A heavy thud echoed through the lavish chamber as a thick-bound book slammed into the wall, scattering scrolls and ash from a nearby burner.
Agabah stood in the center of the room, chest heaving, his black robe fluttering slightly with each tremor of rage. His usually pristine, calm demeanor was nowhere to be found—replaced by clenched fists and wide, furious eyes.
"That... wretched dog..." he seethed, pacing like a caged beast. "In front of everyone. In front of me!"
He replayed the moment over and over—the head soaring through the air, the blood still warm, Kazel's mocking gaze locked on his from below. A public execution turned proclamation. A humiliation. A declaration of war not with words, but with blood.
The shattered silence in Agabah's chamber was broken by the slow creak of the heavy door.
"Young master," said the elder with a deep bow, his tone unreadable. "You have a visitor… an envoy from the Punctured."
Agabah's brows furrowed. "From them? Now?" His voice still carried the heat of rage.
The elder stepped aside without answering, and a figure glided into the room.
Clad entirely in black, the visitor's robe shimmered faintly, like oil on water—stitched with subtle patterns that hinted at armor beneath. A hood veiled his head, and a cloth mask concealed everything below his eyes. He wore gloves tight as skin, every inch of his body hidden, even his boots padded to make no sound.
"Agabah of the Second Moon," said the man. His voice was soft, but it held an unsettling chill—like iron in ice water.
Agabah narrowed his gaze. "So the rats send messengers now?"
The hooded man didn't flinch. He walked forward with the calm of someone who didn't fear death, then stopped just before the ruined marble crack in the floor. "I come bearing a message from my order. The bounty on the Immortal Sect's young master…"
He tilted his head ever so slightly. "It's not enough."
Agabah's lip twitched. "Not enough? He slaughtered three of yours like pigs in the street. You should be begging me to clean up what's left."
"No," the man said flatly. "That was the mistake. Three knives were not enough to carve down a rising beast." He leaned slightly closer, though never crossing into Agabah's personal space. "You saw it. So did we. And so did the others."
Agabah's hands clenched.
"We have decided," the man continued, "the bounty shall be increased."
Agabah's brows twitched. "Insufficient?"
"You've offered spirit stones," the man continued, "but not enough to outweigh the danger. What he displayed today demands a recalculation. You seek a man with an army's wrath, yet you offer the coin for a mere rogue."
The elder beside Agabah narrowed his eyes. "Name your price then."
The hooded figure took a slow breath before speaking, his voice low and deliberate.
"Fifty thousand spirit stones," he said.
The room went still. Even the elder's eyes twitched.
Agabah's hands clenched behind his back. "You jest."
"No," the man replied calmly. "You asked for a storm and sent us with an umbrella. Today, Kazel didn't just kill. He performed. He declared. He made a spectacle out of the Punctured."
He leaned in slightly. "If you want his head paraded instead of yours next time... fifty thousand spirit stones. Nothing less."
Agabah's jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek twitching. The air in the room felt heavier. The insult burned—but so did the truth.
Agabah's jaw tightened. His shadow stretched behind him like a second ego. "Fifty thousand… I can't conjure that kind of wealth quickly."
"Then don't delay," the envoy replied smoothly. "Contracts with the Punctured are binding. But if you choose to cancel, the fee remains the same. Fifty thousand spirit stones. Whether to pay for the head… or the silence."
A vein on Agabah's temple throbbed. He turned to face the elder. The old man nodded subtly, saying nothing. No words needed—he understood the weight of what was happening.
Agabah inhaled sharply through his nose. "I'll return to the Second Moon headquarters. My father will decide whether we escalate… or withdraw."
The envoy gave the slightest nod, then stepped back, already turning.
"I await your good news," he said without looking back. "You'll find me at the Punctured."
The door closed behind him with a soft thud. But it sounded louder in Agabah's ears than thunder.
He turned toward the wall—and in one furious motion, hurled a jade-inlaid book across the room. It shattered a vase and crashed to the floor. He stood there, panting, chest heaving.
"That bastard…" he whispered. "He threw a head at me."
The elder, after a long silence, finally spoke. "He's not like the other young masters."
Agabah didn't respond. His pride was bruised, but beneath the bruising… there was fear. Not of Kazel's strength. But of the fact that someone like him could rise from the Land of the Lamb—and shatter the balance of power like this.
Fifty thousand spirit stones.
(You want to be a monster? Fine. Let me show you what the moon does to beasts.)
---
The door clicked shut behind them.
Moonlight spilled through the lattice window, casting a pale glow over the chamber's wooden floor. Kazel loosened the ties of his outer robe, letting it hang from his shoulders as he made his way to the center of the room. The weight of the halberd had vanished—stored back into his soul space—but the air around him still carried the scent of blood and smoke.
Durandal stood awkwardly near the entrance, unsure if he should speak or wait.
Kazel poured himself a cup of tea. He didn't drink it. Instead, he stared into the steam for a long moment.
Then he asked, without turning around, "What do you think of me?"
The question struck Durandal like a blade.
He opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. He looked at Kazel's back—broad, proud, somehow older than it should be. A youth with the gaze of a king. A killer without remorse.
( What do I think of you...? )
Durandal stepped forward slightly, swallowed once, then said carefully, "You're not like any master I've ever seen, young or old."
Kazel turned his head just a little, blue eyes half-lidded, unreadable. "Go on."
"You… you kill without blinking. But you don't do it for fun." Durandal's voice steadied. "You do it because the world has already decided your place—and you refuse to stay there. You speak like a tyrant, but act like a soldier. Like someone who's fought wars no one here remembers."
Kazel's lips tugged into a small, crooked smile. "Not bad."
Durandal hesitated, then added, "You scare me."
There was silence again. Then Kazel finally turned to face him.
He walked past Durandal, heading toward the window, hands behind his back.
"Watch closely, Durandal," he said. "I'm still sharpening the blade."
From outside, faint murmurs from the inn's lower floors continued—rumors already spreading like wildfire. Of a boy with a halberd. Of a killer without mercy. Of a new name rising beneath the banner of chaos.
And in the heart of it all, Kazel stood in silence, watching the stars.