Meanwhile, within the quiet confines of the Curved Blade Sect's branch—tucked on the edge of a hill that overlooked the charred remnants of the night prior—Nobu sat in silence.
The same room where he had sparred with Kazel just days ago now carried a different air. The walls still echoed the sounds of clashing steel, but the mood had shifted. He knelt on the mat, his eyes half-lidded, his breath steady and controlled. Each inhale and exhale was a battle to settle the storm still lodged in his chest.
(The Blue Phoenix… that was no Epic beast. That was something else. Something that reminded us how small we are.)
A knock came, sudden and hurried. The door slid open with a rough tug.
"Master!" Saya's voice was tight, her eyes restless.
Nobu opened his eyes and glanced her way. "What is it, Saya?"
She stepped forward, holding something in her arms, close to her chest. "We didn't find him… but we found something that belonged to him."
Behind her, two other disciples followed, their expressions solemn. No one spoke. One of them held something wrapped in cloth.
Nobu's brow furrowed. He stood and approached. "Let me see it."
The cloth was unwrapped, and a familiar gleam reflected the soft lantern light. A halberd—black shaft, silver edge, its surface still humming faintly with residual soul energy. Nobu's jaw tightened the moment he saw it.
Kazel's halberd.
It had scratches now. Cracks near the midsection, and blood—dried and dark—caked around the bladed ends.
No one said a word.
Saya spoke softly, as if afraid her voice might shatter the stillness. "It was found lodged into a stone, far beyond the southern wall. As if… thrown."
Nobu ran his fingers along the shaft. "Thrown… or dropped."
His fingers paused at a spot that had once gleamed with polish—now chipped, burned.
"Whether it was dropped or placed… he left it behind for a reason."
Saya's lips quivered, her voice caught between hope and despair. "Master, do you think he's…"
Nobu looked out through the open window, where sunlight bathed the ruined rooftops. His eyes, usually so sharp, now seemed distant.
"He's not the kind to die easily. But a beast like that… if it wanted to, it could've taken anyone."
He held the halberd closer. He turned to his disciples. "Keep this. Treat it with care. If Kazel returns… it should be in his hand. And if he doesn't…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
The streets of the Fang rumbled—not from beasts, but from boots and hooves. A march had begun.
Outside the Duskwind Inn, Yasha stood beside Madam Yi, both cloaked in silence as they gazed toward the main road. A line of disciplined soldiers marched in formation, their armor gleaming faintly under the morning sun, their expressions cold and resolute.
Yasha's sharp eyes narrowed.( That's Maldan... the patriarch of the Second Moon Sect. )
At the front rode Maldan himself, adorned in robes that fluttered like banners of war. Behind him, his core disciples marched with pride. The elders followed with solemnity, and even Elder Crane—renowned for his brilliance and rarely seen outside sect walls—was present, his gaze unreadable.
A black-and-red banner waved behind them, raised high above the ashes of the razed district. The irony was almost poetic.
Elder Juni, high within the observation tower, watched the column with an unblinking gaze. Her hand gripped her bow's handle tighter. Her lips were pressed into a line. She knew what this meant.
Agabah rode just behind Maldan, his posture stiff, face composed—but not unreadable. Those who knew how to look could still see the burn of pride and hatred in his eyes. The young master had returned, and he rode not as a diplomat but as the executor of an unspoken sentence.
Their destination: the Land of the Lamb.
A land that had birthed Kazel. A land that would now be painted red.
As the canter of horses thundered out of the Fang's gates, it became clear to all who watched—this was no mere disciplinary action. This was not a pursuit of the guilty.
It was a deliberate act of war.
The message was undeniable:It is not only the man who must die… but the memory of his defiance as well.
This was not mitigation.This was subjugation of order.
An annihilation... in disguise of honor.
---
Meanwhile, far to the north of the Fang, beyond the scattered woodlands, a vast meadow lay in silence—except for the crater carved like a wound into its heart.
At the center of that crater, a man lay unconscious. Dust clung to his bloodied yukata, his chest rising and falling faintly beneath the early sun. On top of him, a squirrel perched nervously, its tiny paws pressed against the fabric as it chirped in concern.
Kazel.
The man's eyes slowly fluttered open.
The squirrel panicked, chirped once more, and tried to flee—but in one swift motion, Kazel's hand caught its tail. He blinked a few times, dazed and slow, before staring at the squirming creature in his grip.
A glint of wetness clung to its fur.
( ...Is it crying? )
With a quiet sigh, Kazel released the squirrel, which scurried off and vanished behind the rim of the crater. His breathing steadied. He sat up.
"Tch," he hissed through his teeth.
His gaze fell to his left arm—particularly the forearm. It was swollen, bruised, and tinted a sickly blue. Dried blood crusted around a savage bite mark, the imprint unmistakable.
The Blue Phoenix had left its signature.
( That damned beast... )
He staggered to his feet, the soft crunch of ash and broken stone beneath him. His muscles ached with every movement, but he was alive.
Barely.
He looked around—nothing but grassland beyond the crater's edge, a distant mountain range looming like silent sentinels. No people. No sounds.
Only wind.
( How long was I out…? Where the hell am I... )
The morning breeze swept across the meadow, and the sun climbed steadily above the horizon.
He had survived.
Kazel glanced down, checking his spatial ring.
Empty.
"Tch… no halberd, huh?" he muttered, flexing his fingers. "That was quite a fall… but I lived. At least the bones are fine."
He tilted his head back, staring at the sky—clear blue, interrupted only by scattered white clouds. He let out a breath, then shifted his gaze toward the dense woodlands ahead.
His yukata was torn, bloodied, and barely hanging together, but he walked forward without hesitation—barefoot, bruised, and resolute.
As he stepped beneath the canopy, shadows cooled his skin. The fractured rays of sunlight flickered through the leaves, and somewhere behind him, a faint blur of white-blue light appeared—the manifestation of Frostfang, his wolf spirit, flickering like a ghostly guardian.
Kazel inhaled deeply.
His sharp nose twitched.
( That smell… fish. )
His lips curled into a faint smile. He followed the scent, weaving through underbrush, branches brushing against his arms. Before long, he stepped out onto a clearing—and saw it.
A river.
Clear, flowing fast, its surface flashing with the shimmer of sunlight and silver fish darting beneath.
"This is my return ticket," Kazel whispered.
His stomach chose that moment to growl, loudly and rudely. He chuckled.
"Alright, alright…"
He stepped into the river. The cold water kissed just below his knees, currents curling around his legs. He moved calmly, letting his breath sync with the rhythm of the stream. The sensation of the Frostfang pulsed behind him—lending him clarity, balance, instinct.
Then, with a fluid motion, he lifted his right hand.
Splash.
A blur—his palm cut through the water like a blade, and with a precise chop, a fish burst from the stream and landed flailing on the riverbank.
Then another. And another.
Like a beast with endless patience and perfect control, Kazel stood in the wild, hunting not with rage, but with instinct. His eyes sharp. Movements clean.
The fish sizzled over the crackling fire, a thin stream of smoke rising into the open sky. Kazel sat cross-legged beside it, his expression calm, savoring each bite in silence. Once the bones were picked clean and his hunger tamed, he stood, wiped his mouth, and turned his eyes downstream.
The mountain loomed behind him—steep and winding.
But the river flowed forward.
And so did he.
With steady steps and unshaken posture, Kazel followed the river's curve through the forest. The sun hung low, bleeding golden light through the trees, casting long shadows at his back. His yukata still torn, his body still marked by bruises, and yet his gait was smooth—like a predator returning to its domain.
He didn't stop. Not once.
And of course, the forest responded.
Rustling. Snapping twigs. Low growls in the distance.
Then it appeared.
A bear—no, something more than a bear.
Its fur was thick and black as tar, its muscles rippling beneath. Four gleaming eyes glared at Kazel, two atop the other in a vertical line, and each pupil burned with primal hunger. It stood on hind legs, easily four times his height, towering like a wall of death.
It snarled. The air shook.
Kazel raised an eyebrow. Then he smiled.
"You think I can't kill you with one hand?"
His voice was laced with disdain, yet calm—like a man stating a fact.
The bear growled louder, saliva dripping from jagged fangs.
Kazel's eyes flashed. Tyrannical. Cold.
He reached down.
Not for a sword.
Not for a halberd.
Just a stone.
A small one.
He weighed it in his palm. Then flicked his wrist.
Crack!
The stone shot through the air like a bolt—no wasted motion, no warning.
It struck the bear dead-center between its top two eyes, the skull cracked.
The beast staggered.
A loud thud echoed as it collapsed to the ground—motionless.
Kazel lightly touched the corpse before continuing forward. His eyes sharp as he continued walking the path, as the spirit beasts inside him having a feast of the bear.