A sharp wind whispered through the square, but no one dared to speak.
All eyes were on the boy seated on the lone chair in the center—legs crossed, face resting lazily on his fist, expression carved from unshakable steel.
Kazel.
A name none of them had heard before yesterday. A name now seared into the minds of all present.
The crowd stared.
Murmurs began to rise like fog—uncertain, low, nervous.
"Is that really him?"
"The one who dared the Punctured?"
"I thought he was some young master in hiding..."
"He doesn't look afraid. Not even a little."
But amidst the crowd were not just commoners and travelers.
In the far back, partially cloaked beneath a gray parasol, stood a woman in snow-colored robes with a longbow slung across her back. Her eyes narrowed like a hawk's, unblinking.
Heavenless Bow Sect.
Leaning against a shaded stall to her left, a stocky man with a katana grunted.
"Kid's got balls," he muttered, arms crossed, chin high.
Curved Blade Sect.
Near the left wing of the plaza, wrapped in layered veils and silks, one woman was taking interest on the scene whilst chewing a petal.
The Five Ladies Sect.
To the east, cloaked in dark armor, a pair of mercenaries stood with arms folded and expressions unreadable. Their pauldron bore the insignia of a spear piercing a shield.
Shield and Spear Mercenary Group.
Among the crowd's edge, half-shadowed by an alley wall, sat a man with silver rings in his ears and a book in his hand. He did not read—he stared. And he scribbled notes.
The Punctured, but not from the trio standing before Kazel. A different branch, perhaps.
And above them all, leaning over a second-floor balcony of a nearby teahouse, a youth in black robes with a thin mustache and cruel eyes looked down with his hands behind his back.
Agabah. Second Moon Sect.
"Mad," he whispered, lips curling. "Utterly mad..."
But even he—even Agabah—felt a cold bite of tension run down his spine.
This wasn't some desperate gamble.
This boy—this Kazel—had laid out his own execution chair...
And turned it into a throne.
Durandal stood behind him like a shadow reborn, silent and alert.
The leader of the Punctured stepped forward, his grin now more uncertain, sweat faint under the collar.
And still, Kazel said nothing.
He simply watched them all.
Like a sovereign surveying his court.
Like a tyrant waiting for his challengers to kneel.
Durandal stood just a few paces behind Kazel, his hands clenched tightly as he tried to shrink his presence amid the crowd. Yet his eyes, wide and sharp, darted from face to face—mercenaries, guards, onlookers. Wolves circling something they didn't yet understand.
Then the bald leader of the Punctured trio stepped forward with his ever-smirking mouth."Young master," he said, voice oily yet amused, "I'll admit, not many of your ilk have the guts to face us out in the open like this. That's worth a toast."
( He praises him… but it's a threat. Every word hides a blade. )
Durandal's eyes flicked to Kazel.
( And yet… he doesn't flinch. Doesn't even blink. Like he's done this dance more times than the mercenary has drawn breath. )
The crowd buzzed, but all noise dimmed for Durandal as another voice entered the fray.
"That young master…" said a man in armor, eyes narrowing under his helmet. It was the guard from yesterday—Spear and Shield Mercenary Group. "The offer still stands, young master. For protection, our services are still open."
( So many want a piece of him… and yet, none dare touch him. Why does everyone feel so small beside him? Even mercenaries with burn marks on their necks. )
"Hmm? This has got nothing to do with you," growled the bald mercenary, eyeing the armored man.
"A patron is a patron," came the cool response. "If he so chooses our service, then you will have to excuse my spear."
Kazel didn't move—he merely raised his hand."Enough of this chatter nonsense."
His voice wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. The effect was immediate. Like a ripple in a still pond, everything froze.
Durandal shivered.
( That voice... like command was woven into its fabric. No anger, no boast, just presence.)
"Nobu once said... 'A monster is growing from the weakest land,'" muttered the stocky man with a katana strapped to his back, his gaze fixed on the young figure standing at the center of it all.( The young master of the Immortal Sect... No— the Sect Slayer. )
He watched as Kazel conjured his halberd with a silent, seamless flourish. The weapon gleamed under the sun, its form brutal and regal—an instrument of war, not duels.Not a blade for combat. A blade for conquest. To cleave a country.
Kazel yawned, stretching his arms lazily before standing up from the chair he had brought outside.
"Honestly," he said, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder, "I thought there'd be more of you."
The three mercenaries tensed. The crowd went quiet.
"I was expecting an army of mercenaries lined across the street, banners raised, salivating for my head."
He paused, then flashed a smirk as the wind caught the hem of his robe.
"But it seems my bounty's not quite high enough, huh?"
A heartbeat of silence—
Then chaos.
The crowd erupted. Gasps, murmurs, shouts—some stifled laughter, others holding their breath. From the sidelines, members of the Six Factions narrowed their eyes. Some in awe. Others in disgust. But none could ignore him.
( What is this confidence? ) thought a veiled lady from the Five Ladies Sect.( Is he provoking death... or dancing with it? ) wondered a towering figure cloaked in white from the Heavenless Bow Sect.( So that's the Immortal Sect's young master… no, that's not just a young master. That's a declaration. )
And behind Kazel, Durandal watched the storm his master summoned without lifting a finger.
"Young master," the leader of the mercenaries stepped forward, his tone caught between mockery and warning. "The Punctured... we're not exactly known for playing fair."
His two underlings shifted, subtly widening their stance—flanking Kazel with slow, measured steps like wolves circling a wounded stag.
But Kazel remained still. His halberd rested lazily at his side. His voice, however, cut sharper than any blade.
"This is already unfair," he said, gaze unflinching.Then, colder—"For you, that is."
In the blink of an eye, Kazel vanished.
To the untrained, it was as if he had dissolved into thin air. But to the underling on the left—he saw death coming.
His pupils shrank. A strangled gasp caught in his throat.
( So fast—! )
Kazel's halberd swung with brutal elegance. A single cleave.
The steel met flesh—and then silence.
The man's body split from the shoulder down, cleaved clean through the heart. A fountain of blood burst into the air before both halves of him crumpled to the dirt with a grotesque thud.
The crowd recoiled in horror.
The mercenary leader froze, staring wide-eyed—not at the body, but at Kazel, who now turned to face him.
Kazel lifted one hand and curled his fingers slowly, beckoning him.
A gesture like a monarch summoning an insect.
The crowd held its breath.
Durandal's lips were wide open, his breathing stuck.
( Gods… ) thought someone.( That wasn't a fight. That was execution. )