The days bled into a familiar, blood-stained rhythm—the relentless cycle of their existence. Slaying villages. Reducing kingdoms to charcoal. Exterminating whatever "heroes" or pests were foolish enough to believe they could hunt the hunters.
The six of them trudged along a parched dirt road, dust rising in plumes around their boots. Every step carried the weight of a battle that had nearly unmade the plains, their bodies radiating a deep, bone-settling exhaustion.
"Augh, I'm spent," Yajin groaned, lacing his fingers behind his head and stretching until his joints popped. "I'm starving. I'm holding out hope for some roasted goat meat at the next stop."
"Goat meat? Of all the things to crave," Reia shot back, her voice laced with fatigue-driven sarcasm. "Give me chicken any day."
Yajin leveled a deadpan stare at her. "Oh, and who invited your opinion?"
Reia merely rolled her eyes, her gaze fixed on the horizon as she kept her pace.
Uzak'me adjusted the strap of the heavy satchel slung over his shoulder. "Word is traveling. There's a new shadow on our trail. They're calling him the Dark Knight—a free-swordsman who's made it his life's mission to purge the world of 'evil.' Meaning us."
The group's collective stride slowed, a heavy tension settling over the road.
"While we were scouring that castle a few days back," Uzak'me continued, "I found a report from the king Reia executed. It said this swordsman left the northern territories specifically to intercept us. The records claim his prowess in magic and blade-work rivals Eiden's. And… he's a black dragon."
Eiden's head turned just a fraction, a spark of interest breaking his stoic mask. "As powerful as me?"
"According to the scrolls," Uzak'me replied, his tone devoid of hesitation.
Eiden looked forward again, his expression returning to an unreadable chill. "How curious. I've yet to encounter a dragon of that caliber. I think I'd very much like to measure his strength against my own when the time comes."
"Don't be careless," Uzak'me warned. "The texts mention he can chant the second invocation. If he truly stands on your level, he won't be reckless enough to gamble with the death-percentage."
"I'll take him on if Eiden's feeling generous," Yajin chirped with a sharp grin.
Civilar let out a dry, hacking scoff. "Yeah, no. You carry a blade that essentially rewrites the rules of combat. You don't get to claim you 'want a fight' when your version of a duel is a single graze followed by your opponent's total erasure."
"I'll fight however I damn well please, thank you," Yajin muttered, rolling his eyes.
"Oh, joy. We've arrived," Civilar said, his voice flat and devoid of wonder.
They halted before the massive gates of a fallen kingdom—timbers splintered, iron scorched, and the whole structure hanging crookedly from its hinges. They stepped through the threshold, picking their way past incinerated cabins and the jagged skeletons of collapsed watchtowers. The bodies of mages and commoners alike lay where they had fallen, the grim remains of a kingdom's desperate final stand.
They entered the central castle once more, the stones still humming with the echoes of their previous conquest.
As night draped itself over the ruins, the group settled into the hollowed-out shell of the fortress. The halls were tomb-quiet, illuminated only by the pale, ghostly fingers of moonlight reaching through shattered stained-glass windows.
Yajin emerged from the royal bathing chamber, curls of steam trailing off his damp skin. A thick white towel was cinched around his waist, his bare feet padding softly against the cold marble. His hair was slicked back, still dripping crystal droplets onto his shoulders.
"Whoo! Now that is what I call a bath," he sighed, the tension finally leaving his muscles.
He retreated into the chamber he had claimed for the night—a lavish, sprawling space defined by white marble pillars and walls trimmed in filigreed gold. Embroidered banners of a dead dynasty hung like shrouds, and a massive bed draped in heavy silk sheets dominated the room. Golden lanterns dangled from the vaulted ceiling, casting a warm, honeyed glow across the polished floors. It was a room designed for a sovereign, occupied now by a devil.
Yajin slipped into a plush white robe, climbed into the cavernous bed, and nuzzled deep into the expensive linens like a tired child sinking into a cloud.