Sty lingered at the back of the group, arms crossed, silent as ever. Broad-shouldered and scarred, he had the presence of someone used to danger—and surviving it. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, scanned the ruins with a soldier's detachment.
Ahead, Jin was still trying to coax sense out of the village boy.
Lean and wiry, Jin's restless eyes darted constantly, his weight shifting like he was ready to dodge a blade mid-sentence. A tactician's mind, but a little too fond of pushing buttons just to see what happened.
Derek, the chief's son, was bloodied but standing. A training spear was strapped to his back. He looked young—maybe fifteen—but there was muscle in his arms and fresh bruises on his knuckles. The boy had clearly fought. Just not well enough. He spoke fast and loud, trying to mask fear with bravado.
"Demon—he tore through everyone! And the witch, I know she has something to do with it—"
Sty sighed. Maybe they were wrong.
They'd been chasing rumors of the Witch of Ashspire for days. Then came the surge—veinfire, massive and uncontrolled, flaring just hours ago. They followed it here.
And found a village ripped to shreds.
The air reeked of blood and smoke. Buildings splintered. Bodies scattered. Only a few survivors remained—and Derek was the only one still talking.
Sty's gaze drifted to the mountain beyond, where a massive stone hand protruded from the cliffside—a remnant of some long-dead god. Even from a distance, it made his skin crawl.
The boy kept rambling about a demon and destruction. But the witch was a woman. This didn't fit.
"Hey, kid," Sty said, stepping forward, voice like gravel. "Did you see the demon clearly? Anything distinctive?"
Derek blinked, startled. "Red hair. And a black gauntlet."
Red hair?
Jin frowned. There were no known martial artists with red hair—except the witch. But she was definitely no man.
"Jin, I'll take it from here," Sty said. "Rin—scan the area."
Rin, slim and quiet, stood with her hands behind her back, her dark braid tucked into a high-collared coat. She gave a short nod and vanished in a blur, silent as smoke.
"You said the witch caused this?" Sty asked Derek.
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I just know." Derek squared his shoulders, as if bracing for a fight.
Sty resisted the urge to groan. The boy wasn't useless, just reckless. Probably fought hard, didn't think much.
"Did she have a son? Red hair?"
Derek hesitated. "Yeah. But it can't be him. He's most likely dead. He couldn't even reach Ember-Hand stage."
"That makes sense," Jin muttered.
"Don't forget whose blood he has," Sty said sharply. "And that gauntlet."
Jin's eyes widened. "Could it be—"
"Griefshard," said a calm voice.
They turned. Malen stepped forward—older, face lined with experience, his graying hair slicked back, movements smooth and deliberate. He didn't speak often, but when he did, people listened.
"Exactly," Sty nodded. "But where is he now?"
"And what could stop him?" Malen added. "No one here could've."
"Could he be dead?" Jin asked.
"No," Rin said, reappearing. "No sign of a red-haired boy."
"So where could he be," Sty muttered. "What did you find?"
"A red-haired woman. On the hill."
Sty tensed. "The witch?"
"I believe so."
"Did she see you?"
"No."
"Then we hit first. Before she senses us."
Weapons came free. The air tightened. Derek stepped back, eyes flicking between them.
But Rin tilted her head. "She can't."
Sty narrowed his eyes. "Why not? Don't you know what she's capable of?"
"I know," she said quietly. "But she's dead."
Sty froze. Then coughed. "You could've mentioned that earlier."
Before anyone could speak again, a deep voice rang from behind them.
"I'd like to believe you're not about to attack us."
---
Harold's hands tightened around his spear as he noticed the group reaching for their weapons.
His side throbbed from an injury—a shallow wound, but enough to slow him down. Still, he could hold them off. Long enough for the others to escape. Or die buying them time.
But—
The group abruptly sheathed their blades. Every sword returned to its scabbard in eerie synchrony.
The man at the front—a broad-shouldered brute with a scar-carved face, scraggly beard, and a fur cloak that hung off his back like a flag of arrogance despite the heat—let out a dry, awkward laugh.
He turned to the woman beside him, muttering something.
She only tilted her head, a subtle frown creasing her brow.
Harold eased his grip, stepping forward. "I'd like to believe you're not about to attack us."
The scarred man turned, gaze sharp and measuring for a breathless moment—then the smile returned.
"No, no. We wouldn't dare. Just a misunderstanding," he said. "Name's Sty. Leader of Ashspire Kingdom's Punishment Subdivision." He offered his hand.
Harold hesitated a second too long before taking it. The grip was firm, practiced—an experienced fighter.
Harold smiled thinly and tightened his own. Sty's expression twitched before he awkwardly pulled away.
"I don't remember any Ashspire units dressing in blue," Harold said, voice calm.
The smile never reached his eyes.
"We're new. Kind of special," Sty replied, unclipping a plaque from his belt and handing it over. "That's our proof, just in case."
Harold accepted the jade plaque, flipping it in his hand.
It was heavier than expected. Deep green with black marbling, shaped like a shield with jagged edges—more a symbol of threat than authority.
The upper portion features a golden flame-like emblem with a swirling spiral at its center, the symbol of the punishment division. Below that, red-lacquered script read: Division of Retribution. Surrounding the central figures are ornate, swirling vine patterns.
But the detail that caught Harold's eye was the etching—flowers, barely visible, curling beneath the flame-like emblem. That was accurate. Too specific to fake.
Still... something was off.
"Let me see that," Derek snapped, snatching it without waiting.
Harold barely registered it. His gaze stayed on Sty's group. Too clean. Too quiet. No dust on their boots. No signs of a long patrol. Uniforms pressed. Eyes too alert.
"Seems authentic... but the uniforms?" Harold asked, still watching Sty.
"Well—special division," muttered a younger man beside Sty, then quickly bit his tongue.
Sty's smile didn't waver, but the side-glance he gave his subordinate could have peeled paint.
"Forgive him," Sty said smoothly. "He gets a little... enthusiastic."
"I see," Harold replied, shifting his weight, spear subtly angled. "Still strange how you just happened to be nearby when this happened."
Sty's smile deepened. It still didn't reach his eyes.
"We were tracking criminals. Last seen in this area," he said. "It's possible they're responsible for this."
Possible. Convenient. Too damn neat.
"I thought we said it was Kael," Derek chimed in, brows furrowed, passing the plaque back.
"Yes," Sty said, a twitch flickering across his brow, "but they could also be involved."
Harold let out a slow breath. "So. What do you want?"
"Just to look around. See if anything turns up."
"Well, be my guests. As you can see—not much left," Harold said, motioning to the ruins.
"Perhaps we can check that hill?" Sty asked, gesturing toward the overlook.
"Sure," Harold replied, tightening his grip on the spear. "But I'll go with you."
"Of course," Sty said, his smile returning. "Lead the way."