Kazel's boots echoed sharply against the stone floor as he strode into the hall. His shadow stretched long and jagged beneath the flickering torchlight until a guttural shout cracked through the air.
"WHOSE THERE?!"
The voice was rough, belonging to a burly man in a gray tunic, his bulk more fit for breaking doors than holding conversation. He barely had time to register the intruder before a blur of movement slammed into him.
"That should be my question," Kazel said coldly, driving his knee into the man's legs with surgical precision.
A sickening crack resounded as the man's kneecaps shattered. He crumpled instantly, howling, clutching at his ruined limbs. The agony distorted his features, but then—he looked up. His eyes widened, his scream caught in his throat. Recognition struck like a hammer, draining every drop of blood from his face.
"Y… You're alive?!" the man stammered, voice breaking.
Kazel loomed over him, not a drop of pity in his gaze. His presence was heavier than the storm outside, suffocating, ancient.
"I see," Kazel said, his tone almost amused, though his eyes burned with a predator's focus. "So you thought I was dead. And in my absence, you dared raid my sect? Didn't even bother to open the gate properly—you broke them."
He leaned forward, his half-broken blade dangling loosely from his hand, glinting dangerously as the torchlight flickered.
"Now," Kazel's voice dropped to a whisper that carried more threat than a scream, "tell me where Durandal and Arhatam are."
The burly man's lips trembled, torn between his loyalty to whoever sent him and the icy death that stared him in the face.
The man's jaw worked frantically, words spilling out in broken rhythm. He spoke of the White Knights, of the Shield and Spear, of their arrogance in claiming the Immortal Sect as theirs. He stammered over every detail, his fear feeding Kazel's silence.
By the time the confession ended, the hall itself seemed to groan under the weight of Kazel's murderous intent. His presence turned colder, sharper—like a storm-cloud about to break and tear the earth apart.
"Calad," Kazel's voice cut through the suffocating air.
From behind, the cloaked figure stirred, his tone measured, obedient."Yes, young master?"
"Stand at the gate and make sure no one leaves," Kazel commanded, eyes never leaving the crippled man quivering before him. "Oh—and lend me your sword."
"Certainly."
Calad's bony fingers emerged from beneath the heavy cloak as he pulled free the jagged blade, its edges serrated with age and cruelty. With a smooth motion, he tossed it through the air; Kazel caught it effortlessly, the steel resonating with a low, hungry hum in his grip.
Then Calad turned. The cloak swayed like a curtain of shadow as he extended his skeletal arm. A single snap echoed, sharp as a thunderclap.
From his ring, the ground shuddered. A monstrous presence surged forth—Rami, the weremole, her towering frame blotting out what little light dared spill into the ruined hall. Her claws scraped the stone as she loomed, breathing heavy, eyes glinting like burning embers.
The burly man choked on his own breath, realizing his tormentor was not alone—he was trapped between a devil and his demons.
The ruin's rain follows them back like a choir of witnesses — hammering the tiles, sluicing blood into the gullies. Outside the battered gate, Rami plants herself like a mountain: massive chest heaving, muzzle low, molten breath steaming in the cold. Her dark eyes burn with the same dull, obedient fire she showed Vil. Caladbolg — bone-white fingers curled around spear and spear-point — stands immovable beside her, cloak billowing like a funeral banner. Neither lets a soul pass. Neither offers quarter.
Inside, the Immortal Sect is a maze of shadowed corridors and shuttered rooms. Kazel moves through it like a surgeon through flesh: swift, exact, without hesitation. He is not loud. He does not roar. He is a presence — a blade of silence that arrives at the back of the throat and chokes fear into the air.
A courier stumbles into the main hall, soaked and coughing, flintless eyes full of certainty that he has the advantage of numbers. He has no idea why the gates are closed — the Shield and Spear thought the Sect broken. He has no idea why someone stands in the hall now.
Kazel spots him from the archway. The boy's confidence curdles in the space of a breath. Kazel's step is measured; his smile is small and terrible. The courier reaches for a spear that isn't there. Kazel's hand is on him before the thought finishes: a twist, a wrist snapped like a twig, the courier's blade clatters uselessly to stone. The sound is brief. The courier gags one time, looks up with panic in his eyes — and Kazel's knee crushes breath from lungs. He slides away, silent and finished, like a candle stubbed out.
In another corridor three men — half drunk, half brave — try to force a stair. They think they can overwhelm. They do not see the shadow peel off from the ceiling; they do not see the glint of a blade that did not arrive where they expected. Kazel meets them at the mouth of the stair: one movement to disengage a blade, a second to cleave through tendon. Limbs drop. A scream is torn into a cough. Their leader begs for the mercy of a legend he has only heard in taverns; Kazel offers him the closest thing: silence. No speeches. No show. The leader dies on his knees, hands slick with his own blood, while Kazel's face is unreadable.
Rami and Caladbolg do not idle. When any who think to flee turn toward the gate, they find their path barred by the beast and the king-of-bone. Rami's great paws slam down like hammers; one booted man is flung against the gate so hard the wood splinters. Caladbolg does not speak; he only points his spear and men crumple under the suggestion of its tip. No orderly retreat. Only the stampede of men whose courage dissolves under the steady stare of living and un-living guardians.
At the far corridor, twin voices rang out, sharp and commanding.
"Hold your ground!"
Two figures clad in gleaming ivory armor stood shoulder to shoulder, their blades crossed before them. The White Knights—mercenaries famed for their discipline and unyielding defense.
One raised his shield, the spear crest glaring under the torchlight. "Kazel. You should have stayed buried in history."
Kazel stepped forward, dragging Caladbolg along the marble floor, its jagged teeth carving grooves as it screeched. His blue eyes glimmered like frost in a storm.
"So it was you," he said, voice low but venomous. "Hired swords daring to trample my halls, thinking I was dead." He tilted his head, almost amused. "White Knights—they send dogs, not men."
The first knight slammed his shield down, the ground vibrating. "For coin, for justice, it matters not. Tonight, you will—"
His words cut short with the sound of steel biting through his shield arm. Kazel had moved in a blur, Caladbolg's jagged edge tearing through plate and flesh alike.
The second knight roared, swinging his greatsword in a cleaving arc, sparks flying as it clashed with Caladbolg. Kazel leaned in, pressing his weight, eyes unblinking.
"You call yourselves knights…" His voice was a hiss, teeth bared. "…but I see only scavengers."
With a sudden twist, he disarmed the man, driving his knee into his gut. The knight gagged, armor groaning under the pressure, before Caladbolg tore across his helm—ivory cracked, blood spraying.
The first knight, still clutching the stump of his arm, whimpered, "Monster… this sect was never yours to—"
Kazel silenced him with a thrust through the throat, his words drowned in a gurgle. He ripped the blade free and stood over the bodies, his breath even, his expression cold.
Behind him, the cries of intruders echoed as Rami and Calad shredded any who dared approach the gate.
"White Knights…" Kazel muttered, flicking blood from Caladbolg's edge. "You dared to defile my sect." His killing intent spread like suffocating fog, and the slaughter resumed, one corridor at a time.
The clash of steel and the stench of blood filled the desecrated halls. One White Knight lay butchered, his ivory plate cracked like an eggshell, his lifeblood soaking the floor.
The other—his helm tilted, eyes wide behind the slit—suddenly dropped his shield with a clang. His sword followed, clattering and spinning across the marble.
"I… I surrender!" he cried, voice shaking. His gauntleted hands trembled as he raised them in the air. "You… you won't attack an unarmed man, are you?"
His chest heaved with ragged breaths. His shoulders quivered not from discipline, but from fear.
(So this is the famed White Knight order? One already dead, and the other begging like a child.)
The knight's voice cracked, desperate. "You… you are a man of honor, right?"
"Correct," he said flatly.
In the same instant, the edge whistled through the air.
A wet shhk followed by a scream that rattled the rafters.
The knight's arm fell, severed clean at the shoulder, landing with a hollow clank of metal and meat. Blood erupted from the stump, spraying across the white of his armor until it turned crimson.
The knight collapsed, rolling across the floor, writhing and clutching at the wound. His wails echoed through the corridor, pathetic and high-pitched, nothing knightly about them.
Kazel only watched, cold and silent, as though he were observing an insect struggling after being pinned.
"You surrendered," Kazel said at last, his tone quiet, almost reflective. "But you dared to trespass. Honor is not a shield that protects cowards."
Kazel crouched, leveling the blade so its jagged edge pressed against the knight's throat. "The order ends. Tonight. Not because of me… not because of strength or fate." His tone deepened, venomous. "It ends because of you."
The knight froze, shivering despite the heat of blood soaking his armor.
"Because you trespassed my gates." Kazel leaned closer, his breath cold as winter. "Because you dared to raise hands against my people." His lips curved into a faint, merciless grin. "The Shield and Spear falls here, and its death is branded with your cowardice."
The knight sobbed, trembling, his eyes darting as though begging the gods for a savior that would never come.