Night draped itself over the Immortal Sect, its silence broken only by the whisper of wind through paper lanterns.
Inside his chamber, Kazel slept, one arm tucked behind his head, his breathing steady as if the world outside could not touch him.
In another wing, the faint clinking of glass and the earthy scent of herbs filled the air. Arhatam bent over a small bronze cauldron, coaxing the fire beneath it like a mother tending her child. The bubbling mixture shimmered under his careful stirring — another pill in the making, another step toward the future Kazel had promised him.
But in the courtyard… the stillness was different.
Durandal stood alone beneath the cold glow of moonlight. His shadow stretched long across the stone tiles, his breath visible in the night air. In his hand, he clutched a tightly rolled scroll — the prize from the Heavenless Bow Sect's little tournament. The one Kazel had placed into his palm without hesitation.
He looked down at it.
His fingers tightened.
"…No turning back," he muttered.
The seal broke with a soft snap. The scroll unfurled in a slow, deliberate motion, and there — painted in delicate, almost living strokes — was the form of the Lava Harpy. Its talons curled like forged steel, wings painted in sweeping arcs of molten crimson.
Durandal swallowed. His chest rose, fell.
He took a single, steadying breath… and activated it.
The ink on the parchment began to pale, fading as though it were smoke dissolving into air. There was no brilliant flash, no roaring burst of energy — only a thin, pale haze, soft and white, rising gently from the surface.
It drifted toward him like an obedient phantom.
Durandal stood his ground as the haze touched his skin, then sank into it, threading its way beneath flesh, bone, and soul. The sensation was neither hot nor cold — it was weightless, like a presence taking its place beside him.
And then… silence.
The scroll in his hands was blank, its power gone. But in Durandal's eyes, a faint shadow of something fierce stirred.
"…Lava Harpy," he whispered.
Above, the moon kept its watch. In the still courtyard, the first seed of something dangerous had been planted.
The first light of dawn spilled into the Immortal Sect's courtyard, chasing away the last wisps of mist that clung to the stone tiles.
A faint whoosh broke the morning stillness — then a flare.
An arch of fire shot upward into the sky, scorching the air before it flickered out, leaving behind the faint smell of char.
Kazel stepped into the courtyard with a wide yawn, lazily scratching the back of his neck. His blue eyes followed the fading trail of flame until they found its source.
Durandal stood in the center, chest rising and falling as if he had been running for hours. The sweat on his brow glistened under the morning sun, but Kazel could tell—it wasn't just from exertion. The heat from his new Soul Skill clung to him like a second skin.
Durandal looked up and noticed his master watching. For a heartbeat, his expression tightened — then he straightened his back, forcing a confident posture.
"Good morning, young master," he said, trying to hide his panting.
Kazel tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "I thought it was strange… it's a bit hot this morning, considering we're surrounded by small hills."
Durandal froze. "…I… I'm sorry," he said, lowering his head in a quick bow.
For a moment, Kazel just looked at him — then chuckled.
"I'm just messing with you."
Durandal's head rose slightly, eyes flickering with relief before returning to focus.
Kazel stepped closer, circling him like a lazy predator. "So… how does it feel? The Lava Harpy's talons digging into your soul?"
Durandal hesitated, then allowed a small grin to slip. "Fierce. Like it's daring me to burn more than I can handle."
"Good," Kazel said, stopping in front of him. "A weapon that doesn't push you is just decoration. Now… let's see if you can aim that fire at something that actually deserves it."
Durandal straightened fully this time. "The bandit hideouts?"
Kazel's smirk deepened. "Exactly. Consider this… your morning warm-up."
The morning sun had not yet reached its full strength when Durandal slipped through the eastern gate. His destination lay far ahead — the road between the Land of the Wolf and the Land of the Land, a route notorious for caravan raids and vanishing travelers.
Kazel had called it a warm-up.
Durandal called it… a test.
He was young, and in places like this, youth meant weakness. So, he hid it.
Layer upon layer of dusty bandage wrapped around his head and hair, leaving only a narrow slit for his eyes. Over that, a hooded cloak hung loose, its folds masking his shape, his weapons, his intent.
By the time he reached the caravan yard, he was no longer Durandal, disciple of the Immortal Sect. He was just another nameless drifter heading toward dangerous roads.
A carriage awaited — a modest one, with chipped paint and a creaking frame. The driver barely glanced at him when he climbed inside. Within, half a dozen travelers sat in silence: a middle-aged merchant clutching a money pouch, a woman with a child asleep on her shoulder, two young men armed with hunting spears, and a weary scholar whose ink-stained fingers tapped against a scroll case.
Durandal sat in the far corner, his head lowered.
No one spoke to him. No one even tried. The few who met his gaze quickly looked away, their expressions shifting between suspicion and unease.
Perfect.
The horses began to move, hooves striking the cobblestones with steady rhythm. The city walls receded behind them, replaced by rolling hills and sparse farmland. Soon, the road sloped downward, opening into the vast mouth of a forest — its canopy so thick it seemed to swallow the sunlight.
Durandal's fingers brushed the inside of his cloak, feeling the scroll case where the Lava Harpy's power now slumbered within him.
( Somewhere in there… they're waiting. )
The carriage creaked as it entered the shadows of the trees.
The air grew colder.
And somewhere, far ahead in the forest's depths, something was watching.
The caravan shuddered, then slowed to a crawl before stopping entirely.
Durandal's eyes narrowed beneath the strip of dusty bandages.
( This is it. )
He lowered his gaze to his own arms. Not a tremor. Not even a twitch. His breathing was steady, heart calm, as if his body already knew what came next.
The driver's posture told the story before any words were spoken. Stiff shoulders. Tight grip on the reins. And in front of him — two figures standing in the middle of the road.
The bandits were not hulking men with jagged blades, but lean and wiry, like dogs who had gone too long without a proper meal. Their clothes were patched from too many winters, their belts lined with mismatched knives. They carried no bows, no spears — their weapon was the road itself, and the fear it commanded.
One of them extended his hand lazily, palm up, as though expecting tribute.
"The usual, eh," drawled the other, eyes darting to the driver's hands.
The driver forced a nod, his Adam's apple bobbing. With a trembling hand, he reached into his tunic and pulled free a pouch the size of a clenched fist.
It landed in the first bandit's hand with a muffled clink. The weight made his wrist dip before he tightened his grip, his knuckles whitening.
He untied the drawstring just enough to peek inside. A faint glimmer of spirit stones caught the morning light.
"Alright," the bandit muttered with a shrug. "Off you go."
The driver gave a quick, forced smile. "Thank you."
A flick of the reins, and the horses began to move again, the carriage creaking forward. The tension in the air seemed to break — for everyone except the cloaked youth in the back.
Durandal rose from his seat without a sound.
The sudden movement drew eyes immediately. The middle-aged merchant beside him frowned, his hand instinctively tightening around the strap of his satchel. "Hey… what are you doing?"
A woman in the far corner instinctively pulled her young son closer, whispering sharply to him while turning his face away from the bandaged figure. Her message was clear: Don't look. Don't get involved.
Durandal didn't reply.
His boots landed on the dirt road with a heavy thud. The sound echoed unnaturally loud in the quiet stretch of forest, drawing the attention of the two bandits ahead.
They turned.
At first, their expressions were puzzled — this wasn't part of the usual exchange. Then their eyes sharpened as they took in the figure. Cloaked, wrapped in dusty bandages from crown to collarbone, only a narrow slit left for his eyes.
The one with the pouch sneered. "What's this? Some hero?"
The other chuckled, flashing a gap-toothed grin. "Or some fool who doesn't know the toll's been paid."
Durandal tilted his head, his voice low and steady. "Something like that."
His right hand slipped from beneath the folds of the cloak. At first glance, it was just a hand — but the air around it shimmered faintly, as if a summer mirage had crept into the cool forest.
The taller bandit's smile faltered. "Oi… what's he—"
The temperature changed.
It was subtle at first, like someone had pulled away the shade. Then, within a breath, the air thickened, pressing against the skin, dry and heavy. The leaves above began to curl at their edges, a whisper of heat passing through them.
From beneath the cloak, a faint crimson glow seeped outward — not bright, but alive, pulsing with restrained violence.
Durandal stepped forward once, slow and deliberate.
The bandit holding the pouch of spirit stones took a step back without realizing it. His instincts screamed before his mind caught up.
And then…
The sound came.
Not a roar. Not a crackle. But a low, rising hiss, like molten rock licking the air.
The hiss grew louder.
It wasn't just in the air — it was inside the air, threading through every particle, making the very breath the bandits took feel heavier.
A faint shimmer traced up Durandal's arm, glowing hotter, brighter, until it reached his fingertips. Then, with a motion like unsheathing a blade, he slashed his hand upward.
The forest ignited.
A sudden arch of fire, jagged and blazing, ripped into the sky like a predator spreading its wings. It wasn't a clean flame — it burned uneven, molten and raw, spitting embers that hissed when they touched the dirt.
The bandits stumbled back, eyes wide.
"What the—?!"
Before they could react further, Durandal's feet shifted, his body lowering into a stance that felt far too practiced for someone his size. His gaze locked on the pouch-holder.
"Lava Harpy—" he whispered.
And then he struck.
The air itself warped as the arch of fire curved mid-flight, diving downward like a hunting bird. The flame condensed at its tip into talon-shaped claws, molten and serrated, striking the bandit square in the chest.
The man's scream tore through the trees, but it was short-lived. The molten talons pierced his body with a sickening hiss, steam erupting from his flesh as the heat seared straight through. The spirit stone pouch in his hand blackened instantly, stones inside cracking from the heat.
The other bandit froze, paralyzed by the sight. The smell of scorched leather and burned skin filled the road.
The first bandit collapsed, his body hitting the dirt with a dull, final thud. Smoke rose from the wound — not from fire, but from the sheer heat left behind.
Durandal turned his eyes on the second man.
One step forward.
That was all it took for the survivor's legs to betray him. He bolted into the underbrush, crashing through brambles, his screams fading deeper into the forest.
The molten talons receded into smoke, leaving only a charred body on the dirt road.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then the driver's voice cracked, "H-Hells above…"
His eyes darted from the corpse to the cloaked youth who stood over it, steam still curling from his hand. A tremor ran through his arms as he clutched the reins.
Without another word, he lashed the horses into a panicked gallop.
The carriage lurched forward so suddenly the passengers nearly toppled. The merchant shouted in protest, but the driver didn't slow — he wanted nothing to do with whatever nightmare he had just seen.
Inside, the passengers kept their heads down, too frightened to speak. The woman clutched her child as if a demon stood in the road. The scholar pressed himself against the far wall, knuckles white around his scroll case.
But their fear was misplaced.
Durandal was no longer in the carriage.
By the time the horses tore away down the road, he was already gone from sight.
The forest swallowed him whole.
Durandal moved low and silent, the folds of his cloak whispering against undergrowth. He followed the sound — the crashing of brush, the ragged breaths of the survivor who had fled.
Every step was measured, his eyes fixed on the faintest tremors in the foliage ahead.
( Panic makes people loud. )
The second bandit didn't even realize how much noise he made. Every snapped twig, every stumble over a root announced his path like a beacon.
Durandal's hand hovered just beneath his cloak, fingers brushing the warmth that still lingered in his palm from the Lava Harpy's strike. The heat wanted to flare again, but he forced it down — there was no need to waste power until the moment was right.
A shadow darted between two oaks ahead.
Durandal slowed, circling wide, feet finding the silent ground between patches of dead leaves. His breathing was slow, his gaze sharp.
The forest dimmed as the canopy thickened, turning the air cool and damp. Somewhere far above, a crow cawed — and the sound made the fleeing man's pace quicken.
He was close now.
Durandal could smell the man's fear — the sweat, the dirt, the metallic tang of adrenaline in the air.
The bandit's desperate footsteps drew Durandal deeper into the forest. The trees grew denser here, their trunks twisted like old scars, the air damp and heavy with the scent of moss and old smoke.
He expected to find a den — a hidden camp, a ramshackle hideout, something the law could barely notice.
Instead… he saw this.
The trees gave way to a clearing. Not small. Not crude. A base.
Tents lined the edges like military order, their canvas patched but well-kept. A cookfire burned in the center, its smoke curling into the overcast sky. Weapon racks leaned against trunks, filled with spears, bows, and jagged swords. Men moved in and out — some in leather, some in chain, all armed.
Durandal froze behind a thicket, his breath caught in his throat.
His eyes trembled.
( A… base. )
He wasn't supposed to take on a base. Kazel's "warm-up" suddenly felt less like training and more like a trial by fire.
He shifted his gaze — and that's when he saw it.
Beside a larger tent, half-covered by a coarse blanket, leaned a shield. Not the kind cobbled together by roadside thieves — this was polished steel, well-oiled, engraved with the proud sigil of a shield crossed with a spear.
And just beyond it, inside the tent, came the clink of hammer on steel, sharp and deliberate. Occasionally, a spark flared into view through the gap in the flaps.
Durandal's breath slowed, but not from calm. His pulse pounded in his ears.
( Young master was right… )
( One of them has their hands dirty… but I never thought it would be the one that holds righteousness and justice so high. )
The Shield and Spear.
A mercenary group known for discipline, contracts, and "justice" for hire. Respected in the Land of the Wolf — even feared.
And here they were, in league with roadside scum.
Durandal's fingers twitched near his cloak. For the first time since leaving the sect, he felt the faint stir of doubt.
He could take the lone bandit he had chased here… but this wasn't a nest of rats.
This was a den of wolves.