The Land of the Wolf made no effort to hide its pride. A colossal statue of a snarling wolf stood at the border, fangs bared, as though warning any who dared enter.
Kazel stirred as the carriage came to a sudden halt. The sky outside had dimmed, casting shadows over the statue and the narrow road ahead.
"What's the matter?" Kazel asked, brushing his hair back lazily.
The driver turned halfway, voice trembling. "Y-Young master… we've got company."
Kazel raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"
From outside, a mocking voice rang out. "If you want to pass, you'll need to conjure up a few spirit stones!" The laughter that followed was coarse and cocky—bandits. Local trash.
Kazel sighed. "How many?"
"Y-Young master?" the driver hesitated.
Kazel's voice sharpened. "How many?"
The driver swallowed hard. "Five…"
With a soft click, Kazel pushed the carriage door open. The creak that followed felt like the tightening of a bowstring before release.
The driver stayed frozen in place. A fight was about to break out—and he had front-row seats.
Kazel stepped down calmly, scanning the five men blocking the path. They were armed, but relaxed. Too relaxed.
"So this is the Land of the Wolf's welcome committee?" he said, voice light with amusement.
One of them, the scrawniest, stepped forward with a cocky grin. "What's this, a fancy little cub? Why don't you hand over your allowance to big brother, eh?"
Kazel's eyes narrowed. He tilted his head slightly. "Looks like you're missing something important between your shoulders."
"Huh?"
The next moment happened in a blur.
A silver arc sliced through the dusk—clean, swift, final. Kazel's halberd flashed through the air, and the bandit's head flew clean off, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Silence.
The remaining four stared, paralyzed—one strike, and both their comrade and their morale had been cut in half.
Kazel spun the halberd once and rested it against his shoulder. His smirk hadn't faded.
"Next?"
The last man ran—no, fled—his eyes wide, his breath ragged, his body screaming with the kind of primal fear that only predators could draw out of prey. His legs moved not with strength but with desperation, as if they knew they'd never run again.
Kazel gave a half-smirk to the driver, eyes still on the bandit's back.
"Watch this."
He spun in place, his movement fluid, effortless.
The halberd left his hand with a whistle, not thrown like a weapon—but launched like a judgment.
In an instant, the brutal tip found its mark.
CRACK.
The sound wasn't a slice—it was destruction. The halberd struck the bandit square in the back, crushing through bone, shattering spine, and pinning his twitching body into the dirt like a bug under a nail.
The driver's jaw dropped.
Kazel dusted his hands and walked with a casual stride toward the fallen bandit. With a firm tug, he pulled the halberd free, blood dripping from its edge before he spun it lightly and sent it back into his spatial ring in a flash of cold steel and spirit light.
He crouched and rummaged through the corpses—nothing much at first, but one of them carried a pouch heavy with clinking Spirit Stones. Likely a payment from their superior.
("Their boss must've thought these five were enough... how insulting.")
He turned and walked back to the carriage, only to find the driver sitting stiff as stone, pale-faced and clutching the reins like a man awaiting judgment.
"They lost their human rights the moment they wanted to kill me," Kazel said with a charming smile that didn't reach his eyes.
(R-Ruthless!!) the driver thought, nodding frantically. "Y-Yes, young master!"
Kazel tossed one of the five pouches to the man. "Here, for your new experience. I suppose this covers the expense as well?"
"Y-Yes! Thank you so much, young master!" the driver replied, almost dropping the reins in gratitude. He wouldn't have dared refuse even if his own mother told him to.
Kazel stepped back into the carriage and crossed his legs, resting his elbow on the window frame.
"What a pathetic land. Bandits on the border like flies on rotten fruit… or maybe it runs deeper than that."
He leaned slightly forward. "Driver, tell me about this Land of the Wolf."
The driver steadied his breath as the carriage rolled forward. He kept glancing at Kazel through the corner of his eye, as if still unsure whether the man beside him was a hero or a calamity in human form.
"Y-Young master, you asked about the Land of the Wolf…" he began. "Well, there are six main factions that hold real power here."
Kazel leaned an elbow on the window sill, his blue eyes half-lidded, his smirk still lingering. "Go on."
"The Second Moon Sect is the proudest of the bunch," the driver said. "Old blood, old gold, and an ego to match. They think the world should kneel before them, and they don't take insults kindly."
Kazel scoffed, "Arrogant fools. I've already swatted some."
The driver nodded hurriedly. "Then there's the Curved Blade Sect. Now, don't let the name fool you—they're warriors of honor. Duelists, disciplined, and respected even by their enemies. When they draw their swords, it's never without cause."
"Hm. A rare kind of sect," Kazel muttered.
"Then you've got the Shield and Spear Mercenary Group. They work for whoever pays the most, but they follow strict codes—almost like a private army. Organized. Efficient. Dangerous, if pointed at you."
Kazel gave a short nod. "Better to break their employer, then."
The driver swallowed and continued. "The Five Ladies Sect… well, they run things from the shadows and from high towers. All-female. Beautiful and deadly. They dominate trade, politics, and sometimes hearts."
Kazel chuckled. "I'll keep my heart out of their reach."
"The Heavenless Bow Sect," the driver lowered his voice slightly. "They live in the mountain ranges. Their archers are feared. They believe only the strong survive, and their arrows strike before you even know you're being hunted."
Kazel leaned back, thoughtful. "A sect that puts distance between themselves and death. Cowardly or clever, I wonder."
The driver hesitated. "And lastly, there's... well... the Punctured Mercenary Group. But those five bandits earlier weren't them—I don't think so, at least. The Punctured is... different. Ruthless, brutal. Killers and extortionists who mark their members like cattle. If they set their sights on someone, they won't stop."
Kazel's smile faded just a bit. "Good. I like persistent targets."
The carriage rolled over a set of worn cobblestone, and before them sprawled the outskirts of The Fang—the first town at the throat of the Land of the Wolf.
It was large, yet far from peaceful.
The buildings were dense, stacked like teeth, their rooftops a mix of curved stone and dark timber. Lanterns dangled from ropes strung between towers, fluttering slightly in the breeze, each bearing a different symbol—each representing a faction's presence. Sharp smells of spice, oil, blood, and smoke mingled in the air, the kind of scent only a town carved by politics, commerce, and quiet violence could birth.
The carriage came to a halt just shy of the town square.
Kazel stepped down, his boots landing with a confident thud.
He inhaled deeply—dust, sweat, spice, ambition. The town was loud but tense, like a blade halfway drawn. Buildings stood tall and proud, painted with symbols, banners, and the subtle boasts of the powerful. This was The Fang, a large town nestled in the Land of the Wolf… and it bore the presence of all six factions.
Not their headquarters, no—but each held branches here. Buildings marked with the crescent insignia of the Second Moon Sect, the crossed blades of the Curved Blade Sect, the sturdy shield-and-spear crest of that mercenary group. Somewhere within the bustling lanes, the fluttering silks of the Five Ladies Sect, the arched markings of the Heavenless Bow, and even the ominous, blood-stained banners of The Punctured could be seen.
But now, something else walked these streets.
Eyes fell on him—not his weapon, that was hidden away in his spatial ring—but the white, single-shoulder cape fluttering behind him. A symbol of pride, a mark of infamy. The cape of the Sect Slayer.
Kazel smirked as curious and cautious gazes followed his every step.
"A new town…" he murmured, gaze sharp. "No… a new battleground."
Among the mingling crowd, an elder cloaked in black-blue robes stood by a herbal vendor's stall, the scent of dried petals in the air doing little to cover the tension that snapped into his spine.
His gaze locked onto the white single-shoulder cape fluttering against the breeze.
His eyes widened. His pulse quickened.
(That cape… those eyes… it's him.)
(But… he was supposed to be dead. The Punctured swore it would be clean.)
The elder stepped back, the color draining from his face. He turned quickly, covering his expression beneath his sleeve as he slipped through the alley between two buildings. His steps hastened, eyes sharp with urgency—not out of fear, but damage control.
(If he's here… it means the Punctured failed.)(Young Master Agabah needs to know. Now.)
He moved like a whisper, heading toward the Second Moon Sect branch near the eastern district of The Fang—a modest but fortified structure guarded by stoic disciples.
This wasn't just the return of a survivor. This was a ghost come to collect.