The room was quiet, dimly lit by the morning sun seeping through bamboo shades. The scent of aged wood, faint herbs, and something clean lingered in the air. A soft futon crinkled as the boy stirred, eyelids fluttering open like someone waking from a long, uneasy dream.
His body ached, especially his ribs, and his mind fogged with fragments—flashes of fear, of blood, of being lifted by strong arms.
He blinked.
Across the room, Kazel sat by a low table, a cup of tea in hand, steam curling lazily upward. He looked calm, yet there was something unreadable in his eyes—calculating, composed, like a general overlooking a battlefield.
"You finally woke up," Kazel said, smirking.
He tossed something at the boy. The soft bundle landed beside him with a thump—a robe, dark and plain, but clearly of finer quality than anything the boy had worn before.
"Go wash," Kazel continued, "and put this on."
"I... I..." the boy stammered. His lips trembled, and his eyes brimmed with the weight of everything he had endured—the betrayal, the beating, the cleave of steel that saved him.
"So much" pressed behind those two syllables. So much pain. So many questions.
But Kazel's eyes suddenly narrowed—not cruelly, but with the edge of authority that left no room for hesitation.
"Don't make me wait."
The boy jolted to his feet, clutching the robe as if it were both shield and salvation. He hurried toward the washing room without another word, his breath quick and shallow.
Kazel didn't sigh, didn't move.
He simply stared at the tea steam rising.
The water was cold, but it bit less than the memories.
The boy knelt beside the basin, dipping the rag into the clear surface, watching as it rippled. He stared at his reflection—sunken eyes, bruised skin, grime clinging like old sins. He touched his face and winced. Then he began to scrub.
( Why? Why did he save me? )
The cloth ran across the dried blood at his jawline.
( I was ready to die. I deserved to die. That's what he said... the fat one. That I was worthless. Sold. Trash. )
His throat tightened as he scrubbed harder.
( Mother... you sold me. You—gods—didn't even hesitate. )
He choked on the thought, his breathing uneven.
( But he—Kazel—he saw me. He helped me. Why? )
The water darkened with filth and tears.
( He could've walked away. I've seen noblemen sneer at beggars, guards beat children for looking at their horses. But he drew his weapon... for me. )
His grip on the rag tightened.
( What am I now? What does he want from me? )
Then he remembered Kazel's voice: "You finally woke up."
Not gentle. Not cruel. But weighty. Like a command.
( He expects something... )
He paused, then looked at the clean robe lying nearby. It was simple, but to him, it looked like the clothes of a prince.
( No one's ever expected anything from me—other than to steal, beg, or bleed. )
He touched the robe.
( Is this a test? Or... is this a second life? )
He dried himself in silence, a tremor still in his hands, but his chest slightly steadier. Something had changed. He didn't know what Kazel wanted from him yet.
But for the first time in a long while—maybe ever—he wanted to find out.
Kazel leaned back in his chair, arms folded as the boy emerged from the washroom, still toweling his hair. The robe hung loosely on his small frame, but he looked… human again. No longer just a scrap of a street rat clinging to life.
Kazel nodded once. "What's your name?"
The boy froze. His lips parted, then trembled. "…I…"
His hands clenched at his sides. "W-What's the point? The one who named me... sold me."
His voice cracked. Eyes reddened, his shame fighting with rising fury.
Kazel tilted his chin, gaze sharp. "Then… what are you going to do now?"
That question struck deeper than any blade.
The boy looked up, stunned. No one had ever asked him that. No one had ever cared.
"I… don't know," he admitted, voice barely a whisper.
Kazel hummed, then smirked. "Why don't you join my sect instead?"
The boy blinked. "A… sect?!"
"Yes. The Immortal Sect." Kazel stood, stepping toward him. "I need good men."
"Good men…?" the boy echoed, unsure. "But I… I'm not—"
"I know," Kazel interrupted. "You stole from me. But it wasn't greed. It was desperation... love, maybe, if you still call her your mother."
The boy flinched.
"But I'm not here to punish you," Kazel continued. "I won't sell you. I want something else."
The boy looked up.
"Your loyalty," Kazel said, voice firm. "Unshaken. Undying."
"Loyalty…" the word felt foreign, heavy. But not hollow.
"Follow me," Kazel said, "and witness my grand design. Power. Legacy. Purpose."
Then his expression softened, just slightly. "Or walk away now. I won't stop you. The door's open."
The room went silent.
Kazel turned his back. "But if you choose the former… kneel now, and I shall give you a new name."
The boy stood motionless.
Then—his knees hit the floor.
And for the first time in his life, he chose something.
(Who is this man…?)
The boy stared at Kazel, the hem of the young master's robe fluttering slightly as he turned away.
(He's… not like the others. He's not afraid. Not cruel. Not kind either.)
Kazel's presence was strange—commanding, but calm. Every word he spoke sounded like it meant something. His gaze saw through people, yet didn't mock them. He was dangerous, but not unhinged.
(When he stepped in, I thought he was just another young master… I even tried to rob him.)
He remembered the weight of Kazel's shadow when it loomed over him… just before the fat man was cleaved clean in half. That moment didn't feel like justice—it felt like inevitability. Like a force of nature simply choosing where to strike.
(He could've killed me too… or ignored me. But he didn't.)
The boy looked down at his hands. Still small. Still shaking.
Then the memories came—short, bitter stabs from a life unloved.
A warm hand once patting his head…A bowl of warm broth, the only meal that day…Then shouting. A man's shadow looming.His mother crying—no, pretending to.The spirit stones passed hand to hand.And him, pulled away, screaming, "Mama!"
(And now… I don't even remember her face clearly.)
He bit his lip, hard. That same pain sat in his chest again—burning, sour.
(So what am I now? A thing sold and beaten? A beggar waiting for kindness that never comes?)
But this man—Kazel—he didn't offer pity.
He offered a place.
Not as a slave. Not as a servant.
As a follower.
("I shall give you a new name.")
A name… not taken from him. Not forced upon him. Given… with purpose.
The boy's breath hitched.
And without thinking—without hesitation—he dropped to one knee.
Thud.
His head bowed low.
(Please… let this not be another lie.)
But deep down, for the first time…
He hoped it wasn't.
Kazel smirked.
With slow, deliberate motion, he unslung his halberd from his spatial ring. The steel whispered through the air like a promise of blood. He let it rest upon his right shoulder.
The kid tensed. His instincts screamed, but he didn't flinch. He stayed on one knee, head bowed, heart pounding like war drums. His body wanted to tremble, but something deeper—older—kept him still.
Then came the words.
"Your name from now on is Durandal," said Kazel, voice carrying like a bell toll in the silence. "The blade of a magnificent paladin."
He shifted the halberd to his left shoulder, the motion like a ritual, like anointing a knight with steel.
"You are to serve me. When I command you to draw the sword, you shall draw. When I march into chaos, you will walk beside me. And when I point to a land—any land—you shall raise my banner over it."
( Durandal... )The name fell into his chest like a sword into stone. It didn't feel like a gift—it felt like a crown. Too large for his head now, but one he would grow into.
"Stand up, Durandal," Kazel said, already turning his back. "And follow me. Watch what kind of man I am."
The boy rose.
No, not a boy.
Not anymore.
He followed Kazel down the corridor, each step echoing with weight. Madam Yi watched in silence. The other guests parted, wordless, wary. Their eyes flicked between Kazel and the newly named Durandal with a reverence usually reserved for myths.
Kazel said nothing. He simply reached out as they passed an empty table and plucked up a chair with one hand.
"Let me borrow this."
He pushed open the inn's doors.
Light flooded in—white, searing. Durandal shielded his eyes, and when he lowered his hand, he saw it.
The square was packed.
Crowds gathered like stormclouds, the buzz of murmurs fading into an uneasy hush.
There, standing like wolves waiting for a feast, were the three mercenaries of the Punctured. The leader smiled, calm and cruel. His underlings twitched at the sight of Kazel.
But Kazel?
Kazel stepped into the light like a monarch.
He placed the chair at the center of the square.
And sat.
One leg crossed over the other, his face resting against his fist, elbow perched on the armrest, eyes half-lidded with absolute confidence.
No sword drawn. No stance taken.
Only the sheer, suffocating presence of a man who dared the world to come for him.
Durandal stood behind him, feeling the weight of a thousand stares—and yet, not one could match the weight of Kazel's silence.
The morning had come.
And so had judgment.