Chapter 20: Whispers of Revenge

The courtyard was still as Luo Ren's unconscious body was carried away by his fellow disciples. The air was thick with tension, the once-mocking expressions on Zhao Feng's group replaced with something colder—resentment.

Jackim remained standing, his breathing uneven, his knuckles still aching from the fight. But his eyes never left Zhao Feng, who had yet to leave completely.

Han stepped forward. "Zhao Feng, take your men and go. The fight is over."

Zhao Feng's lips curled slightly. "Yes, Master Han. The fight may be over, but the war has just begun."

Jackim didn't react to the words, but he knew their meaning well.

Zhao Feng turned, his black robes flowing behind him as he departed with his disciples. But before vanishing past the courtyard gates, he cast one last glance at Jackim, his gaze filled with an unspoken warning.

Han sighed once they were gone. "You shouldn't have accepted the fight."

Jackim wiped sweat from his brow. "Why?"

Han looked at him seriously. "Because you just made an enemy of the Zhao family."

Jackim frowned. He had heard of the Zhao family before. Wealthy. Influential. Ruthless. Their influence extended far beyond just martial arts—business, politics, underground dealings.

And now, they had set their eyes on him.

---

That night, as Jackim lay on the wooden floor of the training hall, he replayed the fight in his mind.

He had won.

But barely.

Luo Ren was one of many. If Zhao Feng returned with someone stronger, could he handle it?

His muscles ached, his ribs bruised from Luo Ren's initial strikes. He wasn't strong enough. Not yet.

As he stared at the ceiling, lost in thought, Han's voice broke the silence.

"You need a proper weapon."

Jackim turned his head. Han stood by the door, arms crossed.

"A weapon?" Jackim asked.

Han nodded. "Your fists won't always be enough. You need something that fits you. Tomorrow, we're going to find it."

Jackim sat up. "Where?"

Han smirked. "A place where only the strong dare to go."

---

The next day, Jackim followed Han through the streets of the city. It was early morning, but the markets were already bustling. The scent of roasted meat mixed with incense, the sound of merchants shouting their prices filling the air.

But this wasn't their destination.

Han led Jackim past the crowded streets, through narrow alleys, down stone staircases that descended beneath the city itself.

They arrived at a place unlike anything Jackim had ever seen.

A hidden market. Dark. Underground. Dangerous.

The people here weren't ordinary merchants—they were fighters, assassins, mercenaries.

Weapons of all kinds were displayed on stone tables—swords, daggers, staffs, whips, throwing needles, some so intricate they looked like treasures, others so crude they seemed made for war itself.

Jackim's eyes scanned the market, feeling the weight of the place. He didn't belong here.

Yet.

Han walked ahead, motioning for him to follow. "Pick something."

Jackim hesitated. "What if I choose wrong?"

Han smirked. "Then you die in battle."

Jackim sighed and moved forward.

His fingers brushed against different weapons—too heavy, too light, too unfamiliar. None of them felt right.

Until—

His hand stopped on a pair of twin short blades.

Not too long, not too short. The balance perfect.

He lifted them, testing the weight.

Something about them felt natural.

Han raised an eyebrow. "Interesting choice."

Jackim twirled one blade, testing the grip. "I think… these are the ones."

Han chuckled. "Then let's see if you can use them."

---

Trouble Finds Him

As they were about to leave the underground market, a voice stopped them.

"Well, well… what do we have here?"

Jackim turned.

A group of four men, dressed in fine but slightly worn robes, stood near the exit. Their leader was a young man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw, his eyes sharp and calculating.

"You're the one who humiliated Luo Ren, aren't you?" the scarred man asked, stepping closer.

Jackim didn't reply.

Han tensed beside him. "Zhao Feng sent you?"

The man chuckled. "You could say that. My name is Wei Jin. And I don't like nobodies thinking they're somebody."

Jackim exhaled, gripping the twin blades tighter. He had just chosen his weapon—now he was about to be forced to use it.

Wei Jin lunged first.

Jackim barely dodged, bringing up one of his blades.

Clang!

Metal struck metal as Wei Jin's curved dagger met Jackim's short blade.

Jackim countered immediately, using the second blade in his off-hand to strike. Wei Jin twisted away, grinning.

"You've got good instincts. But that won't be enough."

The other three men joined the fight.

Jackim's heart pounded. He was outnumbered.

But he wasn't alone.

Han moved like a shadow, disarming one opponent in a single strike.

Jackim focused on Wei Jin.

The man moved fast, his dagger aiming for weak points—Jackim's ribs, his throat, his knees.

But Jackim had been training.

And for the first time—he had weapons that felt like an extension of himself.

As Wei Jin thrust forward, Jackim didn't retreat.

He parried, twisted his body, and—

Slash!

A thin cut appeared on Wei Jin's cheek.

The young man touched the wound, eyes widening in shock.

Jackim had drawn first blood.

Wei Jin's grin disappeared.

"You'll regret that," he hissed.

Jackim smirked.

"Then come make me regret it."

---