Kazak, a man in his thirties with a sharp gaze, was renowned for his flawless mastery of the sword.
People said he danced with his blade the way others wrote poetry. Yet despite his undeniable skills, he had never managed to attain noble status.
His lack of involvement on the battlefield had hindered his recognition—just enough to land him a teaching job at a modest academy on the outskirts of town.
Behind the main building, students had gathered in the training courtyard.
Kazak, hands behind his back, stepped in front of them and called out in a strong voice:
"Today's lesson will be about the art of counterattack!"
He then drew his wooden sword and pointed it at the man who had woken him up earlier—probably a colleague or assistant.
The man, used to these demonstrations, immediately took a defensive stance.
But something caught his attention.
"Uh… Kazak, aren't you usually left-handed?"
Indeed. Kazak had always wielded his sword with his left hand. Yet this time, he had drawn it with his right—naturally, without hesitation. Worse, it felt completely normal to him.
"Whether right-handed or left-handed… a true knight must be ambidextrous, right?"
Then, without warning, he launched a quick attack.
His opponent, ready from the start, parried skillfully and took advantage of the opening to counterattack. The wooden blade struck Kazak's shoulder with precision, knocking him slightly off balance. He stumbled and fell to the ground—surprised, but unhurt.
"You alright?"
"Yeah, yeah… don't worry."
He turned back to his students as if nothing had happened.
"You see how it works? Good. Now pair up. You'll each take turns."
The students eagerly followed his instruction, but in Kazak's mind, a persistent thought echoed.
Why had he drawn his sword with his right hand without realizing it? Why had the movement felt so… natural?
"Master Kazak! He's back!"
A young man came running from the village, breathless, eyes wide with panic. He tripped halfway across the training grounds, crashing to the ground.
Several students rushed to help him up.
Kazak frowned, still standing in the center of the field, wooden sword in hand.
"What's going on?"
The boy struggled to catch his breath, his hands trembling.
"It's… it's Ysun… he's back. And this time, he's not alone. He's brought armed men."
Some students exchanged worried looks, others froze as if the name alone had chilled the air.
Kazak remained unmoved.
Ysun.
A name he hadn't heard in years.
Once a dangerous criminal, Ysun had wreaked havoc across several provinces before Kazak personally brought him down. He was thrown behind bars… but due to the guards' incompetence, he had escaped. No one had seen him since.
At least… not until today.
"He says that if we don't send you, he'll burn the village down."
"How many are there?"
"A hundred… maybe more."
Kazak sighed, as if someone had just assigned him another tedious chore.
"Where's my sword? Let's get this over with."
His tone was calm, almost bored.
To an outsider, this might have seemed arrogant, but those who knew Kazak even a little understood—it wasn't arrogance.
It was confidence.
The kind forged through years of battle, relentless training… and immense strength. They said Kazak had the power of a thousand men.
"Let us come with you!"
"Yeah, we'll stay back during the fight. We won't get in your way!"
Kazak stopped in his tracks. He turned slowly.
His students looked at him with eyes shining with excitement, as if they had been waiting for this moment all their lives. To see their master face real criminals… the kind of fight no training could replicate.
But Kazak didn't respond right away. His gaze moved from one to the next, reading in their faces a naïveté he knew too well.
His colleague approached and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You should let them come."
Then, in a hushed tone:
"They'll see people die for the first time. It'll be a lesson. Harsh, but necessary. Better they face that reality with you than alone, someday."
Kazak remained silent, eyes fixed on the horizon. He knew his colleague was right… But deep down, he couldn't help but see them as children still. Boys and girls dreaming of glory, blind to the cost of spilled blood.
"Tch…"
He let out a barely audible sigh, then nodded reluctantly.
"Alright. You can come. But stay behind me. None of you draw your swords—got it?"
They nodded eagerly.
Kazak stared at them a moment longer, then turned to his colleague.
"If they're to lose their illusions… it might as well be under my eyes."
And without another word, he marched toward the threatened village. His students followed closely behind, unaware that their view of the world might be about to change forever.
The village streets were deserted. Behind shuttered windows, the townsfolk held their breath, peeking through cracks for their last hope to appear.
Kazak walked with measured steps, each one echoing like a drum in the silence. His students followed at a respectful distance, now silent themselves, sensing the gravity of what was to come.
At the village square, they saw them.
Armed men—poorly equipped but numerous. A hundred, just as the messenger had said. Some laughed, others smacked their weapons against palms or the ground to look intimidating.
But when they saw Kazak's silhouette appear at the square's entrance, an eerie stillness spread. The air felt heavier.
At the center stood a shirtless man, his chest scarred, his gaze hard as steel. Ysun.
He smirked when he saw Kazak approaching.
"Well, well… the village hero decided to show up."
Kazak didn't answer. He stopped a few feet away, the wind slightly lifting his cape.
Ysun raised an eyebrow.
"What? Have you gone soft from training brats that you've forgotten how to talk?"
A few laughs echoed behind him. But Kazak slowly raised his arm and pointed to the ground before him.
"A duel," he declared. "You and me. If you win, do what you want with the village. If I win… you leave in a coffin."
Ysun frowned, surprised. Then burst into laughter.
"Alright, I'll humor you. A duel. In front of everyone."
Kazak nodded once.
He stepped slowly toward the center of the square.
His students, hidden behind a cart a few meters away, held their breath. Not a word was spoken. They were seeing their master not as a teacher—but as a warrior.
Ysun drew his sword, and Kazak mirrored him.
Their blades clashed in a metallic crash, sparks flying from the force of the strike. Kazak quickly followed up with a flurry of attacks, pushing Ysun back step by step.
At first glance, it seemed like a clear victory. Kazak appeared to be gaining ground effortlessly. Yet a creeping unease began to spread across the onlookers' faces.
"Why isn't Master using his sword techniques?" "Yeah… it's weird…"
Even the least experienced could tell something was off—Kazak was wielding his weapon with uncharacteristic awkwardness.
"You don't get it? He's just playing with him." "Master never takes things seriously when he's got the upper hand…" "Come on, let's cheer him on! Master Kazak!"
But before they could even raise their voices…
Kazak fell to his knees.
His arm had just been severed.
Ysun, sword resting on his shoulder, let out a snide chuckle.
"Honestly, I'm disappointed. Thought I'd have to trick you, but… turns out I didn't need to."
He turned toward the students, eyes gleaming with twisted glee.
"If you care that much about living…"
Kazak, on the ground, didn't hear the rest. His mind was elsewhere. He stared at his severed arm, lying in a pool of blood. Pain clouded his thoughts, disrupted his breath. He tried to stand—but nothing responded.
Then he felt a presence behind him.
"Ysun…?"
No. It was one of his students.
But… something was wrong. The boy's eyes no longer looked human. They were empty. Cold.
Then suddenly:
"AAAGHHH!"
The student drove his blade into Kazak's knee, already on the ground.
"You may go now," Ysun murmured calmly.
"Next."
And another student stabbed him. Then another. And another. Again.
Kazak, gasping, his face drenched in sweat and blood, slowly looked up at them.
But what he saw… were no longer his students' faces.
They were beasts. Cold. Savage.
Predator eyes.
As the pain reached its peak, his mind finally let go.
---
"It's time to wake up, Nafel."
At those words, his eyes shot open—bloodshot.
His body jolted upright in the bed, wracked with spasms, arms flailing as if to fend off some invisible force.
"GET IT OFF ME!!"
He clawed at something around his neck—an invisible collar—his fingers digging so hard they almost tore into his skin.
"TRAITORS!! YOU ALL BETRAYED ME!!!"
Alarmed by the noise, a nurse burst into the room, terrified by the patient's state.
"I need backup, now!"
Within a minute, two doctors and an assistant rushed in.
"He's completely delirious…"
"How long's he been awake?"
"Just a few seconds. He started screaming the moment he opened his eyes."
Despite the hands holding him down, Nafel kept thrashing wildly, his gaze frantic—caught between dream and reality.
"GET IT OFF! HE'S STILL HERE!"
"What's he talking about?"
"I don't know…"
"He's out of control. Prepare a tranquilizer."
Without delay, the assistant calmly injected the substance into his vein.
Moments later, Nafel's screams faded.
His arms grew heavy. His head dropped onto the pillow.
But even unconscious… his face remained twisted in terror.
…
…
Hours later, Nafel's eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened.
His vision was still blurred, but he could vaguely make out the white ceiling.
His head was spinning. He tried to sit up, but a deep pain stabbed his side, forcing him to lie back down.
In the corner of the room, a figure stepped out of the shadows—a slender, upright nurse, staring at him without flinching, holding a pillow against her chest like a shield… or an improvised weapon.
"Do you remember who you are?"
Nafel blinked several times, as if trying to dig the answer out of the depths of his mind. A strange resistance clouded his thoughts.
But finally, he replied:
"I… I'm Nafel. A simple school bus driver… for kids."
He didn't understand why he had hesitated so much.
That sentence was supposed to come naturally.
Satisfied, the nurse gave a slight nod.
"In that case, do you remember your attacker?"
"…Attacker? What do you mean?"
She didn't answer right away. Instead, she pointed at his chest, arms, and torso.
Nafel looked down. Bandages. Everywhere. And beneath the thick layers, he felt burning stings, deep bruises, sharp pains echoing with every breath.
"Someone stabbed you exactly forty-five times."
"Forty-five?"
He had… no memory. No face. No image. Nothing but a gaping void in his mind.
So then… why was his heart pounding so fast?