"We have no qualms with you, why are you doing this?" one of the White Knights asked, his voice tight behind the visor.
Kazel tilted his head, eyes sweeping over the crowd as though judging cattle. Bandits. Murderers. Thieves. Men steeped in sin… yet still not as stained as him. His lips curled into a smirk, but he gave no answer.
The bandit captain took the silence as an opening. "You think you can raid us with just the two of you? I know what happened to the Second Moon Sect — they were asleep when you butchered them. But as you can see…" he spread his arms toward the sea of blades and bodies around him, "…we are wide awake. Don't think you can leave without, perhaps… a deal. No. A parley."
Kazel's eyes narrowed, sharp as blades themselves."'Think'? You underestimate me." His voice was calm, almost amused. "Draw your weapons. All of you."
The words dropped like thunder.
Durandal's heart skipped. His throat dried. The ring of steel followed — dozens unsheathing their blades, and the two White Knights stepped forward, their swords gleaming beneath the moon.
The bandit captain laughed. "Hahaha! You're insane!"
Durandal swallowed hard. His fear was so raw it carried a scent, a trembling aura that clung to him. Kazel's gaze flicked toward him.
"Are you afraid, Durandal?"
"I…"
"Tell me." Kazel's voice cut like a blade. "Who are you more afraid of? Them with their blades, their roars of false morality…" He leaned closer, his shadow falling over the boy. "…or me?"
A sudden breeze swept the camp, stirring dust and torchlight. It whipped against Durandal's face, and in its rush something inside him snapped awake. His pupils tightened, realization clawing its way through his fear.
(That's right… the one I fear most is not these bandits. Not knights. It's this man. My young master.)
Durandal stepped forward, his body shaking but his voice steady. He planted himself before Kazel like a knight sworn to a throne."You, young master."
Kazel's smirk widened, and he lifted his chin as if satisfied with the answer.
"Then let this be our feast."
The camp shivered.
Kazel moved before anyone could draw a breath.His palm gripped Durandal's shoulder, and with terrifying ease, he hurled the boy over the ring of steel.
Durandal crashed down behind the front lines, gasping, looking back in shock. (He… threw me?)
And then the world shook.
Kazel dropped into the fray like a falling star, his robe snapping in the air. The first man he touched — a bandit with a raised cleaver — was launched off his feet, crashing into three others. The second man's blade sparked uselessly off Kazel's forearm before a brutal backhand bent his helmet inward.
He didn't fight like a hero, not like a knight — but like a calamity.Every strike was overwhelming, merciless, too absolute to parry.
To the White Knights, he was no ally.To the bandits, he was no liberator.To all of them, Kazel was the enemy — the tyrant, the fiend in the dark.
The bandit captain bellowed, "Don't falter! Kill him!" His men swarmed like a tide, yet wherever Kazel's palm landed, bones broke, armor dented, lives ended.
Durandal staggered up, staring wide-eyed as the moonlight revealed the scene — a man against dozens, yet somehow it was the dozens who looked pitiful, staggering, collapsing.
(He… he's not human…) Durandal's chest tightened with fear, but his fists clenched with something hotter. (No. He is human. He's my young master… and I must stand beside him.)
Steel clashed, bodies fell, and the moon bore witness.At the center of it all, Kazel stood — the eye of the storm, the antagonist to all.
Kazel's heel struck the earth — crack! — and the ground split beneath the pressure. A wave of force tossed men aside like driftwood in a flood.
The bandits reeled, their blades trembling in their hands as the youth with blue eyes moved through them. His palms crushed helmets, his elbows broke ribs, his knees shattered spines. Every movement was sharp, efficient, merciless — not a wasted breath, not a single gesture meant for intimidation.
He was intimidation.
"Demon!" one of the white knights shouted, thrusting forward. Kazel swayed aside, caught the knight's sword arm, and twisted — armor screamed as joints gave way, the knight hurled across the dirt to collapse in the mud.
Durandal watched it all, heart pounding.Everyone's eyes — bandit and knight alike — locked on Kazel.
(They can't even see me…)
The thought struck him like lightning. He darted forward, silent as a thief. A bandit tried to circle behind Kazel, dagger raised — but Durandal's boot snapped into his ribs, sending him sprawling. Another stumbled back, overwhelmed by Kazel's assault — Durandal seized the chance, sweeping his leg into the man's knee before driving him down with another savage kick.
For the first time, the boy's strikes carried weight.For the first time, he wasn't just hiding behind Kazel's shadow — he was moving within it.
Kazel didn't even glance at him. His smirk widened as he hurled another knight into the sea of bandits.Behind him, Durandal's footfalls echoed — a quieter rhythm, but one that matched his master's storm.
Durandal's breath was ragged, his kicks bloodied, but his eyes had found him.The captain.
While Kazel crushed the mob, scattering them like chaff before a storm, the boss stood at the far edge, his bulk wrapped in leather, his sneer untouched by fear. He barked orders through the chaos, steadying his men, anchoring them.
(If he falls, they all crumble…)
Durandal's heart thundered.He slid past two clashing shadows, vaulted over a groaning body, and darted low through the smoke of Kazel's carnage.Closer. Closer.The boss's back was open. His guard thin.
This is it.
Durandal's foot sparked — the fire of the Lava Harpy licking his heel. He drove it forward with all the desperation of his body, aiming straight for the man's spine.
But then—
Their eyes met.
Cold. Sharp. Predatory.
The captain twisted, faster than Durandal imagined a brute of his size could move. His hand clamped down on Durandal's calf, fire hissing as he suppressed the heat with sheer force.
"What—!" Durandal's cry was cut short.
BAM! His face hit the dirt.CRACK! Slammed right.THUD! Then left.SMASH! Then right again.
Each impact exploded stars across his vision, teeth rattling loose, his nose flooding red. The earth itself seemed to bounce with every blow as if the captain were trying to pound him into the soil.
When at last the bandit boss paused, Durandal's face was a swollen mess, blood painting the dirt. His body twitched but refused to rise.
The bandits roared in savage laughter, and the white knights smirked in grim approval.
The boss sneered, still gripping the boy's leg like a broken trophy."Pathetic. You thought you'd reach me? You're not even worth stepping on."
The bandit boss's smile widened as he hauled Durandal's limp body off the ground, gripping him by the collar like a slaughtered animal. Blood dripped from Durandal's chin, painting a dark trail down his chest.
"STOP!" the captain roared, his voice cracking through the battlefield.
Steel clashed one last time, then silence. The frenzy of screams and groans died down. Kazel's boot pressed against a bandit's throat, ready to crush, but he stilled mid-motion. His blue eyes turned, narrowing like blades.
The sight made his chest tighten—not with pity, but with anger. Durandal's face was a grotesque mask of bruises and swollen flesh, nearly unrecognizable.
Kazel's brows furrowed. A faint twitch ran down his jaw. He let his foot slide off the throat beneath him, the bandit scrambling away in fear.
"Your dog is finished," the captain sneered, shaking Durandal's body for all to see. "Do you hear me, butcher of the Second Moon? You're not walking away with everything this time."
Durandal groaned weakly, blood bubbling from his lips. His eyes fluttered, trying to find Kazel, and when they met, a faint spark remained—barely clinging to consciousness.
Kazel tilted his head, his gaze cutting through the silence."…Put him down."
The words were quiet, but the weight behind them pressed on the air like thunder before a storm.
"I don't think you understand the situation," the bandit boss sneered, tightening his grip on Durandal's limp body. "You care so much about this slum-breathing dog, and now I have the upper hand. One stupid move might end him. Walk away scratchless, and we pretend this never happened. Of course…" his grin stretched, "…I'll keep this dog of yours as insurance."
The camp erupted in laughter, a chorus of jeers and mocking cheers. Even the pair of white knights from the Shield and Spear chuckled, arms crossed, as if enjoying the humiliation.
Kazel lowered himself onto one knee, his gaze never leaving Durandal's battered form. "Is this your limit, Durandal?"
The bandits roared with laughter, the boss smirking wider, shaking Durandal's bloody face like a trophy. But Kazel's hand brushed against the ground, fingers curling around an arrow protruding from a corpse. His eyes flicked—he caught it: a subtle twitch in Durandal's finger.
Kazel's lips curved into a knowing smirk.
He flicked his fingers, and in an instant, a bow appeared in his grasp—sleek, masterfully crafted, the prize of the Heavenless Bow Sect. He moved without pause: nock, draw, release.
The arrow screamed through the night, splitting the silence, a streak of death aimed squarely at the bandit boss's glabella.
The boss's eyes widened, his arm jerking instinctively—just as Durandal's foot erupted in fire. His burning heel slammed upward toward the bandit's jaw.
The two strikes met in perfect tandem: flame and arrow. The arrow's tip punched into the boss's brow, not a hair above where Durandal's fiery kick smashed into his face.
Durandal dropped from his grip as the corpse toppled like a felled tree.
For the first time, silence gripped the camp. The jeers died. The Shield and Spear knights' smirks faltered. All eyes turned toward Kazel—bow still drawn, cold blue eyes unblinking.