Image above is a double-edged sword.

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The square stone floor in the courtyard was promptly cleared, and a chair was brought out on which Master Wu Xia sat, still flanked by his two students.

To his right sat the round spectacle man from before. He sat behind a table, organising papers and brushes.

Weapon racks were rolled out and everything from daggers and staffs to needles and axes were laid out on the left.

The elimination system was simple. Out of the hundreds of us here today, only the 50 with the highest marks would remain in the competition. Marks were awarded based on speed, accuracy, and ability. At the end of the three stages, those that didn't cut the ranks would be cut. Usually there were only 12 accepted, but if someone extremely talented was cut out, they would make an exception, and if one of the 12 was below the academy standard, they would be cut regardless. 12 out of hundreds. My body sparked with anticipation at the challenge.

The courtyard grew lively as boys and men alike spoke animatedly in all different dialects, stretching and preparing for combat. 

The spring sun was rising towards its peak, casting golden rays upon the wooden board besides the weapons rack. The names list was pasted on and people crowded around, mumbling, grumbling or grinning.

Being an awful lot shorter than the rest, I tried elbowing my way through the crowd, only to be pushed right back out.

"I think we're better off waiting," said someone behind me.

I turned to look at the gangly boy. He had medium to short length hair the colour of caramel and looked to be about 16-17.

"The joys of being short," i grumbled as i approached him, "you look really young, where are you from?" I asked.

"Talk about yourself. You can't be more than 15 years old? I'm from the South, a small village. You've probably never heard of it."

"What? I don't look that young do I? I mean, i know i'm smaller than the rest of you, but see my face? This is the face of a mature 17 year old," i said, waving my hand slightly at my face.

"Mature people don't say 'i'm so mature'," he grinned. He looked adorable, like he'd just gotten out of bed and had been given the best breakfast in his life.

I couldn't resist, I grinned back.

"What number are you?" I asked.

"288, you?"

"Damn, how many people are there? I'm 67. Hey, we're around the same height and build. Maybe we'll be partnered up."

"There aren't any partners here. Before we're selected, we're all competitors. Be careful when you're out on the street. While they can't do anything to us while we're within these walls, outside is a bloodbath. Eliminating potential threats and all," he warned, a hard gleam set in his eyes.

"But don't worry, i mean, i'm sure no one'll view you as a threat. You're so small and thin," he chuckled.

"Sure, make fun of the small kid. You won't be laughing when my knife is in your gut," i retorted. 

He laughed.

Maybe his cadid way of talking came from down south. After all, in the capital, everyone watched their tongues. He was fun. He was different.

The crowd finally began to thin just as the first numbers were called out, "114 and 35. Choose your weapons. And no cheering until all the auditions are over."

I traced a finger down the paper until it reached 67, then slid it across till it pointed at the number 300.

"I'm 300," I said.

"I'm 40," the gangly boy replied.

"Hey, i still don't know your name."

"It's Jack Newman."

"Oh, well I'm Justin Bently," I replied, and slapped him on the back. A mischievous smile crept up my face. "Hey, you want to learn how the capitals really greet each other?" I asked.

"Sure," he said as we made our way towards the cherry blossom tree.

I leant into him and whispered, biting my cheek in an attempt to hold in my laugh. When he turned to face me, I schooled my expression into my dad's serious face.

His eyes roved my face and his bushy eyebrows crinkled. "Really?"

"Yeah, it's honestly not that weird once you get used to it. When in Rome, do as the Romans do."

He looked at me with suspicion, but it slowly trickled away when i didn't crack my serious facade.

The two boys on the stone pavement were twisting and turning in a dance of steel. The darker haired one had chosen a mace, while the other twirled his nun-chucks with frightening speed.

"Do you know anyone else here?" I asked Jack.

"Do you think a little boy all the way from the South would know these capital pricks?"

"Don't you venture outside of your village?"

"Bandits." Was his curt reply.

I looked around the sea of colours at the other competitors, and a tall guy dressed in pine green silk struck me. He had skin as smooth and fair as fine jade, and his supple lips moved seductively as his head turned to talk to his companions. Two other guys, one clad in purple, and one in light green exchanged conversation with him. He had his arms crossed, and a matching pine green ribbon on his forehead. Dark brown hair lusciously flowed down his head and shifted in the spring breeze. He seemed self-assured as he and his companions assessed the two fighting, nodding occasionally as his eyes pinned the fighters.

I wanted to be the one he pinned with those dark green eyes. And maybe not just let his eyes pin me. I saw him shoving my arms above my head with one hand, and pinning my hips to the rough wall behind me with his groin, a hardness growing into my stomach as his eyes shuttered. Eyes, which now were looking at me. I turned my head away sharply. I felt my face heating up. Hopefully he hadn't noticed I was staring at him for longer.

"AARGGH!" A scream ripped through the air, followed by a shocked gasp from the onlookers.

The dark-haired boy's mace was smashed into the other boy's hand, splintering and fracturing his bone.

"I concede," he yelled out. 

The tears streaming down his face mixed with the sweat coating his skin, and his face gleamed bright red under the hot early afternoon sun.

A 40 year old man with a white hat on his head rushed forward and brought the boy off the square.

"Number 35 pass," exclaimed the scholar with the golden glasses, "next, number 1 and number 53. Make your way to the square and choose your weapons."

The brown-haired guy from before stepped forward, the dark green silk of his robe gliding smoothly across his strong build.

At the same time, a burly man with rusty brown hair knotted in a bun sauntered towards the weapons rack from the left. His body could easily belong to a 30 year old, what with all the corded muscle. He looked like a wall of muscle. But his crooked nose and deepset eyes could have easily belonged to a 20 year old. He was handsome in a rugged kind of way.

"That what your bandits look like?" I joked.

"Yeah, but meaner. Who do you think's going to win?"

The dark haired guy strode to the weapons rack and picked up a sword. He weighed it with his right hand, then swung it through the air a few times, delivering several clean, powerful slices. 

"He looks like he can fight really well with a sword," i observed.

But seemingly unsatisfied, he placed it back on the rack, and picked out a double-edged sword instead. 

Tricky. They could easily injure you as much as the opponent. People had to train for the better part of their life to wield one.

He tested it out in the same way, then walked to the centre of the square, each stride of his legs and swing of his arm even and strong.

"This is going to be a good fight," quirked Jack.

I nodded, smiling, just as the burly man stalked forward like an emu, with a mace gripped in his left hand. His short sleeves revealed thick, sun-burned arms, from which veins surfaced when he pumped his right hand, ready for the fight.

"Begin," said the scholar.

The two opponents put their hands together and slowly bowed. Then, before the green man had even straightened his back, the emu struck his mace at his head with the force of a typhoon. Aggressive, i thought, as I braced for the impact, but it never came. Instead, the green man ducked, and as the burly man spun back around, he whipped his sword out and aimed it at the burly man's throat. Checkmate.

"Number 1 pass."

The crowd murmured in excitement as the green guy walked off the square while the burly guy shot daggers at his retreating back.

Tournaments went by as i kept observing the surroundings. I soon came to the conclusion that among the guys here, those that could potentially become my competitors were very few. And out of those, only one seemed to pose any sort of threat, if at all. Standing next to the purple guy, he was so skinny it looked like he'd reached his growth spurt early and didn't have enough time to fill out. His face was painted in a calm expression, but there was a telltale bead of sweat running down his temple. He looked at me, and i winked. Don't worry, I'll go easy on you.

Before i knew it, I was up. I switched on my deadly calm and ignored everything that wasn't my opponent or myself.

Growth spurt over there came over next to me at the rack. He was only a couple cm taller than me and his pale face told me he'd been pampered for most of his life. When he reached for the pocket of needles, however, my smile faltered. Surely a pampered young lord like him wouldn't know how to wield needles? Surely. He pushed past me and grabbed the leather pocket. Then as he turned to leave, he gave me a returning wink. Unlike mine, it was mirthless.

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A/N:

Should i publish ch.5 today too?

What do you think's going to happen?

What do you want to happen?

Comment your ideas for what you want to happen, and I WILL CONSIDER writing them in!