( What should I do… )
Durandal leaned back against the rough face of a moss-covered rock, the cold seeping through his cloak. He tilted his head upward. The sun was still high, its light spilling over the treetops, turning the clearing ahead into a patchwork of shadow and gold.
From here, he could still hear them — the voices of men, the ring of steel on steel, the occasional bark of laughter. The kind of noise made by people who felt secure in their strength.
Durandal's gaze fell to the ground. His hands curled slightly, not from anger, but from something heavier.
( This is too much. )
He breathed out slowly, his chest tightening with the truth.
He was still a kid.
A kid with no family. No roots. No name worth remembering.
Once, he had been nothing more than a shadow in the slums, another hungry mouth scrounging for scraps, another pair of hands stealing what they could before the next beating came. Each day was survival. Each night was a gamble.
And now… now Kazel had told him to take down a base.
Not a lone thief. Not a roadside mugger. A base — guarded, organized, dangerous.
His throat felt dry.
( How would a little thief raid a bandit base like this…? )
He let out another sigh, longer this time, and closed his eyes for a moment. The smell of smoke from the campfire ahead drifted toward him, mixing with the metallic tang of the forge sparks.
Somewhere, deep in the base, a hammer struck metal again.
Clang.
Durandal opened his eyes.
His fear hadn't vanished… but neither had the weight of the promise he'd made to Kazel.
Durandal's fingers tightened into fists.
"No," he whispered to himself. "I'm no thief. Not anymore."
His eyes sharpened beneath the bandages.
"I'm either worse… or better than that. I am the disciple of the Immortal Sect. And Kazel—" he straightened his back "—is my young master."
Far ahead, deep in the heart of the so-called hideout, a different scene unfolded.
The largest tent in the clearing served as the base's headquarters. Inside, the heavy smell of smoke and sweat mingled with the metallic tang of sharpened steel. A table stood in the center, littered with maps, spirit stone pouches, and a half-drained jug of rice wine.
Around it, four men sat — though sat was generous. Two stood in full armor: white-plated breastplates polished to an almost blinding sheen, matching helmets under which their voices carried the clipped tone of professionals. Beside them, a man of towering height and corded muscle leaned back in a reinforced chair, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. His bald head caught the light like polished stone, a scar running from his left temple down to his jawline.
This was the bandit captain.
The small meeting was interrupted by the frantic rustling of the tent flaps.
"BOSS!! W-we-we—!"
The survivor from earlier stumbled in, wheezing, his chest heaving.
The bald man glanced at him once, then casually reached for a wooden cup on the table.
"Here," he said, extending it.
"T-thank—"
The captain's hand loosened, and the cup dropped. It hit the dirt with a dull thunk, spilling its contents.
"Oops," he chuckled.
The two armored men in white laughed with him, though their mirth felt more like mockery than humor.
One of them stepped forward slightly, his voice flat. "Speak, stupid. We don't have much spare time like you."
The survivor swallowed hard, wiping sweat from his brow. "Y-Yes, sir! Robinson was killed!"
The captain raised an eyebrow. "Who the fuck is Robinson?"
"H-he's… my partner," the man stammered. "We were under attack."
"Attack?" The captain's voice deepened, interest flickering in his eyes.
One of the white-helmed men tilted his head. "This attacker… what did he look like? What weapon did he use?"
"I… he was wearing a cloak, and his face was covered in dusty bandages under the hood — only his eyes showed." The survivor's voice trembled. "As for his weapon… he used his leg. A fire leg."
The two in armor exchanged a glance.
"Hmm…" the captain muttered, crossing his arms. His fingers rubbed over his bald head, as though massaging the thought into clarity. "That couldn't be the same person. The one that massacred those four clearly suffered a huge cut."
"Cut?" the second white-helmed man scoffed. "Those guys got cleaved. There wasn't enough left of them to even—"
He stopped mid-sentence, his visor tilting toward the tent entrance, as if sensing movement outside.
The captain's smirk widened. "Looks like our little guest might still be nearby."
Durandal calmed his breathing, letting it match the rhythm of the forest.The clank of hammer on steel from the smithy was the only sound that reached him — steady, relentless, like the beating of a war drum in the distance.
The hours passed.
The shadows lengthened. The afternoon sun dipped lower and lower, painting the treetops in orange and crimson before slipping away entirely.
By the time the first star pierced the darkening sky, the camp had changed.
Fwoosh.
Torches flared to life one by one, their flames licking upward, throwing long, twitching shadows across the tents. Men moved about with the casual gait of those who felt no danger, their laughter mingling with the clatter of mugs and the faint aroma of roasting meat.
Durandal stayed still, eyes tracking every patrol, every gap in the firelight.
He was just a child — and he knew it.
He wasn't a soldier. He wasn't a killer trained to tear through dozens without blinking. He was Durandal: a boy from the slums who had learned how to stay alive by keeping his hands quick… and his feet quicker.
And right now, that was enough.
( Young master didn't mention any time limit. )
He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing.
"I'll steal what I can… for now."
His body sank lower, cloak pressed tight against him as he slipped into motion. Step by step, he let the night swallow him, melting into the spaces between the torchlight where the shadows were deepest.
Somewhere ahead, there would be pouches, crates, or supplies left unguarded for just long enough.
And Durandal would be there before anyone noticed.
The torchlight flickered, leaving blind spots between tents. Those were Durandal's paths.
He slid from one shadow to the next, his feet finding the softest patches of dirt. The sound of a single snapped twig could betray him here, and he knew it.
Two men in mismatched leather armor passed just ahead, their voices low but careless.
"…captain says they'll pay double if we move the shipment before dawn.""Double? Must be something heavy.""Yeah. Or something the Shield and Spear doesn't want anyone sniffing around."
Their words trailed off as they turned a corner, leaving Durandal with a narrowed gaze. Shipment. Shield and Spear.
He slipped into the gap they had just left, ducking behind a stack of crates. The wood smelled of oil and spice. He ran a finger along the seam of the nearest lid — unsealed.
Inside, neat bundles of cloth wrapped around small, weighty objects. He unwrapped one just enough to see the faint glint of cut spirit stones.
Durandal's lips pressed into a thin line. This was already worth the risk.
He worked quickly, sliding several bundles into a pouch beneath his cloak. Then he moved on.
A larger tent loomed ahead, its flaps drawn tight. The steady clink-clink of metal being worked came from within — the smithy.
Durandal crouched low, creeping past the side. The glow of the forge light illuminated a rack just outside the tent, where half a dozen short swords leaned against the canvas wall. He didn't touch them; weapons would slow him down.
Instead, his eyes caught a smaller object resting on a workbench: a dagger in an unfinished sheath, its blade blackened with oil. Beside it lay a pouch so worn it looked as if it had traveled a hundred roads.
Durandal's fingers moved before his mind caught up — the dagger and pouch disappeared beneath his cloak.
Durandal's steps grew slower as he slipped deeper into the base.The laughter and idle chatter faded, replaced by the rough shuffle of boots and the sound of wood scraping against dirt.
Ahead, half-hidden behind a cluster of supply tents, three large crates sat stacked beside a wagon.Each one bore a streak of crimson paint across the lid — a mark hastily brushed on but impossible to miss.
The marked crates.
The workers who had brought them here were already gone, swallowed back into the busier part of camp. The wagon sat in the dark, a lone torch burning a few paces away.
Durandal glanced left, then right.No patrol. No guards in sight.
He crept forward, his cloak brushing lightly against the wagon's wheel. His fingers curled under the lid of the top crate.
It was heavy — too heavy for grain, but that only made his pulse quicken.If it was worth hiding… it was worth stealing.
The faint sound of wood shifting filled the air as he pried upward. A crack of lamplight slipped into the gap, illuminating the edge of whatever lay inside.
Then—
"…Hey."
Durandal froze.
The voice came from behind him, close enough for the torchlight to spill over his shadow.
"Oi, brat. What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The speaker stepped forward — a man in light armor, face half-hidden by a leather mask. His hand rested lazily on the hilt of a short sword, but the gleam in his eyes wasn't lazy at all.
Before Durandal could answer, two more shadows emerged from the side, cutting off his escape.
Three men.One half-circle of steel.And a half-open crate still beneath his fingers.
Durandal's jaw tightened beneath the bandages.
( Young master didn't say anything about walking away. )