Kazel returned by dusk, the sky bruised with the last streaks of crimson. He entered the compound with the same quiet confidence, though his presence alone drew both Durandal and Arhatam from their corners. Durandal still clutched his training blade, sweat dripping from his brow, while Arhatam poked his head out from his cramped workshop with a vial in hand.
"Young master," Durandal said, instinctively straightening.
Kazel gave them a look that silenced any more greetings. He stopped in the center of the courtyard, his blue eyes sharper than steel.
"I will be gone for a time," he began. "The Shield and Spear have extended an invitation—an expedition to a ruin whispered to hold treasures of a distant age. This one," he tapped his chest with two fingers, "I will walk alone."
Durandal's eyes widened, but before he could object, Kazel's voice cut through the night air."You will remain here. Guard our home. When I return, I expect you to have broken through into the Soul Refining realm. That will be your contribution."
Durandal's fists tightened. "Soul Refining…?" His voice trembled with a mixture of awe and fear.
"Yes," Kazel said, tone unwavering. "It is not a request. It is your path forward. If you cannot manage this while I tread among ruins and death itself, then you are unworthy of standing beside me."
Durandal dropped to his knees, bowing his head low. "I will not fail you, young master."
Kazel turned his gaze to Arhatam, who nervously adjusted the vial in his hand."As for you… the spoils from the bandit raid are sufficient for both your work and your livelihood. I trust you can make something worthwhile from them. Use them well."
Arhatam gulped, nodding rapidly. "Y-Yes, young master. Plenty enough to fund… more than one venture, heh." He tried to force a laugh, but it cracked under Kazel's smirk.
Kazel's cloak shifted as he turned, walking toward his chambers. "Good. Then we are agreed. When I return… the two of you had better be stronger than when I left. Otherwise, all of this will have been a waste."
The heavy sound of his door closing behind him lingered like a decree.
The next morning, the west side of The Fang was restless with the hum of steel and the murmur of armored men. Dust rose faintly with each step of the gathered knights. Dozens stood in formation at the outskirt path, their polished gray plate glinting beneath the pale sun.
At the center of them all, like a shadow cast among silver, stood Okhist—his black armor absorbing the light rather than reflecting it. His helm was tucked under one arm, his posture disciplined, gaze fixed on the horizon. Around him, the gray knights exchanged glances and low whispers.
"Kazel…" one sneered, voice muffled beneath his helmet. "That brat from the Immortal Sect should've stayed in his little nest. Expeditions like this aren't for reckless sect slayers."
Another chuckled under his breath, adjusting the strap of his gauntlet. "Maybe the leader just wants a distraction—throw him into the ruin and see if the traps like him more than us."
A third knight scoffed, spitting into the dirt. "He's nothing but trouble. To stand beside the Shield and Spear without kneeling? Arrogant. I'd sooner slit his throat than watch him lead."
The sneers and mutters carried through the group like smoke, but none dared to raise their voice too high under Okhist's presence. Still, the disdain was clear, echoing in their laughter and smirks.
Okhist, silent, let them talk. His hand rested calmly on the pommel of his sword, but his stance was that of a man who heard every word, weighing, judging. His black-clad figure cut a line of authority amid the tide of gray, the only one unmoving while the others shifted restlessly.
"Young master, is that what he calls the brat? A 'master' fit for slums, maybe."
"Don't forget," another added with a crooked grin, "this is the same boy who stirred trouble with our order. If not for the leader's word, he'd already be fertilizer under the banners of the Shield and Spear."
Laughter followed, sharp and mocking, but hushed enough to keep from drawing Okhist's full ire.
One knight leaned closer to another, whispering behind his visor, "I heard he really did wipe out the Second Moon. Alone."
"Tch, lies. Drunk tales at best. A boy his age doesn't cut down a sect, he gets cut down. Whatever happened, it wasn't him."
Still, there was unease in their voices. Mockery did little to drown the edge of caution. For every laugh, there was a flicker of doubt—a whispered rumor of the tyrant reborn, the name "Sect Slayer" hanging uncomfortably in their throats.
Okhist stood like a dark sentinel, letting them speak, not a twitch betraying his thoughts. His presence was weight enough to keep their mutiny at the level of whispers rather than shouts.
One knight, bolder than the rest, stepped forward and muttered to the group, "If he shows weakness, we should remind him whose expedition this is. Immortal Sect or not, he has no place leading men of the Shield and Spear."
"Agreed," came another. "And if the ruin claims him… then so be it."
A gust of wind rattled the tall grass at their feet, carrying the words into the silence that followed. For a moment, even the sneers quieted. The westward road stretched empty, waiting—like the pause before thunder.
Okhist's eyes, calm yet sharp beneath his helmless brow, finally shifted toward the horizon. He had said nothing, but the weight of his gaze silenced the chatter more effectively than any command could.
The road was quiet, the air crisp, broken only by the occasional clang of armor and the whispers of disdain. The knights in gray shifted impatiently, their mutters still carrying threads of mockery.
Then came the sound. Not loud, not hurried—just the steady, measured rhythm of boots against the dirt road.
Step. Step. Step.
Their eyes turned as one. A figure emerged from the treeline, not in a rush, not even acknowledging them at first. His robe swayed lightly with the breeze, his posture relaxed, as though the expedition was little more than a leisurely stroll.
Kazel.
He did not wear grandeur, nor did he need to. The weight of his presence was enough to still the laughter in their throats. The smirks faltered, swallowed by something they couldn't quite name.
A single sneer turned into silence. The line of knights, so eager to jeer moments before, now found their tongues heavy. The boy—no, the youth—walked with the composure of someone who had never once considered them his equals.
Okhist's lips curved ever so slightly, a shadow of approval crossing his features.
Kazel's eyes lifted, calm, steady, sweeping over the sea of gray armor until they found the single black knight at the center. His smirk appeared at last, faint but sharp.
"I see I kept you waiting," he said casually, his voice cutting through the air like a blade sheathed in silk.
The knights shifted, their gauntlets creaking, but none dared to reply.