The problem wasn't the mission.
It was the silence.
A silence too clean, too precise, as if someone had already decided that no sound belonged here.
Kael realized it on the fourth day.
The one that didn't exist on the contract.
Three days.
Three days to secure a secondary road, clear an old trading post, and make the route "passable" again for caravans. The kind of job the Lawmakers no longer bothered to record. Too far from cities. Too far from people who complained. Too close to dust and forgetting.
Kael had signed without arguing.
Because the money was real.
And because you don't turn down a clean contract when you're a mercenary.
The sun was sinking behind the dry hills, stretching orange shadows across the broken stones of the relay. The place must have been alive once. You could tell from the arches, from the remnants of worn paving, from the walls still trying to stand despite the cracks running through them.
Now, only ruins remained.
And a road no one dared to take.
Kael adjusted the strap holding his sword across his back. The familiar weight pulled lightly on his shoulders. The weapon was nothing like a museum piece: a long, straight blade, worn, chipped near the tip, its grip repaired more than once. It didn't shine. It didn't sing. It didn't impress.
But it had never betrayed him.
Behind him, a man cleared his throat. His voice shook slightly, despite the obvious effort to keep it steady.
"We shouldn't have stayed this long, Kael."
Kael didn't answer right away. He had learned that it was better to let fear speak for a second instead of cutting it off too soon. Fear, when mishandled, led to mistakes. But listened to just enough, it became a warning.
He took a few steps forward and unhooked the sword from his back. The tip dropped close to the ground, almost brushing the stone. From there on, speed didn't matter anymore. Only presence.
The dust was thick, but uneven. Some areas had been trampled. Fresh tracks, still clear despite the wind.
"Did you hear that?" the man asked again.
Kael finally answered, without turning around.
"Yes."
Silence settled again.
There had been five of them when they took the job. Three by the morning of the fourth day. And by sunset, only two.
The first death had been simple. An arrow from the shadows, under the collarbone. He'd had time to say "shit" before collapsing. The second had vanished during the night. No scream. No blood. No struggle. Just… an empty space where his body had been sleeping.
Kael didn't like clean disappearances.
It didn't smell like bandits.
It didn't smell like animals.
It smelled like something else. Something that left no trace.
The last man still with him was named Jory. A decent mercenary. Not exceptional. Not a coward either. He could hold a line, but he hated the unknown.
"We should get out before nightfall," Jory whispered. "We've done the job. Caravans can pass."
Kael crouched and placed two fingers on the ground, where a faint footprint barely showed.
"Caravans will pass when people stop dying."
Jory swallowed.
"You think they're coming back?"
Kael followed the track. Then another. Then a third. A pattern slowly emerged. An imperfect circle.
"They never left."
Movement.
Kael raised his hand. A sharp, simple gesture that ordered silence. Jory froze instantly, his breath almost stopping on its own.
Kael didn't move either.
He listened.
First the wind.
Then nothing.
And beneath the nothing, footsteps.
Not heavy.
Not rushed.
Measured.
He didn't turn right away. He let it come.
A man burst from behind a collapsed wall, short blade in hand. Too fast for a roadside thief. Too clean for a desperate man. Kael pivoted on his back foot and raised his sword just in time.
The impact rang through his arm.
Body Axis.
His balance adjusted without conscious thought. Knees bent. Shoulders low. Breath steady. No magic. Just a body that knew its limits… and how to brush against them without crossing.
He slammed his shoulder into the attacker. The man stumbled. Kael struck immediately, without finesse. A brutal diagonal cut.
The blade bit into flesh with a dull sound.
The body fell.
Blood followed.
Jory stumbled back, swearing.
"Contact!"
Two more appeared almost at the same time.
One from the left.
One from behind.
Kael turned, felt the air shift before he even saw the blade. He parried on the right, cut short, then stepped back to avoid a low strike. There was no room for elegance. Every second mattered.
Jory tried to flank one of them. He hit him. Not deep enough. The other countered, and Kael heard Jory's breath break, like the air had been punched out of him.
"Kael!"
No time.
Kael struck at the throat. The attacker recoiled, shocked, clutching his neck. Kael finished him without hesitation.
The last enemy backed away too—but not like a man fleeing.
Like a man waiting.
Kael felt it in the air. A pause. A strange restraint, almost respectful.
He turned toward Jory.
Jory was still standing, but barely. A blade had opened his side. Not dead. Not yet. His face was already losing color.
"I… I'm fine," he lied.
Kael knew a bad wound when he saw one.
"Stay behind me."
Jory nodded, unable to argue.
Kael stepped forward, sword raised just enough. He swept his gaze across the ruins.
The two bodies on the ground didn't move. Blood spread in uneven stains across the stone. And yet the place remained calm.
Too calm.
Then he saw him.
A man emerged slowly from the shadows. Taller than the others. Better equipped. A long spear rested in his hand, its tip perfectly clean, as if it had never touched dust.
His steps were measured.
Too measured.
Kael's stomach tightened for no clear reason. It wasn't fear. It was that old instinct whispering that this wasn't an amateur.
The man stopped within reach.
"You've crossed a line," he said calmly.
Kael narrowed his eyes.
"What line?"
The man tilted his head slightly.
"The acceptable threshold."
Kael let out a short, humorless laugh.
"I don't even know what that means."
"I'll simplify."
The spear lunged.
Kael barely blocked. The shock ran up to his shoulder. He stepped back. The spear was already coming again, lower, aimed at his ribs.
Kael dodged. Too late.
The tip grazed his side, tearing skin. Pain flared, sharp and dry.
Body Axis.
He counterattacked. A horizontal strike meant to break the rhythm.
The spear blocked it.
Not with strength.
With precision.
Kael felt the difference immediately. As if the perfect position absorbed the impact on its own.
He retreated again, breathing, searching for an angle. The man advanced without hurry. Every attack forced Kael back. Every defense denied him momentum.
Nothing was flashy.
And that was exactly what made it dangerous.
"That's not normal…" Jory murmured behind him.
The spear struck Kael's shoulder.
This time, it went in.
Not deep, but enough to make his vision spark. Kael grunted, staggered back, felt something crack beneath his left ribs. Air burst from his lungs.
He bent.
The man looked at him without emotion.
"You're forcing it," he said. "You're pushing past your Axis."
Kael spat blood and saliva.
"And you? What are you doing?"
A brief silence.
"I correct."
Kael clenched his teeth and stood.
Body Axis.
Again.
Always.
He forced himself up because he had no choice. He attacked without finesse, trying to break the rhythm through repetition, through violence. The sword came down again and again, forcing the spearman to move faster.
For the first time, the man stepped back half a step.
Just one.
But Kael saw it. And felt it—a micro-fracture in what had been perfect control. Not a weakness. A surprise.
He took it.
High feint. Low strike. The other's timing slipped by a breath.
Kael stepped in.
Steel tore into flesh. Not enough to kill instantly, but enough to disrupt.
The spearman slammed into the wall behind him. Kael didn't give him time to recover. He drove the blade into his chest with all his strength.
The man's breath cut off.
The body slid slowly to the ground.
The fight ended just like that.
The remaining figures retreated without a word, then vanished as if they had received a signal.
Kael stood still, panting.
He didn't feel victory.
He felt pain.
And the tension in the air that refused to fade.
Jory staggered closer.
"Did… did we win?"
Kael nodded, but his eyes stayed on the spearman's face. No anger. No hatred.
Only confusion.
As if defeat had never been an option in his world.
Kael wiped his blade and let it hang along his thigh.
Everything looked normal.
And yet…
The silence was too clean. The birds didn't return. Even the wind seemed hesitant.
A chill ran down Kael's spine. It wasn't fear of men. It was the feeling that he had crossed an invisible line without realizing it.
"We leave?" Jory whispered.
Kael looked at the road, then the relay, then the marks on the ground—those imperfect circles he didn't yet understand.
"Yes," he said. "But not by the main road."
They walked away.
And for a few seconds, Kael clearly felt that mute presence—not a person, not an animal—something broader, more impersonal, like a rule that had just been bent.
Then the wind returned.
As if nothing had happened.
Kael didn't look back.
He had learned early on that when the world pretends to forget, it's rarely to leave you alone.