The Fang was as bustling as ever, a tide of footsteps and chatter washing through its streets. But amid the noise, a bystander leaning near the city gate froze. He had noticed something—or rather, someone.
A lone figure walked forward, his steps subtle but unmistakable. The bystander's pupils shrank. A cold shiver crept up his spine.
Tattered robes. A faint smirk. Eyes that had seen war.
(That face…)
Instinctively, the bystander bowed his head ever so slightly—not out of respect, but something deeper, something primal. Fear. Reverence. Recognition.
But the young man didn't spare him a glance. He passed by without a word. His name didn't need announcing.
He was Kazel.
And the moment his foot touched the streets of the Fang, it was as though the wind changed direction. Conversations hushed. Eyes turned. Merchants paused mid-haggle. Children stopped playing. Guards gripped their weapons with unsure hands.
But Kazel paid none of them any mind. He strolled leisurely, as if he owned the road—and perhaps now, he did.
Despite the tattered clothing and scuffs on his skin, he walked like a man untouched.
Whispers rippled behind him like a growing tide.
"That's him, isn't it?"
"Yeah… that's Kazel."
"The Sect Slayer…"
"No way he did that alone—he must've had backup, right?"
"Then where are they?"
People leaned out of balconies. Vendors paused with their hands hovering over coin pouches. A child tugged at his mother's sleeve, whispering something, only to be hushed quickly and pulled away.
One man near the inn muttered, "He's not even twenty…"
Another, clutching the hilt of his sword at his waist, let go without realizing it.
"Did you see his eyes?" a mercenary whispered to his companion. "That's not a boy… That's a weapon."
As Kazel passed, no one dared to walk too close. The crowd parted for him—not by demand, but by instinct. Like prey clearing the way for a predator.
The tension wasn't loud. It was heavy. Unspoken. Thick in the air.
Some people bowed their heads lightly. Others turned their backs in silence.
And when Kazel passed the Duskwind Inn without a word, a few exchanged glances.
"He's not stopping?"
"Why would he? You think someone like that still needs a room to rent?"
"Where's he going?"
Their answer came when Kazel turned toward the street that led to the modest, unmarked building—Punctured.
Gasps followed.
"Is he insane?"
"Even they'll be careful with him."
Inside the hall of Punctured, silence fell like a blade.
Boots paused mid-step. Dice stopped mid-roll. Conversations halted as masked clients and cloaked assassins turned toward the entrance.
And there he was.
Kazel.
His robe was tattered, stained with blood and dirt, yet he moved as if wrapped in royal silk. His steps were deliberate, calm—no hesitation, no arrogance. Just certainty. The kind of certainty only killers, kings, and madmen wore.
Dozens of hidden blades trembled behind cloaks. Poison users held their breath. Even the smug ones—the untouchables—grew tense.
The air was thick with killing intent.
But Kazel devoured it.
Their hostility reached out like wolves testing a tiger. And the tiger? He bit first. A passive, overwhelming force crushed back down, a wave of raw, untamed dominance. A kind of pressure that came both from years in the shadows and from standing in blood and daring the world to strike back.
They had all heard the news. The fall of the Second Moon Sect. The slaying of Maldan. The death of a patriarch. And now, the boy responsible for that ruin was walking through their hall without disguise, fear, or even purposefully flexed intent.
He didn't need to.
He was the intent.
The masked clients watched in disbelief. Some recognized him from afar. Some didn't—but they knew a storm when it entered the room.
One leaned to another and whispered, "That's the one who walked through a sect like it was a brothel hallway."
"Walked?" another whispered. "He danced."
And Kazel?
He never slowed.
His eyes didn't wander.
He made no threats, no greetings.
He simply walked deeper into Punctured, as if this gathering of murderers was merely a hallway on the way to breakfast.
In that moment, Punctured wasn't a den of killers anymore.
It was a silent temple.
And Kazel was its newest god.
And just before he walked out, a voice from the shadows muttered low, "Tch… We ain't amateurs…"
Kazel paused, smiling again.
Then without turning, he answered, "Then you're smart enough to act like it."
And with that, he exited the hall of assassins as he entered—untouched.
Outside, the air in the Fang remained tense, like the world itself was holding its breath until Kazel was fully gone. But Kazel? He walked as if he owned the street, his tattered clothes fluttering gently with the wind, his steps light—almost lazy.
He made his way to a caravan station at the edge of the city, where merchants, travelers, and hired hands bustled around, loading crates, watering beasts, or prepping for their routes. Conversations hushed as he arrived.
Kazel didn't say a word. He didn't need to. One glance from him, and the merchant handling departures stiffened. He recognized him. They all did.
"I need a caravan heading to the Land of the Lamb," said Kazel, calm and to the point.
"Y-Yes! Right away!" the merchant bowed before scrambling toward the handlers, waving frantically for preparations.
Kazel leaned against the wheel of a wagon nearby, arms crossed, watching as they rushed to serve. The wood creaked, the beasts huffed, and drivers muttered in panic—but the young man was content to wait.
High above, from a tower still half-covered in scaffolding and stone dust, Elder Juni stood watching. Her robes fluttered as a breeze swept past, catching loose scrolls behind her.
A few laborers paused, following her gaze. They didn't need to ask. They knew who had captured her attention.
"And so he goes back home," she muttered, arms folded behind her. Her tone was unreadable—part relief, part wariness, and something else. Something softer. "But I doubt peace will follow him."
She turned back inside, her boots echoing on unfinished stone. The city could begin to breathe again.
But no one would forget that Kazel had passed through.
And somewhere far beyond the Fang, the Land of the Lamb awaited the storm it had raised.
---
Far from the commotion of the Fang, nestled in the tranquil heart of a misty lake, lay the island of the Five Ladies Sect — a place where no men tread.
The lake shimmered like glass under the late morning sun, reflecting the silhouette of the sect's elegant pavilions. Graceful yet fortified, the sect stood alone, both in location and reputation.
The only connection to the outside world was a wide, masterfully paved stone bridge stretching from the forested shore to the island — a bridge where only the chosen few had ever walked without invitation.
Today, Yasha walked it.
Each of her steps echoed softly, steady and measured. Her cloak flowed behind her like a dark silk ribbon, her presence unmistakable — poised, dangerous, and unmistakably hers.
A soft breeze stirred the surface of the water, and the sect stirred with it.
By the time Yasha reached the halfway mark, robed disciples had lined up near the gates, standing in perfect formation. Not one held a weapon — they didn't need to. Their stance was that of warriors trained in poise and restraint.
When she stepped onto the final stone, they bowed.
"Welcome home, Lady Yasha."
No questions. No hesitation. No men in sight.
Yasha gave a half-smile, chewing her ever-present petal.
As she walked through the front gates, more disciples paused their training and bowed. From courtyards to balconies, from behind ornamental screens and flowering corridors — they all acknowledged her return.
With deference.
With respect.
She passed through curved gardens where koi swam lazily in still ponds, under archways adorned with blooming vines, and beyond the meditation terraces where not a whisper broke the air.
But the deeper she went, the more the air shifted.
By the time she reached the inner sanctum, the Hall of the Five Ladies, even the petals stopped falling. The architecture here was grander, older. Ornate doors stood shut before her — carved with five women dancing in a circle, each holding a different weapon.
Yasha stopped.
The disciples here said nothing. They bowed and stepped aside.
She stood before the doors alone, hand lingering just inches away.
Then she pushed the doors open.