Emperor's Reckoning

Chapter 1286: Old Man

As Lyon ascended the Pinnacle of Mortal, the crushing pressure around him seemed to fade into the background, replaced by the flicker of old memories. His steps slowed slightly, not from fatigue but as if something deep within him had been unlocked. He could almost feel the texture of the air shift, like stepping into a different time. The echoes of his past began to resurface.

The wind rustled through a field of tall grass, the sound of it like whispers carrying stories long forgotten. Leaves, brittle from the autumn chill, danced in the air as they were pulled from their branches. One particular leaf, golden and fragile, spiraled gently downward, carried by the breeze across the vast plain. It drifted between two figures—one a towering, broad-shouldered man, and the other, a bruised but smiling boy.

Lyon, no older than ten in this memory, stood with his feet firmly planted, though his body bore the marks of battle. His pants were torn, dust clinging to his scraped skin, and his small frame was bruised and battered. His left eye was swollen, nearly shut, and blood trickled from the corner of his lip. Yet his smile—crooked but confident—never wavered. He faced the man before him, the one with flowing red hair that seemed to burn under the sun. His opponent was a giant compared to the boy, his muscular frame carved like stone, every inch of him radiating power.

The man’s back bore a mark that would be immortalized in legends—the sword-shaped scar of the Wargod Physique. His chest heaved with slow, deliberate breaths, but his eyes, like molten fire, were locked onto the boy. His expression was unreadable—neither anger nor amusement, but something far more profound. A test. A lesson.

"You still smiling, kid?" the red-haired man asked, his voice deep and rough, yet carrying an undertone of respect.

Lyon spat blood to the side, wiping his swollen eye with the back of his hand, that familiar mischievous grin spreading wider. "I haven’t fallen yet, have I?"

The man’s fiery eyes narrowed, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You’re stubborn, I’ll give you that." He rolled his shoulders, the muscles rippling with the ease of someone who had spent a lifetime in combat, someone who knew his strength far surpassed the boy’s. Yet the man didn’t hold back. He never did.

The boy, Lyon, staggered slightly as the wind picked up, whipping through the plain. But his feet never left the ground. He never took a step back. His eyes, though bruised and swollen, were sharp, refusing to yield.

"You think you can handle the power, huh?" the red-haired man asked, his tone both teasing and sincere. "This power," he motioned toward the scar on his back, "isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s not something you earn by just getting up after a fall."

Lyon, even as a child, tilted his head and smirked defiantly. "Then it’s a good thing I never fall."

The man chuckled, the sound like distant thunder. "Cocky as ever."

Suddenly, the man’s fist flew forward, faster than lightning, and the next moment Lyon was sent flying backward, his small body hitting the ground hard. He tumbled, but even before the dust could settle, he was already pushing himself up, bloodied hands gripping the earth as he stood once more. His smile, despite the pain, never faded.

"Come on," Lyon taunted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "is that all you’ve got?"

The red-haired man’s smile finally broke through, a proud grin as he strode toward Lyon once more. "Alright, brat. Let’s see if you can still smile after this."

The wind howled around them, the golden leaf still spiraling between them. But for Lyon, even as the blows rained down, there was no fear, no retreat. Only resolve.

As the memory played out in his mind, Lyon, now fully grown, climbed the Pinnacle of Mortal with the same stubborn determination. His footsteps were steady, unyielding, as if that boy from the past had never left him. The pressure of the mountain, once overwhelming to others, felt familiar—like an old friend. He had been here before, in spirit. He had faced something far greater than this long ago.

The fight between the young Lyon and the towering red-haired man continued unabated. As the golden leaf that once danced between them touched the ground, day shifted to dusk, casting long shadows across the grassy plain. The sun’s warm hues faded, and soon, the sky was draped in the cool tones of night. Yet, the two figures remained locked in battle, their fists colliding, kicks exchanged, and bodies bruised, but neither willing to relent.

Each strike was met with resistance, each fall was answered with a rise. Lyon, though small, was relentless. His swollen eye barely opened, and his breaths came in ragged gasps, yet his resolve was like steel. Across from him, the man, the possessor of the Wargod Physique, was unyielding as well. His broad frame remained tense, every blow thrown with the weight of an entire mountain, yet he too, did not falter.

The night sky, with its countless stars, watched over their endless duel. The moon’s pale light bathed the field, casting silver streaks across their scarred bodies. But still, they fought. The only sound that filled the air was the thud of fists against flesh, the shifting grass under their feet, and their heavy breathing.

Dusk gave way to dawn, and as the sun slowly rose again, neither fighter had moved from the battlefield. Lyon’s body ached, bruised from head to toe, yet his grin persisted. He wiped the sweat from his brow with a trembling hand, his gaze unwavering, still meeting the fierce, burning eyes of his opponent. The red-haired man, though clearly stronger, showed no signs of fatigue either. His fists were just as fast, just as brutal as when they started.

Seasons began to change. The warm breeze of summer gave way to the crisp chill of autumn. The once-green field was now littered with falling leaves, swirling in the same wind that brought the cold of winter. Yet Lyon and the man never paused, never took a break. Through the heat of summer, the biting cold of winter, they continued. It was a fight beyond time, one that had no need for rest.

The man’s voice broke the silence once again, gruff but edged with a trace of admiration. "You’re still standing, huh? After all this?"

Lyon wiped a trail of blood from his lip, his voice shaky but steady. "I told you... I don’t fall."

The red-haired man smirked, a rare flicker of pride flashing across his face. "Stubborn brat."

The man lunged forward, his massive fist aimed directly at Lyon’s chest. But Lyon had grown over these countless hours, adapting, learning. He dodged at the last second, his body twisting with newfound agility, and countered with a punch of his own—one that landed square on the man’s jaw.

The impact reverberated through the air, a testament to how far Lyon had come. He didn’t have the strength or size of his opponent, but what he lacked in power, he made up for in tenacity.

The seasons continued their cycle, day turning to night, then to dawn again. Grass turned brown, then green once more. This was no ordinary training—it was something beyond, a clash of willpower, endurance, and unbreakable spirit. Neither spoke of surrender. Neither acknowledged the passage of time.

As snow began to fall, dusting their battered forms in white, Lyon’s eyes gleamed. His body had grown stronger, his movements sharper. He no longer looked like a mere child facing a mountain of a man. He was becoming something more. Something the red-haired man recognized with every punch Lyon threw.

"This is the purest form of training," the man murmured, his breath visible in the cold air. "No words. Just the will to stand."

Lyon, his lips cracked but still wearing that defiant grin, nodded. "You’re gonna have to try harder if you want me to fall."

The red-haired man laughed, the sound like a distant roar of thunder. "Brat, I might just be proud of you after all."

Their fists collided once more, sending shockwaves through the plain, scattering the snow beneath their feet. Neither one had yet claimed victory, but in the heart of their unending battle, something far more important was taking place—a forging of spirit, a bond of respect.

And as they continued to fight, the seasons shifted around them, but nothing, not even time, could stop them.

He smiled to himself, the echo of the red-haired man’s voice still fresh in his ears.

"I never fall," Lyon whispered under his breath, the grin on his face the same one he had worn all those years ago.

As Lyon opened his eyes, a familiar smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth. He was no longer the bruised, ten-year-old boy, but a grown man—strong, sharp, and seasoned by countless battles. Yet here he stood, face-to-face with the same figure from his memories, the one who had shaped his path.

Before him, the Red-Eyed Tiger stood in all its terrifying glory. No longer the man with fiery red hair, but now in its beastly form—an immense creature, muscles rippling beneath its striped coat, with burning red eyes that pierced through the dense mist surrounding them. The tiger’s massive paws rested on the flat pedestal atop the mountain, its tail flicking with the restrained power of a predator ready to pounce.

Lyon’s eyes glinted with recognition, a mixture of nostalgia and excitement swelling inside him. The tiger’s lips curled back, revealing sharp, deadly fangs, and its growl echoed through the mountain, like the howl of the forest itself. The very air trembled as the beast exhaled, its breath as cold as the winds that whipped around them.

The Red-Eyed Tiger’s voice, deep and growling, broke the silence. "Brat."

The single word carried the weight of years—of the brutal training, the endless fights, the unspoken bond they had formed through blood and sweat. Lyon’s smirk widened as he relaxed his stance, standing tall and confident before the beast.

"Old man," Lyon responded with a playful tone, though his gaze remained sharp.