The Retired Young Mercenary Is Secretly a Billionaire-Chapter 60: The 5 Ancient Clans!!

The narrow garden path was quiet, lined with tall bamboo swaying gently in the breeze. The gravel beneath Miles’s boots crunched softly as he walked beside Clarissa. They passed a tranquil koi pond, crossed under a wooden archway adorned with red ribbons, and reached an open clearing surrounded by stone lanterns and flowering trees.

Then—Miles stopped.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning the shadows between the bamboo thickets.

"...Seriously?" he said, almost exasperated. "Come on. Don’t hide now."

From the foliage, six figures stepped out silently—dressed in lightweight training robes, their movements disciplined and balanced. The moment they appeared, they dropped into traditional martial arts stances—fluid, focused, and ready.

Clarissa chuckled and gracefully stepped to the side, arms folded. "Don’t look at me. I told them not to, but they insisted."

Miles sighed deeply. "Of course they did."

The wind paused as if holding its breath. Then—without warning—the first fighter surged forward, low and fast. Miles sidestepped, caught the man’s wrist, twisted, and used his momentum to throw him over his shoulder. The man hit the grass hard but rolled back to his feet.

The second and third came next—together. One high, one low. A spinning kick aimed for Miles’s shoulder while the other tried to sweep his legs. Miles dropped, planting one hand to the ground, letting the high kick pass over him, then kicked outward into the leg of the sweeping attacker. The man stumbled. Miles flipped himself back upright and parried a rapid punch aimed at his jaw.

His expression was calm. Relaxed, even. But his hands moved with surgical precision—blocking, deflecting, countering.

The fourth fighter was more aggressive—striking with fast elbows and knees, classic Tiger style. Miles absorbed two hits to his arm before ducking inside the guard and delivering a clean strike to the ribs with the side of his palm. The man dropped to one knee.

The fifth and sixth didn’t wait.

They approached together, one moving like a serpent—flowing and evasive—while the other used compact, powerful strikes. Miles narrowed his eyes. These two weren’t here to test him. They were trying to push him.

"Alright," he muttered. "Let’s dance."

The serpent-style fighter threw a flurry of feints, forcing Miles to backstep. But Miles didn’t bite. He pivoted, grabbed the man’s sash as he passed, and threw him against the other fighter—knocking both slightly off balance.

Then, for a moment, everything paused. All six surrounded him again, bruised but smiling. They were testing—not harming. This was tradition. Challenge. Respect.

Miles cracked his knuckles. "Again?"

They nodded.

This time, it was faster. Two of them attacked in tandem from behind, one locking Miles’s arm while the other went for a leg sweep. Miles jumped slightly, planted a foot on one attacker’s knee, and vaulted backward, twisting in the air and landing behind them.

Clarissa clapped once from the side, enjoying the spectacle.

"Show-off," she muttered, smirking.

Miles threw a backhanded strike, clipped one man’s jaw, ducked under a punch, and followed up with a palm to the sternum. His style blended several schools—Shaolin flow, Wing Chun’s close combat, and even military Krav Maga. But what made it deadly was his timing. He saw two moves ahead, reading stances like books.

After another brief clash, Miles stepped back. The six stood panting around him, their clothes dusty, bruises already forming—but each of them bowed in respect.

Clarissa walked back into the circle, shaking her head.

"You always make it look easy."

Miles exhaled. "They’re good. Better than before. One day they’ll actually knock me down."

One of the fighters—youngest of the six—spoke between gasps. "We just wanted to know... if the stories were true."

Miles smiled faintly. "The stories are exaggerated."

Then he offered a hand to the fighter he first threw to the ground.

"Good form on that entry. You’re quick."

The young man grinned and took the hand.

Clarissa raised an eyebrow, amused. "Welcome back to the mountain, Patriarch."

Miles laughed. "Don’t call me that."

They turned and continued walking deeper into the garden path, the fighters standing tall behind them—faces marked with pain, pride, and admiration.

The legend of Ghost was no myth.And now, it had returned to the mountain.

The grand meeting hall of the mountain residence was built with heritage and reverence in every beam. Towering wooden pillars, hand-carved with the intricate symbols of flame and rebirth, held up a ceiling painted in sweeping murals of ancient battles, phoenixes rising from ash, and great martial arts legends of the past. On either side of the hall, massive windows framed the endless horizon—where mountains met the ocean, their mist curling like dragons in the sky.

A long rectangular dais of polished obsidian marked the central floor, and above it, arranged in a crescent-shaped arc, sat eleven ornate wooden chairs, each gilded with crimson and gold. In those chairs sat the Elders of the Phoenix Clan—keepers of the ancient traditions, masters of martial arts, and witnesses to generations of succession. Each elder wore a robe bearing the flame sigil of the clan, and most had long white hair or beards, though their eyes were sharp and ever watchful.

At the center, slightly elevated, sat Ryomen Kaien—Clarissa’s father and former patriarch of the Phoenix Clan. His presence commanded respect not through size, but through the weight of his aura. His broad shoulders were draped in a ceremonial mantle, and the narrow scar over his left brow was said to be from the final trial he undertook when he stepped down in favor of his daughter’s rise. His eyes sparkled with a mischievous sharpness as he saw who had entered.

Clarissa stepped forward first, standing tall beside Miles, her posture proud, like a flame that refused to flicker. Miles took a respectful step ahead, bowing with a grace that blended warrior discipline with cultural reverence.

"Miles Sterling greets the Elders of the Phoenix Clan."

There was a moment of silence, then a ripple of approving nods. One of the elders—an ancient man with sunken eyes and a deep voice—murmured, "The young lion returns."

Kaien leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the carved phoenix heads at the edge of his chair.

"Welcome back to the mountain, boy. I heard you’ve been wandering in the human world... Tell me—did city life make you rusty?"

Before Miles could answer, Clarissa let out a light, mocking laugh. "Rusty, you say, father? He just threw your six favorite disciples into the koi pond. One even landed in a tree."

Kaien coughed awkwardly, pretending to adjust his sleeve. "Well... Perhaps they needed the reminder."

Another elder—an old woman with braided silver hair—smiled faintly. "A phoenix always returns to fire, not ash."

Kaien stood and stepped down from his seat, placing a hand over his heart in the traditional gesture of the clan. "You’ve brought your family here for a peaceful vacation, and that is something we welcome with open arms. You are our future Patriarch, and your family is the family of the Phoenix Clan. Our homes, our kitchens, and our hearts are open to them."

Miles nodded, visibly moved by the warmth. "Thank you, Elder Kaien. I won’t forget this."

Kaien’s voice deepened as he stepped back to his chair. "But you’re not here just for the ocean and the sunrise, are you? Let’s speak about what really matters."

The hall darkened slightly as a servant closed the heavy double doors.

"You must already know," Kaien said, "of the Five Ancient Clans."

Miles straightened his posture. "I read the story in the clan archives. The Martial Arts Ancestors created five clans and scattered them across the world to preserve the arts and protect the balance. The Kraken Clan, the Sylph Clan, the Snow Women Clan, the Raijū Clan, and the Phoenix Clan."

One of the elders—an aged man with a cane carved from lightning-struck wood—tapped the floor once. His voice was gravelly.

"That is no myth, boy. The five clans still live, breathe, and train in secrecy. And every five years, the Succession Contest is held between the five. The victor leads the council of clans for the next five years under the title... Clan Supreme."

Miles raised an eyebrow. "The last winner... was the Snow Women Clan?"

Kaien nodded. "Yes. You’ve already met their current Clan Supreme."

Miles blinked. "Wait... that old woman from the groom selection ceremony? That was her?"

The hall broke into quiet chuckles. One elder coughed, trying to hide her grin.

"Indeed. She might look frail, but don’t be fooled. Her frost once stopped an avalanche. She’s colder than death and twice as cunning."

Miles folded his arms. "Well... noted."

Clarissa leaned in, whispering, "You made a decent impression last time. Try not to get frozen this time."

Kaien clapped his hands once, sharply. "The contest will be held here, on our mountain, two days from now. It will last for two days—five matches to prove worth. Whether you win or lose, we expect the performance worthy of a Patriarch."

Miles smirked. "And why are we assuming I won’t win?"

Another elder cleared her throat. "We didn’t say that. We simply said... perform. That’s all the fire we ask for."

Kaien stepped forward again, a softer look in his eyes. "Miles... We don’t care for victory as much as we care for fire. Let your flames speak. Burn as brightly as you wish."

Miles nodded once. "Then I’ll fight."

Kaien extended a hand and clasped Miles’s forearm. "Good. Now go. The sun’s about to set, and you have family waiting to see stars."

Miles bowed again, Clarissa doing the same.

As they exited the great hall, the elders sat in silence—watching them leave.

"He walks with the strength of fire," one murmured.

"No," Kaien whispered. "He walks with the shadow of a phoenix who never died."

The most uptodat𝓮 n𝒐vels are published on (f)reew𝒆(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦