The steam of morning tea still rose from Lana's untouched cup, her hands trembling ever so slightly as she sat in the quiet family hall. Sunlight filtered through the latticed windows, casting long golden lines across the polished floor. But the warmth in the room couldn't reach her face—not after what she had just heard.
Kazel, now freshly bathed and dressed, sat across from her, as composed as ever. His robe was light, loose, as if he hadn't just confessed to wiping an entire sect off the face of the Land of the Wolf.
"You… destroyed them?" Lana asked at last, her voice barely above a whisper.
Kazel tilted his head. "They tried to destroy me first."
Lana's brows furrowed deeply, her mouth opening and closing as she searched for words—any words—that could catch up with the scale of what he'd done. "The entire Second Moon Sect?"
Noel sat beside her, his hands clenched together. He wasn't surprised at Kazel's capabilities—he had once done this, after all—but this? This was not just a feat. It was a declaration.
Durandal stood at the edge of the room, stiff, uncertain whether to feel pride or fear. His idol, the one who gave him a second chance, had turned into something larger than myth.
Arhatam leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, staring at Kazel not with judgment but with unreadable depth in his eyes. "That sect had roots all across the region. You're not just shaking local power," he muttered. "You just made the sky itself pay attention."
Lana finally rose to her feet, walked to Kazel, and took his face gently in her hands. Her fingers brushed the lines of his cheek, searching for the boy beneath the name the world now whispered in fear.
"You're still my son," she said softly. "No matter what names they call you. No matter how many fall before you."
Kazel gave a faint smile. "Tyrant, hero, slayer... I'm only one thing when I'm here. Your son."
Her smile trembled. "That's enough."
Behind them, the quiet clink of the tea cup finally tipping over marked the end of the stunned silence. Morning had come… but so had the storm Kazel carried.
Later that evening, inside the Ironhide Sect's meeting hall, the lamplight flickered over a low wooden table where Kazel sat with Noel, Lana, Toghon, Arhatam, and Durandal. The weight of earlier conversations still lingered, but Kazel's gaze now held something else—focus, certainty.
"I'll be staying in the Land of the Wolf a little longer," Kazel said, his voice steady and composed, but not cold. "The land once owned by the Second Moon Sect... is now under my name. It will serve as the foothold of our true rise."
Noel raised a brow. "You're going to rebuild the Immortal Sect here?"
Kazel shook his head.
"No. I will build the Immortal Sect where it was always meant to stand—in the Land of the Lamb. But the ruins of the Second Moon... will be my outpost. My blade in the Wolf's shadow."
He then reached into his robe and placed five spatial rings onto the table with a faint metallic clack. The glint of spirit inscriptions pulsed along each band.
Everyone stared.
"I've already sorted their treasury, these five rings are all they had left, that includes their patriarch's," Kazel added flatly. "There's more than enough inside to rebuild our sect's foundation and then some."
Durandal leaned forward, stunned. "That's... that's enough to build a fortress."
Arhatam raised an impressed brow. "Five rings? Filled?"
Kazel nodded.
"These rings will rebuild our original grounds. Combine that with the remnants of the Jade Lotus Sect and the Rising Stone Sect ruins—we won't just rebuild. We'll reshape the land."
Noel stared at the rings, not just seeing currency or power—he saw momentum. A future. Lana blinked, silent, holding her breath. Even Toghon was left in awe.
"And you'll bring Durandal and me with you to the Second Moon's ruins?" Arhatam asked.
"For now," Kazel said. "Durandal needs training in blood and danger. And you, Arhatam... you need ingredients the market can't offer. The Wolf's den still has secrets worth digging."
Kazel leaned back, eyes gleaming like fire behind ice. "This isn't just vengeance anymore. This is foundation. We're not just returning."
He smirked.
"We're ascending."
---
Several days passed.
Far from the turmoil of the Land of the Wolf, across wind-swept borders and sun-scorched plains, the Land of the Tiger thrived in ruthless order.
At the peak of the Emberclaw Mountains stood the Crimson Phoenix Sect, forged of fire, blood, and dominion. Its walls shimmered with red-gold spirit veins. The air itself was warmer here — heavy with strength, and heavier still with ambition.
Not in a grand hall, but in a private sanctum layered in lacquered wood and black-stone pillars, a long obsidian table stretched beneath a low-hung phoenix lantern. Around it sat only a handful of the sect's highest elders. At the head of the table, flanked by burning incense and scrolls of conquest, sat the patriarch — a man of quiet, terrifying gravity.
His name was Zhen Wuheng.
He wore no crown, but his presence crushed the air like one. His crimson robes were simple but embroidered with countless thread-fine phoenix feathers. His black hair was tied in a high knot, save for one streak of silver that dangled freely like a burn scar. He was not young — yet not once had he been bested in a duel.
In front of them, kneeling low to the floor and trembling slightly, was the envoy—his clothes stained from days of hard riding.
The obsidian table before them bore the tributes of lesser sects: rare ores, spirit beasts in soul-cages, crates of high-grade elixirs, jade talismans carved with surrender. All conquered. All tamed.
Yet one spot at the table remained conspicuously empty.
The tribute from the Second Moon Sect.
Zhen Wuheng's finger tapped lightly near the empty spot. Not out of impatience, but calculation.
"…Speak," he said at last, his voice like a slow-forming thundercloud.
The envoy flinched. "The Second Moon Sect… is no more, Patriarch."
Murmurs were exchanged in low tones. One of the elders leaned forward. "What do you mean no more?"
"There was nothing left but ruins. Its gates torn open. Their disciples… slaughtered. Their treasury, plundered."
A pause.
"By whom?" Wuheng asked calmly.
"…One man," the envoy muttered.
That drew stares. Silence.
The patriarch's eyes narrowed only slightly. "A sect does not fall to one man."
"I swear it. His name is Kazel. He claimed the ruins. Said he owns it now."
A cold stillness descended over the chamber.
"Kazel…" Zhen Wuheng echoed. He slowly leaned back in his seat, his gaze unreadable.
One elder furrowed his brow. "Should we mobilize? Investigate? A youth bold enough to destroy a tribute sect—"
"No," Zhen Wuheng said. His voice cut through the room like a blade.
The elder blinked. "But—"
"We watch," Wuheng said. "No flame flares that brightly without leaving smoke behind. If he is what the envoy claims, the world will feel his footsteps again soon."
He turned to the envoy, who still dared not lift his head. "You will write what you saw. Nothing more. Nothing less."
"Yes, Patriarch…"
Zhen Wuheng cast one final look at the empty spot on the table.
After the envoy departed, silence lingered in the chamber like a held breath. Then, one of the elders—Elder Lui, draped in ash-colored robes—shifted in his seat and finally spoke.
"Are you sure about this, Patriarch?" he asked, voice low but edged with concern.
Zhen Wuheng didn't answer immediately. His brows furrowed faintly, eyes still fixed on the vacant tribute spot on the table.
"How do you fare with history, Elder Lui?" Wuheng asked at last, his tone quiet, almost conversational.
"I… consider myself a student of it," Lui replied cautiously.
"Then you must know," said Wuheng, lifting his gaze, "that every few generations… someone rises. A diamond among the sand. A name that defies expectation, shatters precedent. A force that refuses to bow."
Lui hesitated. "But the chances of such a thing happening again—"
"—Are slim," Wuheng cut in, "but never zero. And this time, we have witnessed it."
He leaned forward, his fingers interlaced before him.
"It happened once before," he said, voice colder now. "A boy from the outskirts of nowhere. No sect. No backing. Only a will sharpened to a blade's edge. I fought him. I lost."
The elders straightened at the admission.
"I lost," Wuheng repeated, more softly, "again… and again. I was younger. So was he. But each defeat—each scar—left something behind. My bones may forget. My disciples may pretend. But my soul space still trembles when I recall him."
A long pause followed.
"Then all the more reason we should end him now," said Lui. "If this Kazel is even half the threat you claim, we should act before he grows into something worse."
Wuheng slowly turned to him, his gaze suddenly sharper than any blade.
"Tell me, Elder Lui… does the word 'camaraderie' mean anything to you?"
Lui blinked. "I… don't follow."
"They came from the same land," Wuheng said. "That boy… and this Kazel. Same roots. Same fire. The one I fought had no sect, no followers, no legacy to shield him. And yet he nearly toppled this sect."
His voice dropped, almost a whisper.
"Kazel already has all three. And if he ever learn about Kazel— which I'm sure that he is already— he will fight us under Kazel's banner as well."
The table fell into stillness.
"You think we can afford his wrath?" Wuheng continued, his voice gaining a simmering heat. "You think your defenses—our walls—can stop a storm when even I cannot guarantee victory?"
His gaze lit like embers.
"I'm no coward, Elder Lui," he said, eyes now alive with the glow of a phoenix. "But only fools chase wildfire with dry grass in hand. For now… we watch."
A long pause passed before another elder finally murmured, "And if he comes here?"
Wuheng looked toward the open screen doors beyond, where the mountain winds whispered against the flame banners.
"…Then we greet him with tea," he said. "And pray the table holds."
---
Somewhere far from the halls of power — where grand sects debated fate and legacy — a tiny street stall bustled with the clatter of bowls and the hiss of grilling oil.
Then—
"ACHOO!"
It was less a sneeze and more an explosion.
The entire stall jolted. Chopsticks froze mid-air. A pot tipped. A child cried. The vendor yelped as a bowl of broth nearly launched from his counter.
And at the center of it all, a middle-aged man sat blinking, his chair now several paces behind where it had started.
"Oops."
A hand reached up and caught a straw rice hat mid-fall with reflexes too smooth for someone his age. With a practiced twirl, he set it back on his head.
"Someone must've been talking ill about me," he chuckled, scratching his cheek. "Hahaha… must've been someone important, too."
He reached for his bowl again as though nothing had happened — ignoring the bewildered stares of the entire street.