The peasant who had recognized Durandal—Mata—stood frozen, lips trembling. His ragged fingers clutched the corner of the alley wall for support as if it could steady what he just witnessed.
The boy—Mata, no, Durandal—had driven the dagger straight through the heart of the woman who birthed him. Not with trembling hesitation, but with deliberate conviction.
Blood soaked the sheets behind her. Her body slumped, mouth still slightly parted in disbelief.
The peasant staggered back, muttering under his breath. "W-What in the spirits' name…? He killed her—his own mother... he really…"
His voice broke off in a whimper as panic gripped him. He turned on his heel and ran, disappearing into the maze of the slums, leaving only the echo of his steps and breathless fright behind.
Durandal stood motionless. His hands no longer shook. His shoulders were straight, lifted—as if something once heavy had fallen away. His head was raised, but his eyes were closed. Twin streams of tears still ran down his cheeks, quiet but unrelenting.
He had lost something.But he had also gained something.
A moment passed.
Then the snow-robed woman, stunned, finally spoke. "…What just happened?"
Kazel turned to her, expression unreadable. Then a smirk touched his lips. "Liberation," he said, folding his arms. "And a goal."
Her eyes narrowed as she stepped forward, pulling down the tattered cloak she had used for disguise.Golden silk hair spilled out, catching the morning light. Her blue eyes, sharp and clear, fixed on Kazel with a calculating glint. Her skin was as fair as first frost, and her figure slender—every bit the image of grace and lethality the Heavenless Bow Sect was known for.
"You know," Kazel said, meeting her gaze, "it's not very nice to sneak around me like that. If you'd made the wrong move back there… you might've lost your head."
"Is that so?" she replied coolly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
"That is so," Kazel said. His tone was even, but his eyes carried weight. He wasn't posturing. He was telling the truth.
Still, he admired her beauty—any man would—but it wasn't enough to sway him. He had seen glory, betrayal, kingdoms crumble, and fairies with daggers.
"You enjoy playing with these people's lives, don't you, dear young master?" she asked, one brow arching.
Kazel sighed, turning his gaze slightly."You must think awfully low of me."
He looked back at her, eyes cold and bright."I could pull a few strings and plunge this entire town into chaos if I wanted. Start riots. Uproot orders. Leave nothing standing. But I won't. Not because I can't—but because it's a waste of time."
She tilted her head, intrigued."You talk big for someone from the lowest lands."
"That's because I don't speak from where I came from," Kazel said. "I speak from what I see—from the vision that none of you can reach yet."
There was a silence. A heavy one.
She looked at him, not just as an upstart anymore. There was something behind his words. Something sharp. Something dangerous.
"…What's your name?" she finally asked.
Kazel smirked. "You followed me here. You should've already known."
Then he turned to Durandal, gently placed a hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Let's go."
And with that, they vanished into the slum's maze—leaving a corpse, a stunned noblewoman, and a crack forming in the carefully kept mirror of her world.
---
Outside the slum, the world moved on.
Vendors shouted. Carts clattered. The city breathed.
Kazel and Durandal sat at a roadside stall beneath a patched canvas roof. The wooden table between them was scarred from age, but the scent that wafted from the bowls was anything but worn.
The old stall master had given them the best he had: a rich bone broth glistening with oil, floating with chunks of golden meat, thick noodles, and soft vegetables. It was food meant to bring warmth. Comfort.
Kazel took the first bite without hesitation. He slurped loudly, then exhaled, savoring the heat that spread in his chest.
"Mm… not bad," he muttered mid-chew.
Then he glanced across the table.
Durandal hadn't moved.
His bowl steamed in front of him, untouched. The spoon remained where it had been placed. His eyes stared through the food, through the street, through the world.
His hands rested on his lap, trembling slightly—like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
"Eat," Kazel said between mouthfuls.
Durandal didn't respond. His body was here, but his soul was far from the stall.
Kazel stopped eating.
He set down his own bowl with a quiet clink and leaned forward. Slowly, he lifted Durandal's bowl. The soup sloshed slightly.
"Your lord," he said, eyes narrowing, "orders you to eat."
Durandal blinked once.
Kazel held the bowl closer, the steam rising between them.
"So..."
He lifted the spoon and nudged it toward Durandal's mouth.
"E. A. T."
There was no anger in his voice, only weight. Like stone rolling down a hill—it would crush whatever resisted.
Durandal's lips parted slightly. His fingers rose, still hesitant, and took the spoon from Kazel's hand.
The soup was warm.
He sipped it.
Salt. Spice. Fat. Heat. It hit his stomach like a blanket tossed over a freezing body.
Then another spoonful.
And another.
Kazel watched with a small smirk before returning to his own bowl.
Sometimes liberation didn't start with victory.Sometimes, it started with soup.
The fourth spoonful trembled slightly, but not from hesitation — his hands were still catching up with the weight he'd shed.
Durandal stared at the bowl. Steam curled upward, dancing in the morning light. He took another bite.
Warm. Not just hot — warm.
Like a hand gently placed on the back of his head.Like a quiet room that didn't demand anything from him.Like a truth that didn't scream or claw.
For years, his mind had clung to a single dream — one forged from scraps and lies. That if he worked hard enough, suffered long enough, maybe his mother would look back and say, "You were always worth something to me."
But she sold him. Not just once — but again. With a smile.She had looked at gold and chosen it over blood.
And now, with golden broth soaking into his tongue, he realized…This warmth — this soup — this moment — was the first thing in his life that wasn't a transaction.
No chain. No bargain.Just a bowl. And a man who told him to eat.
Kazel, still chewing, raised a brow. "Tastes better than self-pity, doesn't it?"
Durandal blinked. Slowly, a smile crept onto his face — not wide, not loud, but real.
"It's… hot," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
Kazel chuckled. "Don't die from the seasoning. I still need someone to carry my halberd later."
Durandal nodded. Then took another spoonful. His grip was steadier now.
Kazel didn't say more. He let the silence fill with the sound of slurping and clinking.
Eventually, Durandal paused. His gaze didn't leave the bowl.
"…Is it okay to feel like this?" he asked.
"Like what?"
"Like something… finally ended."
Kazel tilted his head. "You buried your past. Now eat like you intend to walk forward."
Durandal lowered his head. "Yes, my lord."
Kazel smirked. Then leaned back with a stretch.
"Good. We'll make a monster out of you yet."
Kazel slurped the last bit of broth, then let out a satisfied sigh. The warmth of the soup lingered on his lips. As he leaned back and adjusted his cape, something etched on the wall caught his eye.
"Hm?" He rose from the stool, strolling toward a wooden board riddled with worn posters and peeling ink.
One, in particular, stood out — fresh parchment, adorned with an elegant moon-shaped insignia.
The Second Moon Sect. Recruitment Notice.
It was engraved with flowing calligraphy and details of their new intake: promising benefits, special training, exclusive access to rare-tier spirit beasts, and… elite sponsorships for those with unique talent.
Kazel stared at it in silence.
Durandal tilted his head. "Something wrong?"
Kazel chuckled softly. "They're recruiting dogs again."
He stepped closer and scanned the fine print. His finger hovered near a line at the bottom:'Only cultivators of noble blood or proven merit may apply.'
He clicked his tongue. "Still the same trash."
A hush spread through the other guests at the roadside stall. Some peeked at the poster, then at Kazel — immediately noticing the iconic one-shoulder white cape, swaying like a blade in the breeze.
Whispers bloomed like fungus in the corners.
"That's the one from Jade Basin…""Isn't he the one who humiliated Agabah?""Didn't the Punctured ask for his head…?"
But none of them dared speak above a whisper.
Kazel pulled a piece of charcoal from his inner sleeve and calmly etched a line onto the bottom of the poster, beneath the list of benefits:
"Talent isn't found in blood. It's carved through pain."— K.
He turned back to the stall owner and dropped fifty Spirit Stones — far more than the soup's worth.
"For the soup. And the entertainment."
Then he nodded to Durandal. "Let's go. We've got another name to erase."