Devon looked directly at Vance for the first time since their initial encounter. “Perhaps Mr. Reed would prefer to test my skills himself rather than simply dismissing them.” The question, delivered with calm sincerity rather than challenge, created a ripple of surprise through the audience. Someone in the back let out a low whistle. Vance’s eyes narrowed. “You want a lesson from the master himself? In front of everyone?” He laughed, the sound sharp and dismissive. “Your funeral, kid.” Devon nodded once. “I would be honored by the opportunity.” The crowd’s reaction was mixed. Some excited by the prospect of seeing the champion in action against the upstart, others visibly uncomfortable with the public humiliation they sensed was coming. A few spectators exchanged troubled glances, the atmosphere shifting from entertainment to something more unsettling. “The boy has courage, if not sense,” someone remarked from the sidelines. Master Tanaka had remained standing, his weathered face unreadable. He slowly sat back down, but his gaze never left Devon’s face.
The tournament director cleared his throat, clearly caught off guard by the unexpected development. After a brief, hurried consultation with the judges, he addressed the gathered crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen, an unusual but not unprecedented situation has arisen.” His voice carried the practiced neutrality of someone navigating delicate protocol. “Champion Reed has invoked the tradition of the honor match.” A buzz of excitement rippled through the audience. Many leaned forward in their seats while others whispered explanations to confused newcomers. “For those unfamiliar with our traditions,” the director continued, “the honor match dates back to the founding of our art. When questions of legitimacy or proper representation arise, two practitioners may engage in formal demonstration to resolve the matter.” An assistant appeared carrying an ornate wooden box inlaid with mother of pearl. The director opened it reverently, revealing an aged parchment scroll. “Per tradition, both participants must clearly understand the stakes.” He unrolled the scroll carefully. “The honor match is not merely exhibition. It carries formal consequences according to our oldest customs.”
Vance stepped forward, his posture commanding. “The loser must kneel before the winner, publicly acknowledge their inferior understanding of the art, and relinquish any titles or claims to lineage knowledge.” The director nodded. “These are the traditional terms.” “With one addition,” Vance added. “When I win, the boy must also admit his false pretenses and agree never to compete in any recognized tournament again.” His smile was razor thin. “To protect the integrity of our traditions.” A few gasps emerged from the crowd. Even by the standards of the honor match, these were unusually harsh terms. All eyes turned to Devon, expecting hesitation or protest. Instead, the teenager simply nodded. “I accept.” The lack of negotiation visibly unsettled Vance, whose smile faltered momentarily before returning with renewed confidence. “Then it’s settled,” the director declared, though uncertainty colored his tone. He gestured to the scroll. “According to tradition, both participants will sign the formal contract.”
