The Second Moon Sect's Inner Quarters sprawled like a crescent lake, nestled in the quiet valley between two hills. It was a place untouched by the chaos of battle, a sanctuary where most of the disciples slept soundly—unaware of the approaching storm.
Dozens of elegant wooden pavilions stood in neat formation, each veiled with sheer, fluttering curtains. Lush bamboo groves surrounded the quarters, swaying gently in the midnight breeze. Lanterns hanging from the eaves flickered softly, casting warm golden light across the stone paths. The distant rustle of leaves mixed with the occasional chirp of insects, forming a lullaby of peace.
Above, the sky was clear.
A silver crescent moon hung high and radiant, bathing the sect in ethereal glow—soft, cool, and dreamlike. The reflection of the moon shimmered faintly on a koi pond nestled within the inner garden, where lotus petals floated undisturbed.
The air was cool, crisp. Fresh.
Most disciples slept soundly within their quarters, robes folded neatly by their bedsides, weapons hung on stands. A few night patrollers moved lazily across the walkways, yawning and exchanging hushed greetings under the assumption that nothing would disturb the stillness of this night.
None of them noticed the shift in the wind.
Nor did they sense the heavy presence approaching in the distance.
The moon above watched silently.
Unblinking.
Unmoving.
As if waiting.
Waiting for blood to stain the serenity beneath it.
-- The sound of galloping thundered across the silent night. --
Hooves struck the earth with fury—thud, thud, thud—each beat a war drum announcing calamity. The wind howled in resistance, but the rider did not waver. He leaned forward, the white cloak billowing behind him like a banner of judgment.
Upon the black horse rode a figure bathed in dried blood, the steel glint of a halberd resting across his shoulder. His face, youthful and sharp, was carved with a grin too proud, too cruel, too fearless.
A rider with a thousand scars.
A conqueror before his twenties.
His chest rose with slow, measured breaths. But within—deep in the soul space—four spirit beasts snarled and roared with him
Kazel's eyes gleamed as he saw it.
The gate of the Second Moon Sect.
Tall, proud, ornate—its silver-painted surface shimmered beneath the crescent moon, untouched by dust, unblemished by war.
Kazel smirked."The moon shall rise only once tonight," he muttered, his grip tightening on the halberd. "The second time… will be its fall."
The horse neighed, sensing the shift in its rider's will.
And then—
He kicked his heels in.
With a burst of speed, the beast galloped straight toward the gate, wind howling behind him, dust trailing like a storm.
Within the serene embrace of the Second Moon Sect, two disciples stood on the inner platform by the gate, yawning beneath the cool glow of the crescent moon. The night was calm, perfect, uneventful—until the sound of galloping shattered it.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"Huh? Do you hear that?" one of them blinked.
"Oh, the patriarch has returned!" the other chuckled, rubbing his eyes. "Must've gone out to celebrate our little conquest. Hahaha!"
"Open the gate!" they shouted toward the mechanism control.
Another disciple twisted the crank with a grin. "Maybe he brought wine. Or women!"
They laughed.
The heavy gate creaked open just enough—just enough for a shadow to slip through.
The laughter stopped.
A dark horse trotted in, slowly now, its heavy hooves dragging dust along the stone. But there was no rider.
A presence so heavy fell upon them, they forgot to breathe.
"Huh?" one disciple stepped forward, blinking. "Who…?"
Then he saw it.
Not the face.
Not the cloak.
But the halberd.
Descending from above like the guillotine of the gods.
SHRAK!
A flash of steel. A scream cut short.
The blade didn't just cleave his body clean in half—it shattered the tiled floor beneath him, blood painting the stone, bone crunching under the weight of divine wrath. The other disciple's mouth opened in horror, too slow to react, too slow to run.
"Wh—"
The halberd's edge sliced again, faster than thought. The head fell, rolling twice before stopping at the horse's hooves.
The black horse neighed and stomped forward, unfazed by the carnage. Atop it, Kazel raised his halberd, his blood-stained eyes scanning the courtyard.
He grinned.
"So begins the fall of the Second Moon."
And then he charged deeper in.
---
Noel stood motionless by the window of Ironhide Sect, eyes wide, fingers curled into fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. His nails dug into his palms, but he didn't notice. His gaze was fixed on the mountain in the distance, where an inferno raged like a crimson wound across the dark horizon.
His reflection shimmered faintly in the window's surface—two burning flames in place of his eyes.
The fire spread fast, consuming stone, timber, and memory.
That mountain... that was where the Immortal Sect stood.
Where he once trained.
Where he once bled.
Where he once laughed as a boy under his father's stern but proud gaze.
Now, it burned. His home was no more.
Behind him, Lana saw it. The change. The frozen grief trembling in his shoulders. Silently, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him from behind. Her hands found his, prying them gently open and lacing her fingers through his, warming them with her touch.
Noel didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
Then came a rumble. Not from the earth, but from above.
Thunder cracked across the clouds.
The wind shifted, and rain loomed near.
Maldan, standing tall amidst the chaos on the scorched field, narrowed his eyes as the sky churned. Sparks danced on the wind, embers flickering like lost souls, while his men celebrated below.
He raised a hand, and silence followed.
"This—" he began, his voice like a blade, "—is the price for offending my sect. For offending me. My honor!" he roared. "Let this be a lesson to all you rats that dream of crawling past your lane!"
Cheers erupted.
But then—
"Patriarch!" a disciple rushed over, breathless, bowing low before Maldan and Agabah. "We scouted the homes and the sect hall... There's no one. No bodies. No defenders. No... resistance."
Agabah blinked. "What?"
Maldan's proud expression cracked.
Noel's words rang again in his head. (I will protect what my father built.)
Maldan scanned the wreckage.
Not a single body. Not a single scream. Not even a wounded elder dragged from the rubble.
Just furniture. Tools. Crates. Scrolls.
Everything material.
Everything... empty.
Maldan stared into the blaze as raindrops finally began to fall, hissing against the flames.
The fire had come too easily.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
---
The serenity of the Second Moon's inner court was shattered by the sound of steady footsteps.
Tap.
Tap.
A white one-shoulder cloak swayed with each step, trailing behind him like a curtain drawn across the past.
Kazel stood beneath the crescent moon, halberd resting lazily on his shoulder. The glow of distant fires painted his skin in tones of ember and shadow.
His eyes glinted coldly as he looked toward the sleeping halls of the inner court—the sacred place where the disciples of the Second Moon rested, unaware.
He exhaled.
"Amplify."
The word slipped from his lips like a whisper.
Then—blink.
He vanished.
An instant later, the ground shook.
A thunderous boom erupted as Kazel reappeared in the heart of the courtyard, his halberd already cleaving through a wooden beam mid-swing. The blade sliced through furniture, through walls, through anything that dared stand upright.
The roof of the nearest building collapsed with a groan, tiles scattering, dust blooming outward like a dying breath.
"AAAGHH!"
"Wh-What's happening?!"
"Who—?!"
Wails rose as chaos exploded into every corridor.
Kazel didn't flinch.
Every movement was calculated. Every swing was deliberate. His halberd carved arcs in the air, precise like a hunter among prey.
Not a single strike missed.
He didn't need to see them to know where they were. He could feel them—every coward, every sleeper, every disciple hidden behind paper doors or crawling under broken beams.
A footstep to the right.
Slash.
A breath drawn behind him.
Thrust.
A scream that began but never finished.
The inner court became a maze of carnage.
The disciples were targets, and he had no mercy for targets.
No age.
No rank.
No name.
Whether man or woman, whether sleeping or armed—they were all equal in death.
He was Kazel the Tyrant.
He was surrounded.
And yet, somehow, he was the hunter.
After the last scream died out, blood trickled from the corners of shattered doors. The ground was soaked, the walls cracked, and silence reigned once more—save for the slow, deliberate echo of Kazel's boots against stone.
He stepped over broken beams and burned silk.
Not a single soul stirred.
The Second Moon Sect's inner court had fallen… to one man.
His halberd now dripped less with blood and more with dust—heavy from cleaving both flesh and legacy.
Kazel reached a great lacquered door hidden beneath the central shrine, its frame lined with seals that once pulsed with protective spirit energy. But the defenses were long spent. The door swung open at his touch with a soft creak.
His blue eyes narrowed.
Then—gleam.
The entire chamber radiated with pale jade light. It wasn't fire or lanterns, but the glow of spirit stones—mountains upon mountains of them, some small enough to fit between fingers, others larger than a man's head. Pristine, radiant, untouched.
The accumulated wealth of the Second Moon Sect.
Spirit stones that could power a nation, strengthen armies, and buy cities.
Kazel stood in awe for a moment.
Then he laughed.
It started small.
But then—like a wave breaking through a dam—it grew louder, echoing against the stone walls.
"Hahahahaha…!"
The sound of a tyrant's glee.
No spatial ring could contain it. No vault could rival it. This wasn't just treasure—this was conquest. Proof.
He flung his halberd to the side, letting it clatter against the marble.
Then, without a shred of hesitation, Kazel dove headfirst into the mountain of spirit stones, like a child jumping into leaves.
"Ahh..." he exhaled, burying himself deep.
He lay sprawled across the wealth of his enemies, hands open, spirit pulsing with power.
"This…" he whispered, "…is mine now."
The legacy of the Second Moon Sect, its blood-drenched gold, now belonged to the man they once mocked.
To the tyrant they failed to kill.
To Kazel.