Chapter 6
The night was quiet except for the sound of insects chirping in the grass and the faint rustle of the wind passing through the trees. The moon hung high in the sky, bathing the courtyard in pale light. Liam stood calmly, his sword still drawn, its blade reflecting the soft glow of the moonlight.
Before him stood four figures, each wearing the grey robes of outer disciples. Three men and one woman. The faint smirk on their faces and the way they carried themselves already told Liam everything he needed to know — they were trouble.
The man at the front, clearly the leader of the group, stepped forward. His expression was twisted with arrogance as he raised his saber and pointed it directly at Liam. His voice was filled with disdain as he spoke.
"You wretched weakling," the man spat. "You dare cling to Brother Edmund?"
Liam stared at him blankly, expression unreadable. His mind, however, was filled with a single thought.
Who exactly is clinging to whom?
He didn't bother to say it out loud. It wasn't worth the energy.
The man, apparently encouraged by Liam's silence, took another step forward. His saber gleamed faintly in the moonlight as he continued his tirade.
"Wretched weaklings like you should stay down in the gutter where you belong. Don't think you can raise your head just because Brother Edmund tolerates you. You're just using him to hide your weakness."
Liam blinked once. His face remained blank for a long moment before he slowly exhaled and sheathed his sword with a soft click. His expression changed in an instant — a gentle, harmless smile spread across his lips as he cupped his fists and bowed slightly.
"Yes, of course," he said in a calm, respectful tone. "Forgive my impudence and disrespect, senior brother."
His words were polite, his tone sincere, and his smile mild. It was the perfect picture of humility.
Of course, the truth was much simpler.
As long as it didn't affect his daily peace, Liam honestly didn't care what anyone said. If flattering someone would make them go away faster, he would do it without hesitation. Bowing? Sure. Calling someone "senior brother"? Why not. If stroking their ego would buy him a few more quiet days, he'd gladly play along.
But there was a limit. If it became too troublesome or started wasting too much of his time… well, then he would look for another solution — a sharper one.
The four disciples laughed loudly after hearing his words, their expressions filled with satisfaction. The air of superiority around them thickened. Liam stood still, maintaining his calm demeanor. Internally, he was wondering if he could still make it back to the dorms in time to sleep.
The leader smirked and twirled his saber lazily in his hand. "Of course, all is forgiven, junior brother," he said mockingly. "But tell me, what kind of senior brother would I be if I didn't discipline you for your current actions?"
The words were still leaving his mouth when his feet moved. He dashed forward suddenly, his saber arcing through the air in a sharp, fluid motion. The sound of his movement sliced through the night — a low whoosh followed by a metallic gleam aimed straight at Liam's neck.
For a split second, the world seemed to freeze.
Then — clang!
A loud metallic sound rang out, accompanied by a shower of sparks.
The man's saber trembled violently as his eyes widened. The force of the rebound sent a painful shock up his arm. His body staggered a step backward, his breath catching in his throat. When his eyes focused again, he realized with shock that the space in front of him — where Liam had been standing just moments ago — was now empty.
"What—"
Before he could finish the thought, the saber in his hand let out a faint crack. He looked down just in time to see a thin fracture running across the blade. The next second, it split apart completely, falling to the ground in two uneven pieces with a dull clank.
At that exact moment, a thin red line appeared across his cheek. It wasn't deep — barely a surface cut — but the sting of pain and the slow, warm trickle of blood sliding down his face were enough to make his entire body freeze. A few strands of his hair drifted gently to the ground, sliced so cleanly that it took him a moment to realize what had happened.
The other three disciples stood frozen in place, their expressions a mix of shock and disbelief. None of them had even seen Liam move. It had been instantaneous — one moment he was standing there with a polite smile, and the next… he was gone.
The sound of a faint sigh broke the silence.
Liam stood a few steps behind the leader now, his sword unsheathed once more. The blade caught the moonlight, gleaming faintly. He looked calm, completely unbothered, as if he had merely brushed off some dust from his robe.
He spoke in a soft, almost lazy tone. "If it meant a few more days of peace, I wouldn't mind getting slashed a few times…"
His words hung in the air. The four of them could barely breathe, the tension pressing down on them.
Liam tilted his head slightly, as if reconsidering his statement. His gaze drifted upward toward the moon, his expression thoughtful.
"…But I thought about it."
He paused. The wind blew lightly, carrying the faint rustle of leaves through the still courtyard. The moonlight spilled over his form, highlighting the edges of his face and the calm glint in his eyes.
Those eyes — dark as ink — seemed to reflect the night itself. They were deep, endless, almost bottomless, as if they could swallow everything in sight.
And then, very slowly, a grin crept across his lips — faint at first, then widening just enough to show the glint of white teeth. It wasn't the smile of a madman, but it wasn't peaceful either. It was somewhere in between — the kind of expression that said, I really didn't want to do this, but you forced my hand.
"Getting injured," Liam said softly, his voice steady and almost cheerful, "would be quite troublesome, wouldn't it?"
The leader of the group didn't move. None of them did. The tension in the air was suffocating. They could all feel the faint pressure rolling off Liam — not killing intent, not rage, just… pressure. The kind that came from someone completely in control.
The broken saber clattered against the ground again as the leader's hand trembled. His breath came out uneven, his earlier arrogance completely shattered.
Liam exhaled slowly, lowering his sword. His expression returned to normal — calm, detached, almost bored. Without another word, he sheathed his sword, turned around, and began walking away at a casual pace.
Behind him, the four disciples remained frozen in place. The leader still had a thin trail of blood running down his cheek. No one spoke. No one dared to.
Liam yawned quietly as he walked, stretching his arms over his head. "I hope this doesn't become a habit," he muttered under his breath. "So much for a quiet evening…"
The moonlight followed him as he disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind the broken blade, the silent witnesses, and the faint scent of cold steel in the night air.