Parallel Memory

Chapter 547: The showdon begins

The match had started. The crowd buzzed with anticipation, but just as the referee raised his hand to signal the beginning, Misha turned around, her calm expression breaking into a smirk as she looked at Hiro.

"Mind if I end this quickly?" she asked casually, her voice low enough for only him to hear.

Hiro blinked, surprised for a moment, but nodded with a grin, giving her a silent gesture of approval. He knew better than to doubt her.

Then Misha turned to face Vance, her voice loud and sharp now. "You’re not even a man, are you?" she mocked. "Using your guards to bully a little girl. Pathetic."

Her words echoed across the stage like a whip crack.

The audience erupted into laughter. Several soldiers and spectators whistled and jeered at Vance.

"Did she just say that?"

"She really went there."

"Damn, this is gonna be good."

Vance’s face flushed with frustration. His jaw tightened, and the veins on his neck bulged as he snarled. The laughter grated on him more than Misha’s words. He hated being the butt of a joke—especially in public. With a sharp hand gesture, he signaled his guards to back off.

"Tch. I don’t need anyone’s help to handle a brat," he growled. He knew he was a sub-rank higher than her—he had the advantage in cultivation and experience. There was no way he could lose. Not to her.

But still, her words stung.

To make things more interesting—and perhaps to humiliate her further—Vance smirked and raised his voice. "Let’s raise the stakes. If we lose, we’ll follow your orders for life. But if you lose, you become our lackeys."

There were gasps in the crowd. That wasn’t a small wager. Becoming someone’s lackey, even temporarily, meant giving up pride, obedience without question. It was humiliation.

Misha didn’t even blink. "Fine," she said, almost bored. "Not like we’d lose anyway."

With that, the referee dropped his hand, and the match officially began.

Vance didn’t waste a second. With a loud roar, he charged at her, invoking his family’s signature sword art—Level 6 Sword Art: Pride Hunter Style.

It was a high-level high passed down for generations in his household. It was said to be so sharp, so overwhelming, that one could slay an entire lion’s pride single-handedly, overwhelming a group with sheer speed and brute power or atleast that was what his predecessors had achieved.

Vance’s aura surged, his blade arcing down toward Misha with a ferocious cleave. The ground cracked beneath his momentum, his sword slicing the air like a guillotine.

But Misha didn’t flinch.

With a single step to the side, her figure shifted like a passing breeze. The heavy blade missed by inches. Before Vance could even recover from the swing, her eyes flashed cold.

"Too slow."

Her arm moved with fluid precision, her fingers gripping the hilt of her blade tightly as she invoked her family’s own martial style.

Shattering Flower Style – Second Bloom.

A Level 4 sword art—but honed and polished to near perfection. Her blade flashed upward in a subtle, elegant curve, striking directly at his unguarded abdomen.

Thud.

The impact echoed across the arena. Vance’s breath escaped him in a ragged gasp as his body was lifted off the ground. The blow sent him flying several meters across the stage. He hit the dirt hard, rolling until he came to a breathless, painful stop—covered in dust.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Murmurs turned into cheers. The arrogance on Vance’s face twisted into disbelief. He staggered back to his feet, red-faced and furious, brushing off the dirt like it was the only thing that had damaged him.

"Hah... Lucky shot," he spat, trying to hide his embarrassment.

Without waiting, he rushed again, this time unleashing a flurry of strikes—quick, consecutive blows with terrifying force behind each one.

But Misha met each strike calmly. Her blade danced like petals in the wind. Every swing of Vance’s sword was answered with a parry or sidestep. The ground echoed with the sound of steel clashing, yet it was Vance who slowly started losing ground.

Then, without warning, she ducked under one of his wild swings and struck again—this time with a spinning kick to his chest.

Crack.

The air left his lungs as he was thrown backward once more, landing on his back with a loud groan. This time, he didn’t rise immediately.

He could feel it—something was wrong. No matter how much strength he put in, how fast or hard he swung, she was faster. She was cleaner. She didn’t waste movements like he did.

How? he thought desperately, struggling to breathe. I’m stronger. Higher rank. Better art. How am I... losing?

"You’ve had it too easy," Misha said coolly, her sword resting lazily by her side. "Maybe all that rank and title made you sloppy."

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut deeper than her blade.

Her friends—Hiro, Zion, Lisa, and Sylvia—watched from the sidelines, stunned. They had always known Misha was talented, but they’d never seen her like this and yet they all knew she had more trump cards

There was fire in her eyes.

Ruthless. Cold. Precise.

"Misha..." Lisa murmured. "She’s angry."

"Really angry," Sylvia added, her arms crossed as she watched with an unreadable expression.

To them, this was a side of Misha that rarely surfaced. It wasn’t arrogance—it was fury. It was years of quiet effort, of being underestimated, now pouring out into every strike and word.

And the audience?

They were shocked. Many had assumed Misha was the weakest of the group—the girl following the stars of Golden generation . Now they watched her single-handedly dominate a match against someone stronger on paper.

"Maybe she’s not just pretty," one soldier whispered.

"She’s terrifying," said another, eyes wide.

Vance’s pride was crumbling. Still on one knee, he forced himself to stand, barely holding his sword up. Before he could charge again—

Bam!

A sudden impact struck Misha from the side, throwing her off balance.

She gritted her teeth, sliding back a few steps before regaining her stance. Her eyes widened as she spotted a figure emerging from the side of the stage—one of Vance’s lackeys.

A coward.

He couldn’t take the humiliation any longer. If Vance lost, then he’d have to serve people like Hiro and Zion—people he saw as low-borns, trash compared to the platinum guild elites. He couldn’t bear the thought of it.

"Get away from her!" Hiro shouted, stepping forward.

But Misha raised a hand, stopping him.

She steadied herself, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Looks like some of you really don’t know what honor means," she said, her voice quiet but heavy with menace. "You already are lackeys—and still acting like cowards."

The referee looked stunned, unsure whether to intervene since the rules agreed was on was teamfight and no rules were violated

But the damage had been done. The match, already charged with tension, had just crossed a line.

Vance stood shakily, eyes filled with renewed desperation and disbelief. His honor, already trampled, was now buried under Misha’s blade and the shame of cheating.

Misha narrowed her gaze, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her sword.

She wasn’t done yet.