The bandit boss hit the dirt with a dull thud, eyes still wide, the arrow quivering in his skull.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. No one moved. No one breathed.
The laughter that had filled the camp a moment before now hung in the air like a ghost, leaving only the crackle of the fires and the ragged breath of the living. Bandits stared at their fallen leader, their mouths open but no sound coming out.
A chill crawled up their spines. It was as if the ground itself had dropped beneath them, as if death itself now stood in their midst, bow in hand, eyes as cold as steel.
Someone swallowed hard. Another's blade clattered from his shaking grip.
And then—realization struck.
Their captain was dead. Just like that. Not with a struggle, not with a duel. Dead—like an insect pinned through the head.
Panic erupted.
The bandits scrambled, tripping over each other in a mad dash for escape. Some screamed. Some begged. Others cursed their luck as they shoved their comrades aside, desperate to flee the man who had just felled their boss without breaking stride.
"Run!" one shouted.
"He killed him—he killed the captain!" another wailed.
"Monster! He's not human!"
Even the two knights of Shield and Spear stiffened, their mocking expressions wiped clean, unease creeping into their eyes as they watched the camp dissolve into chaos.
Kazel lowered the bow, his expression unreadable, while Durandal lay battered on the ground beside the twitching corpse of his former captor.
Kazel didn't move.
He stood there with the bow lowered at his side, blue eyes glinting under the moonlight, watching the chaos unravel before him.
Bandits shoved, clawed, and trampled one another as they fled into the night, some screaming for their mothers, others mumbling broken prayers to gods who would not answer. The stronger shoved the weaker aside, scrambling like rats in a sinking ship.
Kazel simply watched. No pursuit, no command, no gesture. His stillness was worse than fury.
Because it meant he didn't need to chase them.
The mere thought of him was enough to break them.
Those who dared to glance back caught his eyes for just a fraction of a second—and that was all it took. Their legs buckled, their throats dried, and they turned away, running even faster, as though just being seen condemned them.
Between the sea of scrambling men, two figures did not run.
The pair of white knights stood firm, their polished armor gleaming beneath the moon, stark against the chaos of fleeing bandits. Yet their stillness was not strength. Kazel could see it—through the narrow slits of their helmets, he caught the grinding of their teeth, the faint gnash of panic trying to masquerade as discipline.
Kazel smirked.
They hadn't expected this. Not the fall of an entire bandit headquarters, not the sight of hardened cutthroats tripping over one another like cattle, not the death of their so-called captain in a single instant.
This was their weakness.
Kazel had seen it countless times before—in kingdoms, in sects, in armies that thought themselves mighty. They were united, yes… but only by a thread. A thread spun of fear, greed, and convenience.
And Kazel was the scissor.
The bandits scattered into the forest, their shrieks fading into the night, but the two white knights remained. For a long moment, they stood rooted among the carnage, their armor rising and falling with ragged breath.
Kazel's smirk lingered as his blue eyes locked onto their helmets. He saw it clearly—the gnash of teeth hidden behind steel, the bitterness of men who had tasted loss too sharp to swallow.
Finally, one knight stepped back, his gauntleted fist tightening at his side. The other followed, slower, as if every step away tore at his pride. Their heavy boots echoed against the broken earth, not in triumph, but in retreat.
Yet Kazel caught it—the weight in their gaze before they turned. That unfulfilled hunger, that greedy spark that still clung to him, to the bow in his hand, to the power he wielded.
They left, but not defeated. They left with hearts heavy, eyes lingering too long, as though they could already see the day they might return.
Kazel turned, the battlefield eerily quiet now. Durandal lay sprawled in the dirt, bloodied and unconscious, his chest barely rising with each breath. The boy had spirit—but spirit didn't always keep one standing.
Kazel's smirk curved faintly, not at cruelty, but at inevitability. His gaze swept the deserted headquarters. Weapons and trinkets lay abandoned, treasures half-buried in the dirt. The blacksmith's camp still smoldered, embers glowing orange in the night like watchful eyes refusing to die.
He dragged in a breath, the iron tang of blood still thick in the air, then exhaled through a weary chuckle.
"Looks like I'll be sleeping here in this mold," he muttered, almost to himself, his voice carrying through the hollow silence.
With that, Kazel stepped forward, boots crunching against broken steel and forgotten riches, already claiming the ruin as if it had always been his.
...
The next morning came with a pale warmth. The sun slipped through the cracks of the trees and kissed Durandal's battered face, dragging him back from the abyss of unconsciousness.
He groaned, flinching at the sting across his swollen cheek. His whole body ached—bones rattled, muscles throbbed, face stiff with dried blood. When he tried to lift an arm, it trembled as though weighted with stone.
Slowly, his eyes cracked open. The bandit camp lay in eerie silence. Tents sagged without owners, weapons jutted from the ground like forgotten gravestones, and smoke still curled from the blacksmith's forge. The stench of blood hadn't faded—it hung heavy, a reminder of the slaughter.
Durandal swallowed hard, panic striking first. (The captain—what happened? Did I—?)
Then, a sound.
The scrape of boots against dirt.
He turned his head, and there was Kazel, crouched by the forge, sharpening a blade with unhurried precision. The young master's expression was unreadable in the morning light, but his blue eyes cut sharp the moment they flicked toward Durandal.
"You're awake," Kazel said flatly, as if Durandal had only been napping.
Kazel slid the casual blade back into its sheath with a soft click. His smirk lingered as his eyes rested on the battered boy.
"I have a task for you."
Durandal, though still trembling, forced his battered body to kneel. His voice cracked, but his will bent toward obedience."Y… Yes, young master."
"Bring everything that is of value here, back to our sect."
Durandal's eyes widened. "E–Everything?!"
"Of value," Kazel repeated, his tone patient, but edged like steel. "You will have full authority to decide what's worth carrying back. The rest… let them rot here."
He leaned back, his smirk deepening as though he were handing a boy the keys to an empire."Bring them back. If someone dares to interfere, tell them it was me. And if they pay no heed—" Kazel's gaze sharpened, cutting into Durandal like a blade, "—kill them if necessary."
Durandal froze, his throat tightening. His fists clenched against the dirt, and for a brief moment the silence was broken only by the faint crackle of the forge fire.
Finally, he bowed his head."Yes, young master."
Durandal's head was still pressed against the dirt when Kazel turned away. The casual clack of boots echoed against the emptied bandit hall, then softened into silence as he stepped into the forest. Not a single glance back, not even to check if Durandal would live up to his words.
Durandal's throat burned. His bruises throbbed with every breath, but his chest felt heavier from something else entirely.
( He left… just like that. He… he trusts me? )
His bloodied fingers dug into the ground. The words still echoed in his ears: "You will have full authority."
( Authority… me? A dog of the slums? No one's ever trusted me with more than a stolen coin. No one— )
He lifted his head and looked around at the abandoned camp: treasures glinting in scattered crates, the blacksmith's fire still alive, half-forged weapons lying in ash. It was all there, free for the taking.
( If I fail… I'm dead. If I succeed… then maybe I'll no longer be a stray. )
His lips quivered, somewhere between a smile and a sob."Thank you… young master…" he whispered to no one but the smoldering forge.
Outside, the forest swallowed Kazel's figure, his shadow melting into the trees as though he had never been there.