The footsteps finally stopped just in front of Caelum's table.
He didn't open his eyes immediately.
A moment passed. Then a rough hand slammed against the table, the sound echoing across the guild like a strike of thunder.
Caelum's eyes opened slowly.
He tilted his head up and saw them—two middle-aged men, both built like fighters. One had a scar that ran from his ear to the edge of his jaw. The other wore a wolfskin cloak and smelled like sweat and smoke. Their hands were rough, their eyes full of pride and fury.
The man with the scar leaned in, palm still pressed flat against the table, his knuckles white.
"Listen, boy," he said, voice low but sharp. "We can handle our own problems. How about you crawl back to that hell hole you came out from, and leave this town to its own people?"
His eyes scanned Caelum with disgust.
"We don't need you spreading your plague around here."
Caelum didn't respond immediately. He turned his head toward the window beside him. Outside, the town was a wreck. Homes had been half-burnt to the ground. Ash still floated in the air from fires long gone. Smoke stained the walls, and people walked with haunted expressions, barely talking, barely breathing.
He raised his hand and pointed out the window lazily, still resting against the table.
"You don't seem to be doing a nice job at handling it," he said in a flat tone.
He wasn't angry. Not yet.
But he was already irritated.
He wouldn't even be here if it weren't for the academy. He didn't care for these people, this town, or their endless problems. And now, these two fools had the nerve to come and challenge him. In front of everyone.
A few tables away, a small child sat beside his father. The boy couldn't have been older than six. He had messy brown hair and wide eyes that shimmered with a mix of fear and curiosity. He tugged at his father's sleeve and looked up.
"Papa," he whispered. "What's gonna happen now?"
The father was silent for a moment. Then he let out a tired sigh. He reached for the mug in front of him, filled it to the brim with mead, and drank half of it in one gulp.
"In a few minutes," he said calmly, "those two men are going to die."
The boy blinked and looked toward Caelum.
"But… but he doesn't look angry," the boy said, confused.
The father gave a slow smile. It wasn't happy. It was a knowing, heavy sort of smile—the kind that came from seeing too much in one life.
"He doesn't need to look angry," he said. "Whatever happens next… I want you to watch everything. Watch it carefully. Remember it always."
The boy nodded slowly, his eyes now glued to Caelum.
Back at the table, Caelum finally moved.
He raised his hand lazily and made a flicking motion, as if waving away a fly.
"Scram," he said.
Simple.
Clear.
But the two men didn't move.
Instead, the one with the wolfskin cloak stepped forward, his lip curled in disgust.
"You don't get it, do you?" he said. "As long as you're in this town, people will feel unsafe. You're not like us. You bring... darkness. You reek of death. Even the air's changed since you came through that gate. We're not comfortable around your kind."
Caelum looked at them and for the first time, really smiled.
It was not a kind smile.
Not the smile of a boy.
It was cold. Calm. Empty.
He leaned back in his chair, folded his arms, and spoke softly.
"You think I want to be here?"
He looked around the guild, slowly, as if taking in the burned walls, the cracked ceiling, the stench of desperation.
"I'd love to walk out of this place. Right now. And leave you all to burn."
He turned back to them, and his smile widened a little.
"But see… I have a problem."
He raised one finger.
"If I don't finish this mission in twenty-four hours…"
He raised a second finger.
"I die."
He dropped both hands back onto the armrests.
"So as much as I'd love to leave, I can't."
His eyes locked onto theirs, expression hardening.
"That means I'm stuck in this pit with you. And you're stuck in here with me."
The room was dead silent. Everyone was watching.
The tension was thick, like the seconds before lightning strikes.
But Caelum was calm. Too calm.
The father watching from the table shook his head and muttered under his breath, "They still don't get it."
The two men didn't move. They stood their ground, pride keeping them frozen.
They wanted Caelum to leave.
The scar-faced man suddenly let out a roar of frustration and kicked the table with all his might.
The wooden legs snapped, splinters flew into the air, and the table collapsed with a loud crack.
Caelum's sword, which had been resting against the top, was thrown into the air.
But before it could fall, Caelum moved.
Quick.
Precise.
His leg lifted and caught the falling sword on the side of his boot. With a small kick, he flipped it into the air and caught it smoothly with his hand.
The sword was still sheathed.
His movements were like water—graceful, practiced, effortless.
For the first time since the encounter started, Caelum finally turned his eyes on the man who had broken his table.
He said nothing.
He simply stepped forward.
Smack!
The sound was brutal, like a tree branch snapping clean in two.
Caelum's sheathed sword slammed directly against the man's leg. Not with magic. Not with screaming fury.
Just clean, raw force.
The entire guild heard it. Bone snapping, flesh tearing, cartilage shredding.
The man let out a horrifying scream.
"AHHHHHHHHHHH!"
He collapsed to the ground, clutching what was left of his leg. It bent in a way no human bone ever should. The weight of Caelum's sword, despite how he wielded it like a feather, had crushed the bone entirely.
Blood poured from his pant leg, forming a pool that crept toward the wooden floorboards.
Everyone in the guild went still.
No one could believe it. No chants. No spells. No glow of magic.
Just sheer, destructive physical power.
And Caelum hadn't even unsheathed his weapon.
But he wasn't finished.
His brows furrowed slightly as if the man's scream annoyed him.
Then—
Pow!
Another strike, faster than the first.
The sword's sheathed edge slammed directly into the man's face.
His skull caved in instantly.
There was a low explosion of sound, like a melon bursting.
Blood, fragments of skull, and grey brain matter splattered across the wooden walls and floor. One chunk of flesh landed on a table nearby, making a woman jump back with a scream.
The man's body fell limp. What was left of his head rolled sideways, unrecognizable.
A deep silence fell over the guild.
People stared at Caelum, stunned.
He didn't move with fury. He didn't yell. There was no show.
He simply moved like someone who had done this before—many times.
Like it was routine.
The man's partner, still standing just beside him, had gone pale. A growing patch of wetness spread across the front of his trousers.
He looked down and realized, to his horror, that he had wet himself.
His legs trembled violently.
Caelum's eyes fell on the puddle forming at the man's feet.
He tilted his head.
"Really?" he muttered, almost amused. "You pissed yourself?"
The man dropped to his knees.
"P-Please…" he begged, voice shaking. "Please… spare me…"
Caelum said nothing.
He walked toward the man slowly, sword still resting easily in his hand. The weight of it didn't seem to bother him at all.
The man raised both hands in surrender.
"I… I didn't mean— I just—!"
Smack!
Caelum swung again.
The blunt, sheathed sword struck the man on the top of the head.
There was a sickening crack.
The skull split down the center, splitting like a ripe fruit under a hammer.
Blood gushed out in a thick wave. The man dropped instantly, twitching for a few seconds before falling completely still.
Not a single sound came from the guild.
People held their breath.
Others stared with wide eyes.
And no one dared move.
The boy from earlier sat frozen at the table, his small hands clinging to the edge of his chair. His father placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and calm.
"Son," he said quietly, never taking his eyes off Caelum, "remember this for the rest of your life."
The boy looked up slowly.
"Never mess with a Blackwatcher."
Caelum crouched beside the two corpses and calmly searched their pockets.
He pulled out a few coin pouches, two small bottles of green glowing potion—likely healing—and one purple bottle marked with a gold rune.
A strength booster.
He wiped a bit of blood off the hilt of his sword with a cloth he pulled from his coat, then calmly stood and looked around the guild once again.
No one met his eyes.
No one said a word.