It was the sixth day since the group returned from the ruins… well over a month since they'd left Valemoor behind.
For the last three days, Kael had thrown himself into training, cutting through air with practiced slashes, refining his stances, tempering strength with agility.
At this point, His body had started aching in places he didn't even know existed. But Liam's words rang in his ears like a hammer striking steel:
"This world eats the weak," Liam said. "Only the strong survive—and they carve history in their image."
Liam was right… But Strength alone can't do a thing in this world. So, Liam trained his speed, as he say:
"Strength without speed is gonna drag you six feet deep."
He was right. What good was 'Might' if Kael couldn't react in time? If a single blade ended him before Kael could lift his own, then every drop of sweat he'd poured into strength was wasted.
But today… something felt different.
Maybe he was adjusting to this life… or maybe the world itself had decided to show kindness. Birds chirped in the canopies above. The morning sun draped the earth in warm, silken rays… soft but steady, like a mother's hand. The cold bite of dawn lingered, sharp and clean, filled with the scent of damp earth and pine.
The trees swayed gently, whispering through their leaves. There was power in that sound… subtle, ancient. It made Kael want to rise, to move, to conquer.
"Good," Liam said behind him, voice slicing through the calm. "Let's move to the next technique.", Liam put his hand on his sword belt, and spoke, "*Piercer*."
He stepped forward and unsheathed his blade. It looked old…scratched, Chipped in places, the leather grip worn to its bones. A lesser man might have discarded it. But Liam wasn't a lesser man. That blade had lived more than most men would.
"This technique," Liam said, leveling the sword toward a wooden post they'd driven into the ground, "decides your life or death. Get it right… you survive. Miss even slightly… and you bleed."
There was no room for questions. The blade moved.
A sudden, violent gust shot forward as Liam lunged, the sword a blur of silver and will. The air whooshed past Kael's face so hard his cheeks stung. A perfect Sword shaped hole appeared in the thick wooden post. Clean… like a divine spear had kissed the center.
"That's the first," Liam said calmly. "A straight stab."
He stepped back a little… and thrusted his sword again.
Same posture, same grip. But this time, just as the tip struck, he twisted the blade mid-thrust.
Another hole appeared, this one jagged, hollowed, like a wound torn open by a dull smack. The motion had been nearly identical. The speed, the strength… even the gust felt the same.
But the results were worlds apart.
Why?
Liam exhaled slowly. "Now you understand why this can be the difference between a kill or you being killed.", Liam continued, " In army, Soldiers uses this technique as the last resort… since this technique leaves so much of a opening if you miss the target."
Then he turned. "Try."
Kael stepped forward, encouraged by the show but before he could raise his blade, someone else moved ahead.
"I'll give it a shot," Terren said, grinning.
Liam nodded. "Go ahead."
Terren steadied his breath, mimicked the stance exactly.
He was younger than Kael… barely twenty-one… but built like someone who knew pain intimately. He had trained relentlessly these past weeks.
Even Kael believed he might actually pull it off.
Then Terren struck.
The blade shot forward, just like Liam. The point slammed just above Liam's mark.
*Clang!*
The sound was brutal—iron against stone. Terren's body shuddered as the shock reverberated through his bones. He dropped the blade. Blood seeped from under his nails.
To Kael the action was the same between Liam and Terren but results were completely different.
Kael was shocked by the result, as he heard:
"Just like I said," Liam murmured. "Play it right and you kill. Play it wrong…"
Liam grabbed Terren's arm as it was bleeding, "…and you bleed,".
Liam turned to Kael, that half-smile curling his lips again. "I didn't explain how to do throw the Piercer, did I?
"That's because I wanted you to *see* what happens. So that you wouldn't make mistake on battle ground… As they say 'Mistakes make better teachers than men like me.'"
He walked to the post, pointing at the damage.
"This stab requires *hollow handling*. Don't strangle the hilt. Don't fight the blade. Let it move like it's part of your body"
He looked at them again.
"Do you move your hand with just your muscles?"
They nodded.
"Well, yes… but not really. You move with your *eyes*. The muscles obey. But it's the eyes that guide. Your intent travels through the body into the hand. That's how a stab becomes a *Piercer*."
Liam closed his eyes for a moment. his voice softened.
"Let the sword be you. Let your eyes guide the blade as it makes the path for you."
The world seemed still.
That single line… it opened a door somewhere deep inside Kael. A word of wisdom… something Liam had heard from his teacher.
They spent the rest of the day training the Piercer… over and over—until Kael's shoulders screamed, until his hands blistered, until he could barely lift his blade.
Yet, in exhaustion, something pure remained.
Training under the right mentor… bleeding beside someone who called him brother…
It was hard But it was beautiful.
And Kael had to admit something, even if it stung his pride.
Terren was a monster.
He'd mirrored Kael's every move, every strike, every breath since day one. Yet now, Kael lay collapsed on the cold earth, arms trembling, body aching—while Terren still trained, dashing across the clearing with Liam, sharpening his agility.
Terren was really worthy to be called 'Untamed Beast'
…
After a short break, Liam shifted their focus to breathing styles… something Kael hadn't thought much about. But Liam showed how breath moved with intention: the inhale before a slash, the controlled exhale of a thrust, the still breath of a duel's tension.
With eyes closed, Kael focused inward. He could feel the air draw deep into his core, swirling through his lungs, warm and sharp as it left.
As according to Liam as an experienced Soldier, Breathing was even more important than the slashes it self… as even if with the knowledge of world, one just loses his breath and just collapses on the ground… That is not Ideal.
As Kael focused on his breath,
For a moment, the world stilled.
Until
"AAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!"
A scream—no, a soul-cracking cry. Kael's heart dropped. He knew that voice.
He opened his eyes.
"Miya", Liam uttered.
They ran.
Liam moved first, Terren close behind. Kael followed, muscles heavy, boots pounding over dirt and stone. They rounded the corner behind the main outpost.
Liam stopped abruptly.
Terren moved a few steps farther—then froze.
Confused, Kael caught up. He didn't understand. Why had they stopped?
Then he saw it.
The gate.
Blood.
Standing.
Distorted.
Familiar.
Captain.
Segeford.
But not as they remembered him.
He stood barely more than a silhouette in red. His left arm was shredded, hanging from sinew. His jaw hung askew, armor torn open. Across his chest—ten blades had carved a starless sky.
Kael gagged. The sight nearly turned his stomach inside out as his gaze settled on Segeford's right arm.
In his right hand… a head.
Not human.
It wasn't a head. It was a hive. A grotesque thing of bone and skin, covered in eye sockets—some hollow, some twitching with new growth. Hundreds or holes on a single head. It was as if the evil carved that thing with his own hands. some of the eyes were still there… or rather growing back, glowed faintly—not feral, but cunning.
as the cavities came open, something moved in them… Slugs or tentacles writhed through the openings, alive and wrong.
Kael looked at Segeford's face.
He's face was all deep and dyed red as blood soaked. His jaw was distorted but his eyes were still, They were looking straight.
They weren't looking at Miya.
They were looking through her.
Kael couldn't breathe. His vision blurred. The air felt like glass against his lungs.
He turned to Liam… paralyzed, jaw clenched. Terren stood pale, fists trembling. Even Miya—who had screamed with a soul torn open—was now silent.
It wasn't the gore that stunned them.
It was the *eyes*.
Segeford's eyes.
Lifeless. Hollow. Yet they screamed without sound:
Approach… and die.
Then—
*THUMP.*
He collapsed.
The giant crumpled like a fallen tree.
The head in his hand rolled free.
It twitched once.
Then—
*WHOOSH.*
Liam grabbed a torch from the pillar and slammed it into the thing.
"OIL!" he roared. "Woods and oil—NOW!"
The words snapped Kael awake. He and Terren ran, found supplies, sprinted back. Liam threw wood on that head, poured oil, set it ablaze.
The stench…
Rotten. Not just decay—something *wrong*, like the world itself had rejected it. Kael gagged, vomited.
Miya was on her knees, cradling Segeford, sobbing silently.
"Stop staring and help me carry him!" Liam barked.
They moved.
Kael's hands touched Segeford—and he gasped.
The man was hollow. Emaciated. His frame, once a mountain, now withered. Blackened wounds, shattered bones, ribs that barely moved. A burning fever radiated off him.
He hadn't eaten in days. Hadn't slept in weeks.
And yet… he had walked here. With *that* thing. God knows what that thing really was… as it burned with twitching noise and foul smell.
They got Segeford inside the Guardpost.
Everyone who was there and heard the scream started to gather.
"What in the name of all the hells happened here?!" shrieked the merchant, stepping from the hall.
"Is he—dead?!"
"Shut the fuck up!" Liam snapped. "He is not dead… Not yet at least!!", Liam's voice softened, a rare tremor of empathy lacing his command..
Liam turned coldly. "Get Captain in the bull cart. We're heading to Valemire. Now."
No one questioned it.
They moved fast.
Then—
"No! No! You can't do that!"
The merchant again, trailing after them.
Liam turned, eyes aflame. "You want to come with us, fine. Hop on."
"Otherwise, get lost."
The merchant hesitated. "Hey, hey, hey…"
Another voice cut in—unfamiliar, cold.
"We've been assigned to protect this man."
A man stepped forward, hand on his sword.
"We won't tolerate your tone."
Before that man could even complete his entrance—
*Shwoooosh.*
Liam's blade hissed through the air, stopping a hair from the man's nose.
That man stumbled back, eyes wide.
Kael froze too. He had never seen Liam like this—rage distilled into form.
Liam's voice cut deep. "Would you rather tolerate my blade instead?"
The merchant intervened, desperate. "No bloodshed! Please… calm down."
He faced Liam carefully. "I didn't mean you *can't* take the cart. I meant… he won't *survive* the trip. It's about three days to Valemire from here… and even if he survives, there is no guarantee that you will find doctor there… "
Liam paused. Jaw clenched. Then lowered his sword.
"Then we head to Valemoor."
The merchant's eyes widened. "He won't make it. He'll die before tomorrow."
Merchant wasn't wrong.
Segeford had reached them through some miracle—but he was fading.
Kael's heart twisted. No path led to life.
"What do we do then?!" Liam blurted. "He'll die if we stay. Die if we move."
The merchant nodded solemnly. "There's one option."
Every gaze fixed on the merchant.
"They say, there lives a man in this jungle…. ."
He chose his words carefully.
"They call him the Ash-Walker. No clan. No real name. Just… stories."
"Stories?" Liam asked.
"They say he use Tantra. Breathes it. Walks with it. They say he can bind a soul. Keep it from slipping past the Sequence."
He hesitated. Then added:
"But he's mad. Speaks with crows. Sleeps in soil. And if he helps you, your friend might live."
A pause.
"That is if you find him…"
The silence that followed was deeper than before.
Even the torches flickered.