By the time the afternoon sun slanted through the trees, Kazel stepped back into the bandit headquarters. His boots crunched against the dirt floor, the smell of smoke and steel still hanging in the air.
Before he could take another step, Arhatam came barreling toward him, his robes flapping, his hair sticking in every direction.
"There you are!" Arhatam shouted, his voice cracking. "Where have you been? Do you know how many things could've happened?! You leave without a word—without a word!—and I'm left here thinking maybe the bandits came back, maybe some sect patrol caught you, maybe—"
Kazel walked past him, as if he were nothing more than a gust of air. "You're loud."
Arhatam gawked, throwing his arms wide. "Loud?! Of course I'm loud! You disappear into the forest with corpses still warm in the dirt, and meanwhile, I'm expected to sit around polishing vials like nothing happened?"
Kazel smirked faintly, his eyes drifting over the camp's progress. Durandal was dragging a chest with trembling arms, his shirt soaked in sweat, but his eyes glowed with stubborn determination. Piles of sorted goods—gold, blades, bundles of spirit herbs—were already stacking near the wall.
"You worry too much," Kazel said at last, finally sparing Arhatam a glance. "If I died, you'd know."
Arhatam froze. His lips parted, then closed, then opened again. "That's—that's not the point! I need to prepare things! Documents, accounts, certifications—I can't prepare them if you vanish whenever you please!"
Kazel let out a low chuckle. "Then prepare faster."
Arhatam grabbed at his own hair with a groan. "This is impossible…"
Kazel finally stopped, resting his hand lazily on the hilt of his blade. His smirk tugged higher as he looked at Arhatam's reddened, frantic face.
"You're right," Kazel said. "You deserve to know."
Arhatam blinked. "Huh?"
"I dealt with the Shield and Spear," Kazel said calmly, as if mentioning he had gone to buy tea.
Arhatam's jaw dropped. His arms flailed so wildly a pouch of herbs fell from his belt. "You what?! Have you gone insane?! The Shield and Spear?! You provoked them? Do you have any idea—no, no, of course you don't—do you even care what kind of storm you've stirred up?!"
Kazel tilted his head. His blue eyes narrowed faintly with amusement. "Not the main group, fool. Their bandit stronghold. A nest. I cut off its head and left the rest scattering."
Arhatam just stood there, mouth opening and closing like a dying fish. His face went pale, then red, then pale again.
"You—you—you say it like you just plucked weeds from a garden!" Arhatam finally roared. "Do you realize what you've done? Even if it's just a bandit headquarters, they still wear the same name! Shield and Spear won't care if it's their honorable mercenaries or their scum—they'll only see that you butchered their banner!"
Kazel chuckled, brushing past him. "Exactly. And when they come looking, they'll know my name."
Arhatam spun around, gripping his head. "Madness… utter madness…"
Kazel didn't look back. "You worry about papers, Arhatam. I'll worry about blades."
A few days passed in uneasy quiet. Then, one morning, the gates thundered with fists and boots.
"KA–ZEL! KA–ZEL! GET OUT HERE!"
The chant rolled like waves, dozens of voices in unison, pounding against the sect's walls.
Durandal froze mid-swing, the wooden blade in his hand trembling. Sweat dripped from his brow, but it wasn't from training anymore. Each roar outside seemed to sync with his heartbeat, pounding louder, heavier, until his chest felt ready to burst. He swallowed hard. (They're here… for him. For us.)
Inside his so-called "man cave," Arhatam nearly dropped the ladle he was using to stir a bubbling cauldron of herbs. His hands shook so badly that some green liquid sloshed over the rim, hissing when it touched the fire beneath. His eyes darted toward the window, but he didn't dare peek outside.
"Damn it all… damn it all…" he muttered, clutching his head. The roar of Kazel's name outside pressed down like thunder. His teeth clenched. (Whatever the fuck is that… let the young master deal with it. I'm no martyr. This is his mess, not mine.) He shoved the ladle back into the pot and stirred harder, as though grinding his anxiety into the brew.
The voices outside grew louder, unified, relentless.
"KA–ZEL! KA–ZEL! COME OUT!"
The pounding at the gates grew savage, fists slamming against ironwood, boots stomping on the dirt. The chants turned into snarls.
"COME OUT, TYRANT!"
"YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE BEHIND WALLS?!"
"KILLER OF THE SHIELD AND SPEAR, SHOW YOUR FACE!"
A rock suddenly slammed against the gate, rattling the hinges. Another followed, then another.
"BURN HIM OUT!" someone roared. "DRAG HIM TO PIECES!"
The mob's cries swelled into chaos — jeers, curses, death threats. The air itself seemed to tremble, charged with hate and bloodlust.
And yet… above it all, a calm set of footsteps echoed within the sect's courtyard. Slow. Measured. Each one crisp against the ground, unhurried, as if the man walking had not heard a single threat outside the gate.
Durandal's head snapped up, his pulse surging. Arhatam froze mid-step, ears straining. The disciples went silent.
The mob's fury outside built to a frenzy, the sound of fists and boots hammering like war drums. But then, from within the courtyard, a voice rose.
Not a voice — an aura.
It surged outward like a wave crashing against the gate, heavy and suffocating, drilling into the chests of those outside.
"It's not locked."
The words tore through the air, deep and cold, carried on a force that was not meant for ears but for bones. Every man and woman beyond the walls stiffened as if a predator's breath brushed their neck.
Silence.
The fists that had been pounding froze mid-strike. The stones meant to be hurled slipped from hands and fell soundlessly into the dirt. Even the most vengeful zealot among them felt his heart shudder — the kind of dread that reminded him of the nightmarish gap between prey and predator.
Durandal, still inside, swallowed hard, his throat dry. He had heard Kazel's voice before, but this time it was different — everyone heard it. Not with their ears, but with their very souls.
Arhatam's legs nearly gave out beneath him. (Damn it… he'll bring the whole sect down on us. He's either mad or… or he really means to kill them all.) His hands trembled, but a twisted relief sparked in his chest: for once, it wasn't his tongue that had to deal with the wolves.
Outside, the crowd shifted uneasily, gazes darting at one another, some already stepping back though they hadn't meant to. Their anger bled into hesitation, hesitation into fear.
The gates creaked. Not because they opened, but because not a single hand dared strike them again.
Kazel snorted, the sound sharp and dismissive, like a wolf huffing at sheep. He strode to the gate with unhurried steps, each one echoing against the stone. His hand grasped the iron latch, and with a rough pull, the doors groaned wide.
What greeted him were not warriors.
They wore armor, yes. Their breastplates glinted in the afternoon sun, spears raised and shields braced, but their bodies betrayed them. Shoulders hunched. Hands trembling. Eyes darting everywhere except at him.
They weren't men of conviction. They were nervous men in armor.
Kazel's gaze swept over them like a butcher appraising livestock. His lips curved in a smirk, mocking, knowing. The silence stretched, suffocating, until even the clink of a dropped gauntlet would have sounded like thunder.
One of the armored men shifted his weight, the sound of his boot scraping on stone far too loud in the stillness. Another swallowed, his throat bobbing like a man about to beg.
Kazel raised his chin ever so slightly, as if the sight disappointed him. "Is this it?" he asked, voice calm, disdain dripping from every syllable.
The men stiffened. None dared answer.
Kazel's smirk widened as he stepped forward, aura pressing down like a mountain. His voice cut through the air, cold and disdainful.
"Did you really think I would succumb to this… pressure?"
The words slithered into their ears, and the armored men flinched as though they had been struck. Kazel's eyes gleamed, bright and merciless, as he continued.
"Go on then. Spout out your false bravado. Frame me in your narrative. I am more than enough to welcome all of you!"
He threw his arms slightly open, as though daring them to strike. None moved.
"Come," he barked, the sound cracking like a whip. "Invite the rest of the hierarchy in your Order! Bring them all. But know this—" his tone dropped, fangs hidden in velvet, "their heads will roll… and so will your banner."
The armored men shuddered. Some clenched their weapons tighter, though their knuckles were white with fear. Others shifted uneasily, their courage thinning thread by thread under the tyrant's presence.
Kazel only looked at them, a wolf waiting for the herd to scatter.
"Y-You will pay for this!" one of them stammered, voice cracking through the tension.
But his words carried no steel. The moment they turned, the rest followed like startled cattle. Boots scraped stone, armor rattled, curses and prayers alike spilling from their lips as they scrambled away from the gate.
Kazel didn't chase. He only stood there, watching the backs of armored men fleeing like children from a ghost story.
Durandal stepped beside him, wiping the sweat still clinging to his brow. "Young master…" His eyes darted toward the empty slope of the paving way, where echoes of fleeing boots still hung in the air.
"I'll be out strolling," Kazel smirked, not even sparing another glance at the retreating men. His steps were unhurried, casual, as though the earlier storm of threats and armor had been nothing more than morning mist. Without waiting for acknowledgment, he strolled leisurely toward The Fang.
Durandal stood there for a moment, fists unconsciously clenching and unclenching. (How does he do that? As if the world itself bends around his confidence…)
"Durandal!" Arhatam's voice cut through his thoughts. The alchemist approached, polishing a thin glass vial between cloth, his eyes still following Kazel's figure in the distance. "Well, if you're doing nothing, we have a batch to sell."
Durandal sighed, half-heartedly turning. "You pick the worst times, Arhatam."
"On the contrary," Arhatam said with a grin, raising the vial to the light. "There's no such thing as a bad time for profit."