The sky had yet to rain, but the air had thickened—subtle, oppressive, like breath held too long.
After Gerard's confession—about the rival trading group that had hired mercenary Engraving Masters to stop his business transaction—Kellan had chosen to press forward. The choice was not without weight. But this, too, was part of what it meant to walk the path of a true Engraving Master: to face danger head-on, and teach resolve through experience.
The following day passed quietly, almost unnaturally so. No birdsong, no rustling leaves—just silence and the soft crunch of boots on gravel. They had left the forest behind and entered a winding mountain pass, the path narrowing until sheer cliffs loomed on both sides. By late afternoon, they emerged at a broad riverbank.
A half-finished bridge stretched out across the water—its beams skeletal, like the ribcage of something ancient. Mist hovered just above the current, a thin veil at first… but with each step, it grew denser, curling like smoke around their ankles.
"Stay alert," Kellan murmured. His voice was low, but carried weight. His eye had narrowed, scanning the fog.
Something was wrong.
Then he stopped, one hand raised.
There, drifting near the water's edge—a small frog, floating lifelessly on its back.
Barely visible, but unmistakable: a neat puncture wound on its neck.
"Down!" Kellan barked, and the command cracked like thunder.
A heartbeat later, something massive hurtled through the fog—a blade the size of a wagon wheel, spinning so fast it shrieked. It tore past them, embedding itself in a tree trunk with a deafening thunk, the bark splitting under the sheer force.
It wasn't a weapon made for men. It was a monster's fang given steel.
The fog parted.
And from it emerged a figure.
Tall. Silent. His presence carved a hole in the mist like a blade through silk. Muscles coiled beneath a long cloak. He carried a massive engraved sword casually on his back, etched with runes so old they looked fossilized.
"Kellan Varo… the one-eyed hound," the man rasped, voice hoarse like broken gravel. "What fortune… to meet you here."
"Stay behind me," Kellan said, his voice low. "You're not ready to face someone like him."
Tharic stumbled back, pale. "W-who is he?"
Kellan's eye didn't leave the figure. "His name is Vorn Sablemist… one of the legendary mistborn killers from the mainland. Like me, he's a Rank Four Engraving Master. Once, they called him the Hidden Mist Fiend."
Vorn smiled.
It was not a pleasant sight. It was a slow, deliberate grin, like the drawing of a knife across soft flesh.
He reached into a leather pouch and uncorked a vial of opaque liquid—thick and blue. With swift motions, he dipped two fingers and began drawing glyphs into the air. The symbols hung, glowing faintly, then dissolved into mist.
And the fog answered.
It thickened instantly. What was once a drifting haze became a wall. Visibility dropped to a few feet. Sound became muffled. Breathing became harder.
"When the mist surrounds you…" Vorn's voice echoed from nowhere and everywhere. "The only thing left to see… is your end."
Then he vanished.
"Where—?" Mira's hand tightened around her satchel. Her breath was shallow.
Tharic looked ready to collapse, his limbs stiff with fear.
But Ryn was on his belly, pressed to the earth, eyes scanning the perimeter. His mind sharpened. He'd been in danger before—but never like this. This wasn't bandits or traps. This was a predator. A killer who knew the mist better than they knew solid ground.
From the mist, Vorn's voice returned. "In the fog… every breath counts."
Suddenly—clang!
A strike came from Ryn's left. He twisted just in time. Steel scraped stone.
But nothing was there.
Then—another strike from the opposite side. This time, a shimmer of movement. A blur. A laugh.
Mira gasped. "He's—he's playing with us."
No answer.
Only silence.
And fog.
Yet Kellan hadn't moved. He stood still, sword not yet drawn, his lone eye closed.
He was listening.
Feeling.
Remembering.
This wasn't their first encounter.
He had fought Vorn once before, long ago, during the Siege of Hollowreach. Back then, they were both younger. Reckless. But now…
He's stronger, Kellan thought. But so am I.
He opened his eye.
The glyphs Vorn had cast weren't just mist illusions—they were layered perception runes, designed to scramble sound, mirror movement, and fragment the sense of direction.
But Kellan… had prepared.
With a single motion, he drew a crystal shard from his sleeve—a personal anchor stone. Etched with anti-perception runes. A safeguard against exactly this kind of attack.
He whispered a counterphrase under his breath. The runes flared.
And for a moment, the fog parted around him.
There.
A shimmer.
A movement too fast for the others to catch.
Kellan moved.
His weapon came free in silence, drawn with the grace of a falling leaf.
Steel met steel.
And the mist exploded.
Vorn had struck with the weight of a thunderclap—but Kellan met it without flinching, their blades locking with a sound like colliding storms.
"Still quick," Vorn muttered.
"Still sloppy," Kellan replied, pushing forward.
The fight erupted.
Steel clashed like lightning. Runes sparked in the air. Every movement Vorn made sent the fog shifting, reshaping the battlefield like a living entity. But Kellan matched him. Not with overwhelming force—but with experience, with precision. Every swing of his sword was an answer, every step a countermeasure.
Behind them, the students could only watch.
The battle was beyond them. Not just in skill, but in meaning.
This was a fight between men forged in blood and secrets—between predators who had lived too long in the dark to be anything else.
And yet, even amidst the chaos…
Ryn watched.
And learned.
* * * * * *
Elsewhere, far from the veil of mist where Ryn's group prepared for a deadly confrontation, another caravan was under siege.
But this was no ambush. This was a massacre.
The bandits—thirty strong—had attacked under cover of dusk, laughing with bloodlust, thinking the trade wagons would offer little resistance.
They were wrong.
Elias stood still as statues, his eyes half-lidded with disdain. Behind him, two academy students stood in formation, weapons in hand, their engravings glowing with sharp, deliberate power. Their auras were focused and cold.
He did not give a rousing speech. He simply said:
"None of them leave alive."
A flick of his fingers. That was the signal.
In seconds, chaos reversed itself.
Flames erupted from an intricate rune woven into the grass by the lead student, devouring two bandits before they could scream. Another fell backward, his head pierced by a spear of wind that twisted unnaturally mid-flight. The others turned to flee—only to find traps had already been set.
Explosive arrays detonated beneath their feet.
By the time it ended, only six bandits remained. They dropped their weapons, eyes wide, trembling before the blood-soaked ground.
One dared to beg. "Please—mercy—we didn't know—!"
Elias stepped forward, shadows pooling at his feet.
"I don't believe in mercy," he said, and flicked his wrist.
A black inscription flared on the man's chest—a mark placed there at the battle's start. It pulsed once.
Then the man collapsed, foaming at the mouth, dead before he hit the ground.
Elias turned to the rest. "Gather anything useful. Burn the rest."
But then—something shifted.
The wind stilled.
The smell of sulfur touched the air.
From the tree line, a figure stepped into view, cloaked in crimson robes. He moved like silk dragged over glass—smooth, but sharp.
He clapped once, mockingly slow.
"Well done," the man said, voice rich with sarcasm. "But I'm afraid this little game is over."
His eyes glowed faintly violet, and the badge on his belt marked him unmistakably:
An Engraving Master. Rank Three.
Elias's hand dropped to his satchel, already preparing.
The real battle had just begun.