"Then what are you going to do now?" Elder Crane asked, arms still crossed, though his tone no longer carried the same certainty.
Kazel halted, eyes half-lidded, as if bored by the question."My feud is with your young master," he said, his voice calm, deliberate. "But if he chooses to escalate…"
He turned slightly, just enough for every disciple to see the grin tug at his lips.
"…then I wouldn't mind living up to the nickname they gave me."
The White Crane behind the elder rippled in tension. A murmur surged through the gathered disciples like a shiver down the spine.
"Did he just—?"
"The Sect Slayer…"
"He really said it…"
Even Elder Crane's breath hitched.
Kazel turned fully now and strode away, his cape fluttering gently, each step full of the confidence only someone who had danced with death could carry.
Durandal stumbled a step back, knees slightly buckling. ( How could one man carry such power? )
Kazel clicked his tongue. "You can tell Agabah I stopped by. I gave him a chance."
Then, he turned and walked away, each step echoing louder than words.
Durandal had to force his legs to move, caught between disbelief and reverence. He followed behind, not as a thief, not as a servant—but as someone who had chosen to walk behind a legend.
---
The room was bright, its windows open wide. Transparent curtains danced with the breeze, carrying in the fresh scent of wet earth and sunlit dew. Shalam's eyes fluttered open. His body screamed in pain—a pain like tumbling off a tall tower and surviving the fall. Every nerve ached, every muscle throbbed. Everything in him felt broken.
Everything... except the vivid memory pounding inside his skull.
"Well," he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. "Still alive, huh."
"I see that you've finally woken up," a voice said.
A woman stepped in—mid-twenties, with sharp, calculating eyes. She wore a crisp white button-down shirt tucked into black slim leggings designed for fluid movement. Two thick, practical belts circled her waist, bare of any flashy insignia. Her black boots reached just below the knee, worn from use. Her chestnut-brown long hair was pulled up into a neat chignon, not a strand out of place, giving her an air of disciplined elegance. A single earring adorned her left ear, glinting subtly against her fair skin as she approached the bedside.
"Is that any way to greet your little brother? Who just kissed death on the lips?" Shalam grinned before grimacing. "Ow—I can't even push off the blanket."
"That is the perfect way to greet you," she said, lips curling into a smirk as she sat beside his bed. "Looks to me like you got your wish granted."
"Indeed. And I didn't regret a thing—ow." He flinched again. "Where is he now?"
"After dumping your half-dead body at our doorstep in the rain?" She bit into an apple. "He waved goodbye with a smile like he just finished a morning stroll."
"Ah, dang it…" Shalam sighed, frustrated.
"So?" she asked mid-chew, leaning toward him. "How was it?"
"As you can see—pain."
"I meant the spar," she said, flicking the half-eaten apple at his forehead.
"Ow!" Shalam winced. "It went… quick."
"Technique-wise?" she asked, smirking now.
"Everything-wise."
She leaned back, crossing her legs. "Damn."
Then, with a sly grin, she asked, "So who do you think's stronger—me, or him?"
The wind suddenly howled through the window. Her grin widened, and the bed beneath Shalam began to tremble—vibrating from the sheer pressure emanating off her.
"Y-you can stop now!" Shalam raised both hands in surrender.
And just like that, the pressure vanished.
"So…?" she asked again, resting her chin on her palm.
"I… don't know?" he said, shrugging weakly. "Ouch!"
She snorted, tossing him a fresh pillow. "Coward."
"Smart," Shalam corrected, nestling in. "Very smart."
"I wonder where he's gone now," said the woman with a sigh.
"Most likely to the Land of the Lamb," replied Shalam, still wincing as he shifted beneath the blanket.
"The Land of the Lamb? And what would he find there?" she asked, arching a brow.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Azure Dragon—Sheila, you've been soaring through the skies so much, you forgot how to touch grass," said Shalam with a smirk.
"Just spit it out," Sheila rolled her eyes.
"There's a boy that caught his attention. Name's Kazel, but he's more widely known as the Sect Slayer."
"Oh?" Sheila's brows rose. "That's a daunting nickname."
"Well, he did wipe out two sects in one afternoon," said Shalam. "Even for the Land of the Lamb, that's no small feat—especially with the effort he used."
"Indeed... and you said boy?"
"Not even twenty. And The Great Merchant saw it all."
"You mean Old Pao Pao?"
"The one and only."
"Now that's a credible witness."
"It is... but something's off," Shalam muttered, his tone shifting.
Sheila tilted her head. "What do you mean?"
"I thought he was interested in Kazel because of some kinship—same homeland, same rise-from-nothing story. But that's not it."
"Then what?"
Shalam exhaled deeply. "Right at the climax of our match, as he was strangling me—literally—he said, 'Remember when you asked me who could possibly beat me? Well, if he is who I think he is... then he's number one on the list.'"
Sheila's lips parted slightly, stunned into silence.
---
Meanwhile, on an empty road flanked by endless meadows swaying in the breeze, a lone figure walked in silence. He wore a plain robe and a broad farmer's hat that cast a shadow over his head. Black bandages wrapped tightly around his forearms, and his feet were clad in nothing more than socks and straw sandals—like a pilgrim chasing purpose.
His face was hidden, save for his eyes, which peeked through a strip of dark fabric that veiled everything else. Yet those eyes alone carried more expression than most men's mouths ever could—calm, searching, and full of quiet yearning.
"The Land of the Lamb is still far," he murmured, voice soft as wind through wheat. "Perhaps I'll hear more of your tale as I walk. After all… like you once taught me—words travel faster than dragons."
His steps slowed. The breeze curled past him.
"I truly hope you're real... my liege."
---
The dusky orange hue of the setting sun stretched long shadows across the crooked rooftops of the slums as Kazel returned to the Duskwind Inn. The wooden steps groaned beneath his boots like old bones protesting his return. When he pushed the door open, the chatter inside dipped—only slightly—but enough to notice.
The inn was alive with the usual haze of roasted roots, cheap wine, and rumors half-whispered. A few regulars looked up, eyes flitting with unease or intrigue. It wasn't every day someone walked in with the nickname "Sect Slayer."
Then a voice sliced through the lull—smooth, lazy, laced with mockery.
"Well, well... the great Kazel dares to make a girl wait."
He turned his head, unimpressed.
There she was—Yasha, seated at a corner table like it belonged to her. One leg crossed over the other, elbow resting on the back of the chair, she wore a sly smile and a presence sharp enough to silence the room. Silver earrings swayed beside her jawline, catching the dim lantern light. She wasn't just anyone. She was one of the Five Ladies of the Five Ladies Sect.
Kazel raised a brow and walked in without slowing. "I don't recall ordering an escort."
A few guests winced. A merchant nearly dropped his cup. At the bar, Madam Yi, who had just been drying a glass, froze mid-wipe. Her eyes darted from Kazel to Yasha. That tone—so sharp, so dismissive—it would've earned anyone else a lecture, or worse.
But Madam Yi didn't say a word.
She didn't dare.
Because even someone as prideful as Kazel should've thought twice before spitting words at one of the Five Ladies.
And yet, he smirked.
Yasha's grin only grew. "Maybe not... but I go where the storm brews."
Kazel tilted his head. "Then it must mean the real storm is me."
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin resting lightly on the back of her hand. "I'm starting to believe it."
Behind him, Durandal lingered at the doorway, feeling like the only man in the room who still remembered how to breathe.
The rest of the guests watched in stunned silence. Some with dread. Some with awe. All of them knowing—this inn would not be quiet for long.