

His fists clenched. His nails dug into his palms, but the pain was nothing compared to the boiling rage within him. 

Disbelief consumed him, but not a single trace of grief surfaced. 

"This is not possible. My disciples cannot be killed. He didn't train." 

He froze. 

Then, his eyes widened. A twisted realization crept in. 

"Ohhhh... He didn't train." 

A slow, eerie chuckle escaped his lips. His breathing became erratic. 

"I knew it. I knew it. I knew it!!" Majestic suddenly roared, his voice shaking the silence as he struck his brother's body, sending snow cascading off it. 

The watching crowd flinched, but no one dared to intervene. 

"I am the greatest warrior! My disciples can never lose!" His voice was filled with conviction, but also desperation—an attempt to reaffirm his own reality. "This guy was never my disciple. He ignored my teachings. He was weak! He didn't practice!" 

Majestic's gaze locked onto his brother's frozen face, and suddenly, memories flooded in. 

More than fifteen years ago. 

Majestir was six. Majestic was eight. 

Majestic stood over him, gripping a wooden sword, his expression stern and unyielding. 

"Again," he commanded. 

Majestir, small and trembling, barely held his own wooden sword up before Majestic struck him—over and over, forcing him to block, forcing him to endure. 

"You will not shame the name we carry." 

Every day, Majestic woke him at dawn, always at six. 

Majestir never wanted to wake up. 

But Majestic made sure he did—with a swift kick that sent him tumbling out of bed. 

They trained and trained everyday. 

All this hard training, left marks on Majestir's body and the pain he felt everyday was unbearable, but he couldn't dare say anything to Majestic. 

After intense training for years, One day an old man came into their town and saw both of them training. 

While they didn't care to look at him, he was impressed. 

"Would you like to train under a really good warroir and become one yourself?" Said the old man with a gentle smile on his face 

Both of their faces turned to look at him. 

"Train? Under you?" Majestic said without any fear and a mocking tone "I could knock you down with this sword" he added. 

"OHOO.... I am impressed." The old man replied "You won't be training under me but the best warrior i have. If you wish to become great and make a name for yourself come to me" 

"Why should I believe you?? After all you could be lying and it is highly possible that this is just a joke you old fart are playing. "Majestic said while walking towards the old man.. 

"I appreciate your concern" The old man said while leaning. 

"Why don't you fight him then?" The old man added while revealing a young boy of Majestic's age. 

Majestic agreed and both of them stood face to face. 

"Pick up a sword" Majestic ordered. 

But the young kid didn't move and took stance with his hands. 

Majestic seeing this couldn't just stop himself and lashed at him with a strike that was dodged by the young kid easily. 

However, before he could follow up with another attack, The other kid delivered a karate chop on his chin that made Majestic unconscious almost instantly. 

Majestir instantly fetched water and sprayed it on Majestic in a state of worry. 

As soon as, Majestic woke up, he ran towards the old man and introduced himself. 

"Take me with you" he added. 

"are you sure?? What about your brother??" The old man inquired. 

"He is weak, i will train him myself" 

"Majestir train everyday, so when I come back. I will train you again you are worthy of the title of Majestic's Brother". 

To which Majestir nodded. 

"Who are you old man" Majestic asked while following him. 

"I am soist. I make good warriors great and great warriors best" 

"Let me get my stuff and say good bye to everyone in my family, Soist old man" Majestic ran off while saying this. 

A few years later.... 

Majestic came back to the town, his steps steady as he walked through the streets he once knew. The town had changed—new buildings stood tall where old ones once were, the market was busier, and the streets were filled with more people than before. He looked around, admiring how much everything had developed in his absence. 

As he walked, something caught his attention. A familiar figure stood in the distance. 

Majestir. 

He was completely different from before. His appearance had changed, his posture more composed, his presence more solid. He no longer looked like the boy Majestic had once known. 

A grin spread across Majestic's face as he stepped forward. 

"OHHH, You've grown, Majestir...." he said, his voice loud and filled with pride. 

Majestir turned, his eyes widening for a moment before softening. 

"Oh, Brother... Welcome. It's nice to see you." He replied with a small smile, though his tone carried caution. 

Majestic didn't waste time. 

"Come with me, and you will become my first disciple now." He ordered, his voice leaving no room for argument. 

Majestir hesitated for a second but nodded. Without another word, both of them left the town, making their way toward the mountain. 

The climb was silent, the cold air brushing against their skin as they stepped higher and higher. But just as Majestir was about to ask something, Majestic suddenly attacked. 

Majestir barely had time to react. 

"Big brother, wait! You are much stronger now, I can't fight you like this!" he shouted, while trying to defend himself. 

Majestic didn't answer. Each strike landing harder than the last, he continued. 

Majestir struggled, dodging when he could, but the fight was completely one-sided. For hours, Majestic continued his assault, testing Majestir's endurance, his patience, and his willpower. 

After hours of training, Majestic stopped. 

Majestir could barely stand, his body aching from the pain. 

"That's it for today. Go back home and come back tomorrow in the morning. And if you don't, I will beat you up." Majestic ordered. His tone was calm but absolute. 

Without another word, he turned and left, leaving Majestir to deal with the pain alone. 

Majestir gasped, struggling to regain his strength. Every part of his body hurt. Every step he took sent pain through his limbs. 

Dragging his feet, he slowly made his way back home. The walk that normally took minutes now felt like hours. When he finally reached his house, he collapsed onto his bed, unable to do anything but endure the pain. 

The next morning, the aches were unbearable. He couldn't move properly, and no matter how much he forced himself, his body refused to obey him. 

But Majestic wasn't one to be kept waiting. 

Storming into the house, he didn't say a word before grabbing Majestir and beating him mercilessly. 

This became routine. 

Day after day, year after year, Majestic trained him the same way—forcing him to endure pain, to fight despite exhaustion, to obey without question. There was no kindness, no comfort—only discipline and power. 

But as time passed, something changed. 

One day, Majestir was approached by Soist, a man who saw potential in him. 

Soist offered him a role—the same as Majestic's, a position of power and leadership, but in a few years. 

Majestir listened. He thought about it. 

And then he agreed. 

From that moment, he no longer followed. He started gathering his own disciples, ones he could teach, ones who would obey him. 

He had endured years of pain. Now, it was his turn to give orders.