They walked away from the stall, the morning light slowly peeling through the slum's haze. The air still carried the scent of soup and charcoal, but neither of them spoke for a while.
Durandal finally broke the silence, his voice low and tentative.
"…When you said 'another name to erase'…" he glanced over, his eyes shadowed by uncertainty, "…did you mean the Second Moon?"
Kazel didn't stop walking.
He stuffed both hands into the pockets of his robe, his cape rustling behind him like a slow-burning fuse. "Why else would I leave my name on their poster?"
Durandal swallowed. His pace faltered a little as he looked down at his half-worn shoes stepping over cracked stone. "…That's a sect, not a person."
"Then it'll die like a person," Kazel replied flatly.
Durandal blinked. "They say the Second Moon is one of the six powers…"
Kazel finally turned to look at him. "And I used to be one man. What's your point?"
That simple stare, the smirk behind the cold blue eyes — it wasn't arrogance. It was conviction.
Kazel looked ahead again, his tone softer now. "Some names are heavy. When they rest on the wrong shoulders, they break the world beneath them. Second Moon is one of those names."
Durandal clenched his fists. "And you'll be the one to break them?"
Kazel's smirk widened. "No."
He looked up toward the pale sun overhead, "We will."
Durandal paled.
He hadn't expected that answer.
Killing his own mother had carved a wound so deep he wasn't sure it would ever close. But that… that had been personal. Intimate. Brutal in a way that only betrayal could be.
But a sect?
An entire sect?
He swallowed hard, the weight of Kazel's words pressing on his chest like a mountain. Second Moon. One of the six factions that ruled this land like gods over dirt. Durandal was just a thief yesterday. A pickpocket. A boy clinging to scraps of food and scraps of hope.
Now he was walking beside someone who casually spoke about wiping out one of the six powers.
"I…" he muttered, his throat dry. "I didn't sign up to fight a war…"
Kazel didn't stop walking.
He let the silence stretch for a while before speaking, voice level and calm. "No. You signed up to live without crawling."
Durandal's feet stopped.
Kazel glanced back, eyes cold but not unkind. "I won't force you. You can leave now. Go back to the slums. Find a new name. Maybe you'll even live long enough to forget today."
Durandal didn't move.
He remembered the soup. The warmth. The way it had melted the frost inside his chest.
He clenched his fists.
"…No," he said, almost a whisper. "I'm tired of crawling."
Kazel smiled. Not wide. Just enough.
"Good."
Then he turned toward the distant hills where the Second Moon banners flew.
The Second Moon sect's branch loomed like a carved fortress in the middle of the city. Its tall, crescent-topped gates were flanked by spearmen in silver-blue robes, the emblem of the moon stitched across their chests.
Then the gates opened—not for a carriage, not for a dignitary—but for a boy in a white, one-shoulder cape.
Kazel.
Gasps rose from the crowd.
He didn't stop. He didn't hesitate. His boots clicked sharply against the stone path as he walked past disciples who froze mid-step. Elders turned their heads, brows furrowed. Conversations halted. Training ceased. Even birds seemed to fall silent.
The gate guards didn't lift a weapon. They merely stepped aside as if compelled by instinct alone.
Kazel walked like he belonged there—no, like he owned the place.
Behind him, Durandal shifted uneasily. His hand hovered near his waist, where a blade would've been if he carried one. His eyes flicked to every movement, expecting blades, arrows, or a soul technique to lash out at any moment.
None came.
Just stares. Dozens. Then hundreds. Some whispered. Others simply watched.
"Is that—"
"The one from the Jade Basin…"
"The tyrant in white…"
"I heard he humiliated Agabah…"
"Didn't the Second Moon declare him persona non grata?"
"Then why is he walking in like he's the patriarch's heir?"
Durandal swallowed, struggling to match Kazel's unshaken stride. His feet wanted to run, but something stronger held them in place—a presence. The same one that turned a slum into a stage of death. That let no beggar beg. That made killers blink twice before drawing blades.
Kazel stopped before the inner courtyard steps, hands behind his back, chin raised slightly, lips curled in a smirk that spoke of unbothered contempt.
"Agabah," he called. "Come out."
No answer.
"I said," Kazel's smirk grew crueler, "get down here. I don't care if you're cultivating, sleeping, or crying in your master's lap. You and I have a feud to settle."
A deeper silence fell—thick, suffocating.
An elder finally stepped forward. This one was gaunt, with sharp eyes and a pale gray beard that did little to hide the confusion etched across his face. His voice was tight, restrained. "And who might you be to demand such a thing in our domain, boy?"
Kazel tilted his head, amused.
"You know exactly who I am. I don't need to name myself—he knows. And if he doesn't show, then I'll just have to pull the name from your banners and burn it into his door."
The silence shattered into murmurs of disbelief. Even Durandal shivered slightly behind him.
Kazel's chin remained raised, his posture as calm as if he were seated in a private booth, not in the heart of an enemy sect.
He crossed his arms.
"I'm not here for tea. I'm here for closure."
"I'm afraid that young master Agabah has already returned home," said a voice, smooth as polished steel but with weight behind it. Every syllable landed like a nail.
Durandal turned and immediately spotted the speaker.
The man who walked into view was tall and composed. His robe shimmered faintly with silver linings, unmistakably that of a high-ranking elder, but what truly silenced the courtyard was the aura. It pressed down—not with chaos, but with the suffocating grace of something ancient and high above.
He was lean but not frail, and older, with three deep creases etched into his forehead like calligraphy. His black mustache curved into a precise handlebar, and his long, silk-like hair trailed behind his shoulders like a black river. Behind him, a spirit beast flickered into partial form—its snowy feathers gleaming under sunlight, wings spread like spears of divine judgment.
A White Crane. Regal. Elusive. Dangerous.
Murmurs scattered across the courtyard like wind hitting leaves:
"Damn, is that—?"
"It is…"
"The Elder Crane…"
"I've never even seen him before…"
"If he's out here, then this isn't just some punk raising trouble."
Durandal's mouth ran dry. He gulped hard. ( That's the elusive Elder Crane… one of the sect's hidden trump cards. I've heard that he is so mysterious, one could say he never existed— )He dared a glance at Kazel.
But Kazel only scoffed and stepped forward slightly, his chin never lowering.
"A pity," Kazel said. "I was hoping to resolve it face to face. But I suppose I can leave a message in his stead."
Elder Crane's expression barely changed, only the flick of one brow. "You speak boldly for someone standing in another's domain."
"No," Kazel corrected him, "I speak just right. You just haven't caught up."
The air rippled, not with violence—but with tension. Like a sword half-drawn, tip grazing the throat.
Durandal could barely breathe.
"How exactly do you plan to settle this feud with the young master?" Elder Crane asked, his arms folded neatly across his chest, voice smooth but bearing the underlying tension of a drawn string.
Kazel didn't answer immediately. He took a step forward, leisurely, like he was strolling through a market—not a sect courtyard lined with hostile stares and hidden blades.
"If someone tries to kill you…" Kazel began, his voice calm yet cutting. "What would you consider an appropriate response?"
Elder Crane raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.
"And if someone places a bounty on your head?" Kazel went on, eyes slowly narrowing. "What should a man do then?"
He tilted his head, locking eyes with the elder. The smirk faded. His jaw tightened, voice now laced with steel. "Tell me, Elder Crane. What answer would you give?"
The silence that followed was brittle.
Then, a shift—like the world itself drew in a breath.
Behind Kazel, shadows deepened unnaturally, as if the sun itself bowed back. One by one, they rose.
First, a pair of stone lions—Twin Shishi—loomed on either side, their forms flickering between spirit and flesh, fangs bared in eternal roar.Then, came the ghost-white predator with glacial fangs—the Frostfang Alpha, its mist-like breath chilling the very air.Last, emerging slow and deliberate, a hulking silhouette wrapped in dark, scaly plates—the Veinscale Armadillo. Its armor pulsed with a quiet, primal rhythm, veins glowing faintly like molten lines of soul energy.
Four pairs of eyes glared down on the White Crane. The ground cracked beneath Kazel's feet from the weight of their presence.
The courtyard froze. Some disciples took unconscious steps back, unable to hold themselves steady.
Even Elder Crane flinched, his gaze snapping toward the beasts. His White Crane spirit trembled behind him—not in fear, but in wariness. Instinct.
Durandal, standing a step behind, could only stare.
( Four… he manifested four at once… )His knees nearly buckled. ( This is no longer about bounties. This is power. Real power. And I… I follow him? )
He couldn't even swallow. His throat was too dry.
Kazel didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
"You wanted to know how I plan to settle it?" he said, his tone deathly low. "Simple. He put a mark on me. Now I've come to return the favor."