Yan Sen moved alone across the endless desert, the sand shifting under his boots with each step. At a hollow stretch of silence, he halted, lowering himself to the ground. Drawing slow, deliberate breaths, he performed the ritual of divination, his hands tracing measured patterns in the dust.
Moments passed—then the answer revealed itself.
He saw where his new student would be.
Yan Sen crested the last dune and paused. Below, a village lay suffocated under the grip of chaos. A ring of Red Turban warriors pressed in, herding terrified men, women, and children toward the central square. Their cries blended with the clatter of boots and the rasp of drawn steel.
At the heart of it all stood two figures—commanding presences none of the villagers dared meet eye to eye.
Memnon and Thorak.
Memnon held himself like a ruler carved from iron: tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating authority. His black leather armor caught streaks of light, its chains and metallic trims glinting with menace. His stance was open, confident, almost taunting—palms spread as if he already owned the ground he walked on. His square jaw and sharp gaze exuded calm arrogance, every detail underscoring why warriors called him King.
By his side loomed Thorak, the enforcer. A deep crimson scarf streamed behind him in the wind, crowned with a gold-circled headpiece that made him look part-warrior, part-warlord. His bare, muscular chest was bound with harnesses of leather and studded metal, and in his hand, a battle axe rested heavy, promising violence at the slightest gesture.
The crowd parted unwillingly as two villagers were dragged forward—a Chinese couple, forty at most, trembling as they held onto their daughter. She was young, barely eighteen, clutching her shawl tightly around her shoulders.
At first glance, she looked no different from any frightened daughter shielded by her parents. But as the sunlight caught her features, her presence commanded silence.
Her face carried a delicate symmetry—an oval shape, smooth and graceful, with eyes that locked the gaze of anyone bold enough to look into them. Almond-shaped and deep brown, her eyes were calm at first, yet penetrated with something far older than her eighteen years. A quiet wisdom, almost unnerving. Her gaze lingered not just on a person, but through them.
Her skin shimmered with a natural warmth, a soft glow against the dust of the village. Jet-black hair spilled down her back in perfect cascades, parted neatly in the center, mother-of-pearl strands fluttering lightly in the wind. Her lips, full yet composed, carried no makeup—only the raw poise of someone who did not need it.
She was slender yet shapely, the kind of figure that carried elegance even in stillness. Standing at an average height among the villagers, she was impossible to mistake—her aura separating her from the rest.
There was beauty, undeniable and effortless. But there was also something deeper—an air of mystique, as though her soul had already peered beyond the present moment into realms hidden from everyone else.
Her name was Cassandra.
Even here, amidst dust and fear, she carried an aura—subtle but undeniable. Whispers had already spread of her talent: a gift of sight beyond sight. And Memnon had heard. To him, she was more than beauty. She was power waiting to be claimed.
Memnon stepped forward, boots cracking against the stone. He studied her in silence, his piercing gaze drinking in her fear as though it were a sign of tribute. Then, to the shock of all, he slowly dropped to one knee before her.
"I must say," he murmured, lips curving into a faintly smug smile. "The tales of your beauty did not do you justice."
Cassandra's breath caught, but instead of lowering her eyes, she glared—her fear sharp enough to mask itself as defiance.
Memnon's amusement flickered brighter. "I hear you can glimpse the future." Rising smoothly to his full height, his voice hardened into command. "Then let us test it… shall we?"
Memnon's eyes flicked toward Cassandra's parents and with a casual gesture, he ordered them dragged closer. The villagers shrank back as the Red Turbans forced the couple forward, their faces tight with fear.
But before the spectacle could go further, a stir broke out at the village's edge.
Yan Sen had arrived.
A lone figure striding out of the desert haze, cloak trailing in the sand. His presence was calm, almost unassuming—yet it pulled every eye. The Red Turban guards at the front gripped their weapons and stepped into his path.
"You are not allowed here!" one of them barked, raising his blade. "Leave at once!"
Yan Sen did not flinch. His gaze passed over them, cool and final. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, no louder than a breath:
"—Die."
There was no struggle. No clash of steel. In the next instant, every one of the guards crumpled to the ground at once—lifeless, motionless, like marionettes with their strings severed.
Gasps tore through the crowd. Even the Red Turbans deeper in the square froze, the weight of unseen power pressing against them.
And in that silence, Yan Sen kept walking forward.
Thorak was the first to react. His grip tightened on his axe as his voice cut through the square, sharp and rattled.
"He must be a sorcerer! Archers—shoot him down!"
At once, bows drew and arrows hissed through the air toward Yan Sen.
But just before they reached him, the projectiles shattered in mid-flight, collapsing into dust that scattered uselessly to the ground. The villagers gasped. The Red Turbans stumbled back.
Yan Sen only smiled faintly, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Half Death."
The archers froze, faces twisting as numbness spread through their limbs. One by one, they collapsed, screaming as their hands and feet refused to obey them. The crowd recoiled at the horror—men broken without a drop of blood spilled.
Memnon and Thorak exchanged a look. Whatever this power was, it was far beyond them.
Thorak pushed himself between Memnon and Yan Sen, shouting in urgency:
"Sire, leave—now!"
Raising his axe, Thorak hurled it with all his strength. The weapon spun like a guillotine through the air.
Yan Sen didn't move. His eyes gleamed with cold amusement as he whispered again.
"Half Death."
Half Death can restrict his power in such a way as to only kill parts of a given target, like specific limbs or organs of theirs. For instance, he may choose to eliminate someone's senses (looking, hearing, smelling), or their arms, legs, fingers, hands, etc.
Yan Sen used it on Thoraks heart.
Thorak stiffened. His chest seized, pain ripping through his body. He clutched at his chest, choking as his breath failed him. Within moments, the mighty enforcer collapsed face-first into the dirt—dead before his axe even hit the ground.
A heavy silence fell.
Memnon stood frozen, the shock etched across his face. For the first time, the tyrant who had crushed armies felt the weight of fear—and it rooted him to the spot.
In desperation, he grabbed Cassandra, dragging her forward as he pressed a knife to her throat. His voice cracked with both rage and panic:
"Don't come closer—or I'll slit her throat!"
Yan Sen stopped, regarding him calmly. For a moment, Memnon thought he had found his advantage.
But Yan Sen's lips curved, almost amused.
"You think steel will save you?"
The blade crumbled into dust in Memnon's hand.
His eyes widened—no weapon, no defense left. Before he could react further, Yan Sen whispered again."Half Death."
This time it was Memnon's arms.
Memnon gasped, his arms going limp, useless at his sides.
Another whisper followed, colder, final.
Half Death.
This time it was his lungs.
He staggered, wheezing like a drowning man.
Pain racked his chest. He coughed violently, every breath strained as his lungs betrayed him. His skin paled, his lips and nails turned blue. His once-commanding figure crumpled, reduced to a gasping, trembling shell of a conqueror.
Yan Sen's expression did not change. To him, this was not a battle. It was judgment.
A simple whisper."Die."
As all the fallen Turbaned warriors died.