At the death of the night, beneath a silver sky and waning stars, Kazel stood at the edge of the Fang.
He didn't enter.
Not yet.
His feet touched the dirt path that led to the city, and from there he could see the aftermath—shattered rooftops, streets cracked open like ribs, buildings clawed apart as if by some divine beast.
(It really did a number...) he thought, narrowing his eyes.
The Blue Phoenix hadn't just flown through.
It had slashed through, leaving the Fang scarred and trembling. The faint smell of ash and soul-burned stone lingered in the air. Even the wind felt hesitant as it passed through the ruins.
Kazel pulled the collar of his disheveled yukata tighter, blending into the shadow of a half-toppled wall. His ears caught the muffled voices of two locals walking past with a lantern dimly swaying between them.
"They're marching from the capital already—Second Moon's full war band," said one, tone hushed and anxious.
"I saw the banner. Patriarch Maldan himself is leading. And Agabah too. Said they're heading to the Land of the Lamb... to crush the Immortal Sect."
"Crush?" the other asked. "Why? They didn't even—"
"Who cares why? When the Second Moon moves, someone dies."
They disappeared around the corner, the light fading with them.
Kazel's jaw tightened. His hands clenched without thinking.
(So they move in daylight... but their orders were forged in shadow.)
He remained crouched behind the wall for another breath. Then another.
His blue eyes gazed down the ruined street—not with fear, but with thought. Calculation.
(They're trying to erase more than just me. They want to wipe the ashes clean. No honor. No reason. Just fear.)
His fingers brushed over the faint scar left by the Blue Phoenix's bite on his forearm.
Then he stepped out of the shadow, shoulders squared.
---
Meanwhile, in the Land of the Lamb, the wind carried an unnatural stillness.
Dust rose with every hoofbeat. The march of the Second Moon Sect was relentless, each step pounding like a war drum against the hearts of the watchers. Farmers left their fields. Children were hidden behind doors. Elders watched from afar, some murmuring prayers, others curses.
"They didn't even resist," someone whispered from a hillside."No one can resist the Second Moon," answered another."And the Immortal Sect? What did they do?""Nothing… except exist."
At the edge of the valley, where the rolling plains gave way to the humble homes of the Immortal Sect, Maldan sat atop his massive black steed like a reaper at dusk. His cloak billowed, embroidered with silver moons and blood-threaded glyphs. His eyes, however, were colder than any embroidery could capture—eyes not of a man, but of a verdict.
Beside him, Agabah held the reins of his own horse, the smirk on his lips betraying a quiet excitement. Behind them stood the core disciples, armored in the sect's signature dark-blue robes, blades gleaming in the moonlight. The outer disciples fanned outward, forming a perfect circle around the sect grounds.
The moon above bore silent witness to this siege of pride and cruelty.
Then, Maldan's voice rang out like a hammer against an iron bell.
"I will give you a chance to redeem yourself!"
His voice echoed through the hills, cutting through the hush like a sword.
"Step outside and kowtow before our sect! Do so, and I promise your death will be swift... and your corpse left whole."
The homes of the Immortal Sect stood quiet—too quiet. The soft creak of a wooden wind chime was the only reply.
Agabah turned to his father, a smug look on his face, then looked forward once more into the darkness that cloaked the small compound.
The only sound that followed was the quiet clink of drawn steel. The valley held its breath.
The first wave of disciples flooded the courtyard like a black tide.
They smashed the outer gates, their reinforced wood splintering into useless debris under the weight of condensed soul force. What had once stood as a modest boundary to the Immortal Sect's peace now lay broken beneath boot and flame.
They advanced without pause.
"Burn the hall!" one of the core disciples bellowed.
Flames engulfed the old training pavilion—where Kazel once sparred in silence, where Durandal once trained with trembling hands. Wooden beams crackled before collapsing with a hiss of embers and smoke. The carved calligraphy on the beams, written by Kazel's grandfather long ago, disintegrated in seconds.
Another group struck down the herb garden. A core disciple stomped on clay pots, letting centuries of cultivated roots and flowers spill onto the dirt. One disciple tore the old cultivation scrolls hanging by the walls of the inner chamber, laughing as the wind scattered the ashes.
"Spare no building!" shouted an elder. "Spare no memory!"
And so they didn't.
The ancestral hall, a modest structure that held a single memorial tablet for Kazel's grandfather, was torn apart. The tablet shattered beneath a spirit blade—split in two and kicked into the dirt like it was nothing.
Furniture was upturned. The stone well was cracked and filled with debris. Even the paper lanterns that hung peacefully from the eaves were ripped and set ablaze. The scent of smoke and soul force mixed in the air like death and disdain.
Then they found the house.
Kazel's home.Noel and Lana's modest abode.
Its walls were lined with shelves of worn scrolls and stitched tapestries made by hand. The inner chamber held little—just a bed, a low table, and the warmth of a life once quietly lived.
It was the last to fall.
A disciple kicked in the door, and several others followed, grinning with torches in hand.
"This is where he was raised?" one sneered. "How pathetic."
They lit the curtains first, then overturned the table, smashing it to pieces. The fire leapt to the rafters in seconds. A stitched cloth—one that Lana had made with their son's name—was caught in the blaze and burned before it could fall to the ground.
Outside, Maldan watched without blinking. His eyes reflected the firelight, cold and still.
Agabah, however, stared at the flames swallowing the house… and felt something tighten in his throat. Something he couldn't explain.
(I've done it…)(Then why doesn't it feel like victory?)
The land screamed in silence. The Immortal Sect—no longer a sect, no longer a home—was now nothing but a graveyard of flame and ash.
---
Meanwhile, within the Ironhide Sect—
Inside a quiet chamber lit by soft lantern light, a heavy silence sat in the air. Patriarch Toghon stood at the head of the room, arms crossed behind his broad back. Lana, Noel, the alchemist Arhatam, and Durandal sat quietly around the low table.
"Word has spread," Toghon began, his tone grim. "The Second Moon Sect from the Land of the Wolf has marched… toward the Immortal Sect."
Lana closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose. "Just as he said…" she murmured.
Noel glanced sideways at Durandal, then scratched the back of his neck.
"Hey, kid…" he said awkwardly. "Sorry for doubting you."
Durandal looked startled. He waved his hands quickly.
"I-It's alright! I didn't explain things clearly either…"
Arhatam leaned back, arms folded as he stared at the ceiling with a sigh.
"Damn it… I never imagined things would escalate this fast. We didn't even finish rebuilding it yet…"
"He must be planning something," Noel said, brows furrowed. "He wouldn't send us here without reason."
Durandal nodded, more confident this time.
"Young master told me to keep you both safe… and said we're to stay here until he comes for us."
Lana looked toward Toghon and bowed slightly.
"I'm sorry to impose like this, Patriarch Toghon."
The Ironhide leader chuckled softly and waved it off.
"Without your son, this sect wouldn't be standing by next year."
Noel raised a brow.
"No need to flatter us."
Toghon shook his head with a smile.
"I mean it literally."
He stepped closer, placing a reassuring hand on Noel's shoulder.
"You can stay here as long as you need. But keep a low profile… there are eyes everywhere."
The room fell into a thoughtful hush. Then Lana turned toward the window, where the moonlight filtered through the rice paper frame. She watched the stars for a moment, her eyes distant.
"Oh, Kazel…" she whispered, "what are you planning now?"
---
The night was still. Only the crickets dared to whisper beneath the heavy breath of the wind.
Saya stood inside a small room tucked within the Curved Blade's branch sect—quiet, unlit, save for the pale moonlight slipping through the slits in the wooden walls. In the center of the room, upright and resting against a stand, was his halberd.
The weapon was clean now, but its presence still weighed like a memory.
Saya stood in the doorway, her silhouette casting a long shadow over the polished floor. Her eyes traced the familiar weapon.
She exhaled softly and slid the door closed. Her steps were slow, reluctant, and she left without another glance.
But halfway down the hall, her feet stopped.Something felt off.
She turned. The door… it wasn't fully closed.
Her breath hitched.
She crept back, each step measured. Her hand pushed the door open—just enough.
Empty.
The halberd was gone.
Her pulse surged, but she made no sound. Instead, she stepped back, turned, and rushed outside.
She scanned the rooftops.
Then—she saw it.
A flicker of movement.
A white, one-shoulder cloak, catching the moonlight as it slid over the curved tiles, fluid and silent like a ghost.
Her lips parted slightly.
Kazel landed soundlessly on the tiled stone of a courtyard—not the quiet halls of the Curved Blade—but deep within the Second Moon Sect. Moonlight bathed the vast open space, flanked by solemn statues and proud banners of silver and blue.
The wind stirred his white, one-shoulder cloak as he stepped forward, unfazed by the risk.There were no guards in the courtyard—only the arrogant silence of those who believed they'd won.
He tilted his head, voice low and amused.
"Let's see how hollow your moon really is."