The smirk lingered as Kazel stepped forward, his boots brushing over dirt that seemed suddenly quieter beneath him.
No rush. No hurry. Each stride was measured, as if he was walking into his own courtyard.
The crowd shifted without thinking. Men who had stood shoulder to shoulder moments ago now found their feet sliding back, opening a path. Some avoided his gaze entirely, others stiffened as his eyes passed over them — the kind of eyes that didn't see flesh, but measured worth.
The firelight caught the edge of his silhouette. He was dressed simply, almost plainly, yet every thread of him spoke of someone who belonged here… not as a guest, but as a ruler reclaiming his seat.
Durandal's chest tightened — not from fear, but from something sharper.Pride.
Kazel's gaze found him, still held in the captain's grip. That faint smirk deepened.
One of the bandits swallowed audibly. "H-how did he… get in here?"
Another muttered, "I didn't even see him…"
The bald captain's grin faltered for the first time, though his hand stayed clamped on Durandal."So… you're Kazel."
Kazel's eyes slid to him briefly, calm but carrying a weight that made the words dry in the captain's throat.
The Shield and Spear knights stayed still, hands hovering near their weapons. They didn't move — not yet — but their helmets tilted ever so slightly, as if to keep him in full view.
Step by step, Kazel closed the distance, until the fire's glow painted his face in gold and shadow.
Only then did he speak — voice low, smooth, and deadly steady.
"Let him go."
The bald captain's grip on Durandal did not loosen.Instead, he let out a slow, deep chuckle — the kind men use to mask unease.
"I've heard the stories," he said, his voice carrying just enough for the whole camp to hear."The lone wolf who tore through the Land of the Wolf… the one who slaughtered the Second Moon Sect with his own hands."
His smile widened, but it didn't reach his eyes."To meet you here, in the flesh… truly, an honor."
Kazel said nothing.
The captain tilted his head, as though considering something."Of course…" — his tone shifted, softer, heavier — "…it would be more honorable if you came here by invitation."
The murmurs in the crowd stirred again.
The captain gave a slow shrug, his hand still clamped on Durandal's shoulder like an iron shackle."As for this boy…" His lips curled slightly. "You seem to care enough to ask for him. But you see…" he leaned forward just slightly, "…I don't recall saying I'd let him go."
The fire between them wasn't in the pit anymore — it was in the air, invisible but scorching, radiating from two men who stood barely an arm's length apart.
Durandal could feel it in the captain's grip — the faint tremor under the skin, the way his fingers tightened just a fraction more.He had heard of Kazel's name. He believed the stories.But he was still daring him.
Kazel's smirk didn't falter.If anything, it softened — which somehow made it worse.
"I see." His voice was calm, almost conversational, yet each syllable seemed to press down on the air around them. "So you've heard of me… and still thought holding one of mine was wise."
The captain's grin twitched, but he stayed silent.
Kazel took a step closer, the firelight catching in his blue eyes."You're right about one thing." He tilted his head slightly. "It is an honor to meet me."
A ripple passed through the gathered men — some laughed nervously, others shifted on their feet.
"But you're wrong about another." Kazel's tone dropped lower, threading through the crackle of the flames. "You think honor is something I give to those who invite me. But in truth…"
He leaned just enough for the captain to see the faint, cold glint in his gaze.
"…I am the invitation."
The words hung there, sharp enough to draw blood without a blade.
Before the captain could open his mouth to retort, Kazel's hand moved — slow at first, then blindingly fast.
The captain's lips parted — maybe to laugh, maybe to curse — but Kazel had already moved.
His hand shot up, gripping the captain's wrist in a flash. The movement was so clean, so sudden, that it didn't look like an attack at all… until the sound came.
CRACK.
The captain's eyes widened, his grip on Durandal instantly breaking as pain shot up his arm.
Before the man could even recoil, Kazel twisted the wrist just enough to strip the dagger from his fingers. The blade flipped once in Kazel's hand before he casually dropped it into the dirt, as though it was beneath his notice.
Then came the push.
Not a shove. Not a wild throw.A single palm pressed against the captain's chest — but behind it was the weight of a man who had cut down armies.
The captain staggered back several steps, boots scraping deep grooves into the packed dirt, only regaining his balance when his heel caught on the edge of the firepit.
Durandal was free.
Kazel stepped forward into the space the captain had been occupying, his shadow falling over his disciple. His voice was light, almost lazy, but it carried to every ear in the camp.
"Step between me and mine again… and you won't get the luxury of standing back up."
The fire popped loudly, but no one else dared to make a sound.
The captain stayed where he was, massaging his wrist and glaring, but he didn't step forward again. The sting in his arm wasn't just pain — it was the memory of how easily Kazel had taken it from him.
But the silence didn't last.
Clink… clink…
The sound of heavy plate boots cut through the night, each step deliberate.
From the edge of the crowd, the two white-armored knights of the Shield and Spear advanced, their helmets gleaming in the firelight. They didn't rush. They didn't need to. The weight of their presence made the surrounding bandits instinctively shift back.
One stopped just a few paces from Kazel, visor tilting down slightly, as if measuring him.
"Bold," the knight said, voice muffled but deep. "Walking into a camp like this… throwing men around… stealing cargo."
The other knight took position to Kazel's left, his gauntleted fingers brushing the hilt of the sword at his hip."You've made trouble for our allies," he said flatly. "That makes it our trouble."
Durandal tensed at Kazel's side, his instincts screaming. The white sigil of a shield and spear gleamed faintly on their armor — the same one burned into the crates he'd just stolen from.
Around them, the crowd of bandits grew quieter, as if waiting for permission to breathe.
The first knight's visor locked on Kazel."You've got one chance to walk away, stranger."
The air tightened. Even the firepit seemed to dim under the weight of the moment.
Kazel's smirk hadn't moved an inch.
The firelight flickered against Kazel's face, carving shadows into the sharp edges of his smirk.
"One chance to walk away…" he repeated softly, as though tasting the words. His gaze slid from one white-helmed knight to the other.
"You speak as if the ground we're standing on belongs to you." He tilted his head slightly, his voice as calm as a man discussing the weather. "As if you have the power to grant or take permission from me."
The first knight's visor shifted just slightly — irritation, maybe even surprise.
Kazel stepped forward, closing the already short distance between them. His tone didn't rise, but it carried across the base with ease.
"Here's what I know of the Shield and Spear…" He let the words hang for a beat, just long enough for some of the onlookers to lean forward. "…a faction so eager to drape themselves in righteousness and justice that they forget what the words mean. A faction that pretends to stand above bandits… yet hides its dealings in their tents."
The crowd stirred uneasily — more than a few eyes flicked toward the marked crates by the wagon.
Kazel's smirk deepened, but his eyes turned cold."You don't get to offer me one chance. I am the one who offers you yours."
The second knight's gauntleted hand clenched against his sword hilt. The first shifted his stance, armor plates whispering against each other.
The tension in the camp snapped taut, ready to break.
The second knight's gauntleted hand froze halfway to his sword.
The imprint of Kazel's palm still steamed on his partner's armor in the moonlight, a blackened reminder of just how easily that could have been him.
Around them, the bandits shuffled in place, eyes darting between the fallen knight and the smirking man who had done it without so much as raising his voice.The earlier jeers and laughter were gone — smothered by a heavy, suffocating silence.
No one wanted to be the first to move.
They'd all heard stories. Most dismissed them as exaggerations told over drink. But now, with the dented armor cooling on the dirt and the crowd still parting around Kazel without a single word… those tales didn't seem so far-fetched.
Durandal straightened beside his young master. His earlier humiliation was gone, replaced by a heat in his chest he didn't try to hide.
Kazel's eyes moved lazily over the crowd, weighing them without urgency — as though deciding whether they were worth killing at all.
The second knight's jaw clenched under his visor. His pride screamed for action, but his instincts… told him to hold.
One by one, the whispers started.
"…That was with one hand."
"He didn't even draw a weapon…"
"…We wouldn't last a breath."
Kazel finally broke the silence."Good." His voice was low, but it carried to the far edges of the camp. "You understand your place."
The words didn't come like a shout or a threat — they landed heavier, like the sound of a verdict.