The Retired Young Mercenary Is Secretly a Billionaire-Chapter 65: Let’s see you dodge this.

"Begin!" the host’s voice echoed across the arena.

Kaien cracked his neck and launched forward like a bullet, fists clenched, eyes sharp. His footwork was fluid, honed by years of training under the Kraken Clan. The sound of his rapid footsteps echoed over the stone tiles as he closed the distance between him and Miles.

Miles didn’t even flinch.

As Kaien threw the first punch, Miles tilted his body slightly to the left—just enough to let the blow brush past his shoulder. The crowd leaned in as Kaien followed up with a rapid series of jabs and sweeping kicks. Each strike was clean, calculated, and precise—yet none of them landed.

Miles flowed like water.

He twisted his torso, dipped under a spinning elbow, and spun lightly on the ball of his foot to avoid a sweeping leg. It was like he wasn’t fighting at all—just dancing away from the storm with eerie calm.

Whispers stirred in the stands.

"Why is he dodging everything but not attacking?"

"Is he running away?"

"He’s fast, but can he even fight?"

Kaien’s expression grew tense, his jaw clenched. His body shone faintly with sweat under the morning sun. Gritting his teeth, he growled, "Let’s see you dodge this."

He shifted into a wider stance. His fingers clenched into claws and his torso bent low.

Gasps erupted from the crowd.

"It’s the Kraken Clan’s signature form—The Torrent."

"I heard even veteran elders struggle to escape that!"

Kaien lunged again—his strikes now flowing like a rapid current, his arms curling, striking from impossible angles. The form was brutal and overwhelming. It had crushed countless opponents over the years.

But Miles—still calm—tilted his head slightly and stepped between the currents.

A flick of the wrist, a shift of the foot, a lean of the torso—he was never where the strike landed.

Kaien’s eyes widened. "That’s... impossible."

He launched into the final strike of the form—a downward heel aimed at Miles’s chest. A finishing blow.

Miles’s lips curled into a small smirk.

His body dropped—one sharp pivot, the kick sailed through empty air.

Kaien landed, breath ragged.

Miles’s voice came soft and confident."You done yet?"

Kaien roared, "Stop running and fight me!"

Miles’s smile vanished. His eyes sharpened.

"You said it."

And in a single breath, Miles pushed forward. His steps were quiet—but devastatingly fast. One blur, one breath—and he appeared directly in front of Kaien.

Kaien froze. His body tensed instinctively."Wait—this movement..."His voice faltered. "I’ve seen this before... You’re—Gh—"

Before he could finish the sentence, Miles’s palm slammed into his chest.

Not a punch—a controlled strike, full of energy but focused. Kaien’s breath was knocked from his lungs as he flew backward and skidded across the platform—coming to a halt at the edge.

Silence.

Then—

Thud.

Kaien didn’t get up.

The host stood, stunned for a moment, then raised his hand.

"Winner: Miles!"

The crowd exploded in a roar—mixed voices of awe, confusion, and excitement.

"Who is he?!"

"That was unreal!"

"He didn’t even throw a punch until the end!"

From the stands, Daniel leaned forward in disbelief. "He... won? That fast?"

Elena’s hand clutched the fabric of her dress, heart racing. "That... was my son?"

Hope’s eyes sparkled. "Big bro is sooo coool!!"

Asher cheered, bouncing in his seat. "That was awesome!! He just bam! and he flew!"

Clarissa, standing beside the elders, watched with an unreadable expression—her lips twitching into a soft, knowing smile.

"He didn’t even try hard..." one elder murmured. "That movement... he’s more than what we expected."

Miles stood in the center of the arena, shoulders relaxed, eyes calm.

As if he had just taken a walk through the park.

And as he bowed toward the crowd, the murmurs only grew louder.

The host’s voice rang out clearly across the arena, capturing everyone’s attention.

"Ladies and gentlemen, clan elders, and honored guests—it is time to announce the semifinalists for the Martial Succession Contest!"

A drumroll-like sound echoed as the spotlight circled above the three remaining contenders standing proudly on the arena floor.

"After two electrifying battles, three warriors remain."

The host raised a hand, pointing to the towering screen above the arena. One by one, names and clan crests appeared in bold, glowing letters:

Sora Veylen – Sylph Clan

Sayaka Nozomi – Snow Women Clan

Miles – Phoenix Clan

A murmur of anticipation rolled through the crowd.

"These three fighters have earned their place here. But only two may battle for a chance in the finals. The third... will await the victor."

The host gestured toward the center stage. "According to tradition, the Clan Supreme herself will draw the names."

A respectful hush fell over the crowd as the Clan Supreme from the Snow Women Clan—stood and walked toward the small black box holding three slender bamboo sticks.

Each stick was etched subtly with a name.

She reached inside and drew out two.

The host stepped forward as she handed them over. He examined them carefully, then turned toward the crowd, voice rising.

"The first two warriors to battle in the semifinal are..."

A pause, the arena held its breath.

"Sora Veylen of the Sylph Clan—"

Cheers erupted from one side of the stands.

"—and Sayaka Nozomi of the Snow Women Clan!"

The opposing section of the audience answered with just as much excitement.

That left one name. The final name.

The host raised his hand again."And that means... Miles, young master of the Phoenix Clan, receives the direct entry into the final match!"

The crowd burst into roaring applause, some surprised, others intrigued.

"Straight to the finals?"

"Lucky draw..."

"Or fate?"

Hope jumped up from her seat. "Big bro’s in the final already?!"

Asher clapped excitedly. "Yesss! That means we get to see him fight again!"

Daniel smiled faintly. "So he gets to rest while they fight each other. That’s a strategic advantage."

Elena looked relieved. "Thank goodness he’s not fighting again right away..."

Meanwhile, Miles stood in silence, hands at his side, his gaze calm. He didn’t look proud, nor smug—just focused. Clarissa, standing among the elders, glanced at him briefly, lips curled into a small smile.

The host stepped back to center stage.

"Let the semifinals begin soon. But first—our two semifinalists will have a moment to prepare. When we return, the battle between Sylph and Snow begins!"

And as the arena buzzed with energy, anticipation surged again through the crowd.

The final had begun to take shape. And the storm was only just beginning.

In the quiet waiting room beneath the arena, the hum of the crowd above was barely audible—a dull thrum like distant thunder. Miles leaned back against the wall, arms folded, while Clarissa stood near the window, the fading light casting a warm glow across her face.

"So," she said casually, "any nerves yet, Mr. Finalist?"

Miles chuckled. "No nerves. Just saving energy."

Before she could respond, the door creaked open and Kaien stepped in. The young warrior from the Kraken Clan looked less composed than he had during the match—his hair slightly ruffled, a faint bruise on his jaw.

Miles glanced toward him. "What’s up, Kaien? Feeling better now?"

Kaien didn’t answer right away. He stepped further in, eyes narrowed as he studied Miles closely. "You’re him... aren’t you?"

Clarissa looked between them, her brows arching. "You two have met before?"

Miles gave a small, knowing smile.

Kaien’s expression darkened slightly. "Miss Clarissa... you don’t know his real identity. You should be careful around him."

Clarissa blinked, then broke into a short laugh. "What’s gotten into you?"

Kaien’s voice dropped. "He’s not just some young master from your clan. He’s a brutal mercenary. People call him Ghost—a legend among the underground."

Clarissa’s amused expression didn’t waver, but there was now a sharp glint in her eyes. "Oh... that’s why you recognize him."

Kaien looked surprised. "Wait... you know?"

Clarissa stepped slightly in front of Miles. Her voice turned low and cold. "Of course I do. And I’m warning you—don’t even think of having any ill intentions toward him."

Kaien’s eyes widened. He bowed his head slightly. "I apologize, Miss Clarissa. I didn’t mean any offense..."

He turned to Miles, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish expression. "You got me. I thought I had some pride left after the fight, but... let’s be real. I already know who’s going to win the final."

Miles raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Kaien gave a dry chuckle. "They don’t know you like I do. They don’t understand. Even our clan’s secret techniques won’t land a hit. The others... they don’t stand a chance."

Clarissa glanced toward Miles, intrigued. "Why’s that?"

Miles tilted his head slightly, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later."

A distant gong echoed through the halls. The semifinals were about to begin.

Miles pushed off the wall, brushing his hands down the sides of his robes. "Let’s go. The real show’s about to start."

Clarissa walked beside him, calm and composed. Kaien followed behind, still shaking his head in disbelief as the three made their way toward the viewing stands.

Above them, the crowd stirred again, eager for the next clash.

The warm afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the mountain-ringed arena as the crowd began to fill the stands again, buzzing with excitement and eager whispers. The tension was different now—this was no longer just a showcase. This was the semifinal. The stakes had shifted.

On the platform, the host raised his hand and announced in a booming voice, "Ladies and gentlemen, clansmen and guests... the semifinal begins now!"

The murmurs fell into silence.

"Will the challengers please step forward—Sora Veylen of the Sylph Clan, and Sayaka Nozomi of the Snow Women Clan!"

From the left entrance, Sora Veylen walked in with precise, controlled grace. Slender yet powerful, he wore the traditional deep-green robes of the Sylph Clan, embroidered with faint silver patterns that shimmered with every movement. His dark hair was tied into a neat topknot, and his expression was focused, calm—like a man who’d trained with the wind itself. His footsteps made no sound as he crossed the arena floor, eyes locked on his opponent with a still, determined intensity.

From the opposite side, Sayaka Nozomi appeared, her presence a stark contrast. Clad in white and icy blue, her attire blended elegance with lethality—traditional robes layered with lightweight combat gear. Her long silver hair was tied back in a flowing ribbon, and her pale blue eyes scanned the crowd briefly before settling on Sora. There was no fear in her gaze, only cold precision and quiet confidence. Despite her youth, she carried herself with the composed air of a reigning champion’s disciple.

Gasps rippled through the audience at the sight of the two.

"She’s from the Snow Women Clan. They don’t lose easily."

"But that’s Sora Veylen—he’s known for his footwork and wind-step technique."

The host raised his hand again. "Challengers, bow!"

Both bowed in unison, never breaking eye contact.

The host dropped his hand.

"Begin!"

The crowd held its breath as the fighters shifted into their stances, the arena crackling with tension.

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