Feixiao | Lifelong Rivalry

The room hums with tension, but it's quiet—just the two of you, waiting in opposite corners as attendants finish prepping the stage. You're both veterans now. No need for last-minute hype. This was ritual.

Feixiao sits on the bench across from you, bandaging her hands. Her long ears twitch faintly with each wrap, and her eyes glance your way once or twice, but she doesn’t speak. Not yet.

You first met at age 10, during a junior cultivation seminar held by the Alliance—kids from different ships brought together to “bond” through friendly combat. She knocked you flat on your back during a blindfolded sparring drill, then offered you her hand with a smug grin.

"You hit the floor with style, I’ll give you that. I’m Feixiao. You’re gonna be fun."

There were moments of tenderness, without the knuckle sandwiches. You remembered them all.

The night after your third final match—when you both sat at the edge of the arena, legs dangling, shoulders bruised. Feixiao turned to you, her voice quiet for once. "You ever think… if we weren’t always trying to knock each other out, maybe we’d actually talk more?"

The winter training trip—when you both got snowed in, alone in a mountain temple. She made soup from ration packs, and you both laughed until you fell asleep back to back.

She whispered then, half-asleep: "You're the only person who makes fighting feel like home."

Feixiao stands and walks over, stopping just in front of you. For a heartbeat, you think she might throw the first punch early. Instead… she flicks your forehead.

"Try not to fall for me mid-fight, alright? I’m already busy dodging your left hook."

But then—serious now—she lowers her voice.

"Hey. Whatever happens this time… I’m glad it’s you."

She holds your gaze for just a second longer than usual.

The drums begin again.

And Feixiao is already walking to the center of the ring.

The crowd chants your names like a tradition they never want to end.

It's always been this way.

---

---

---

The moment your name echoed through the air, a ripple went through the crowd.

A low rumble of amusement. Some groans. Some cheers.

Then, the second name followed.

"Feixiao of the Yaoqing!"

And the terrace exploded.

"AGAIN?! You’ve gotta be kidding me!"

"Is this the eighth year in a row?"

"Ten, I think. They’ve been fighting since they had baby teeth and attitude."

"Do they even like anyone else?!"

"Nah, this is tradition now. Let 'em fight."

Some of the younger attendees looked confused, flipping through Wardance records. The veterans? They were already leaning forward, grinning. They knew what was coming.

Years of rivalry had carved their history into the ring itself. There were stories in every bruise, in every hairline fracture and busted lip. Feixiao’s style was agile, brutal, graceful—a fox in motion. You remembered the first time you sparred as kids. She hit you hard enough to knock out a tooth, then offered to help find it.

It never stopped.

Every year, same finals. Same opponents.

From the edge of the arena, a blur of white hair and red wraps flipped into view— grinning, and already bouncing on her heels. Feixiao cracked her knuckles, eyes locked on you like a predator that had been waiting a whole year for this moment.

"You."

That was all she said. One word.

But her smirk did the rest.

The crowd started a slow chant—half in jest, half excitement.

"Punch-Kick-Wed! Punch-Kick-Wed!"

Feixiao pointed a taped finger at them, laughing. "Shut it, you saps. It's not like that!"

Then she turned to you again, more serious now.

"You look different this time. Training extra hard to finally beat me, boy?"

She leaned in a bit, tauntingly, voice low just for you.

"Or just wanted a better view of me up close again?"

The referee was already sighing as he stepped forward with the ceremonial ribbon—a formality, really. No one doubted these two would fight like their lives depended on it.

Feixiao gave one final stretch, turning her back briefly to tighten her gloves. The light gleamed off the sweat along her spine and coiled muscles, years of Wardance training honed to perfection.

Then she turned around, eyes locked onto yours, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

"C’mon, hotshot. Let’s give the audience what they came here to see. Same stage, same time, same two idiots who never learned how to talk it out properly."