The windows exploded in a burst of soul-charged wind, fragments of paper and wood scattering like leaves in a storm. Disciples outside the training hall turned sharply, alarm flashing in their eyes.
But they saw no threat—only Elder Raon, blinking in stunned silence, and Saya, her hand still clutching the edge of the doorway, equally dumbfounded.
Then, through the lingering dust and wind, two silhouettes stood just outside the splintered threshold. One upright and poised, the other loose-shouldered and relaxed, like a beast before the pounce.
"Master Nobu..." a disciple muttered, their tone trembling with confusion.
But as their gazes shifted to the other figure, and their hands instinctively reached for their weapons, Nobu raised a single hand.
"This is a spar."
The disciples hesitated. They looked at one another, then slowly backed away, forming a wide circle around the combatants. Murmurs rippled through them.
Two polar opposites.One, he who stayed calm under the storm, letting it pass through him like water through reeds.The other, he who made the storm bark by his command, shaping chaos as if it were clay in his hands.
Then—Kazel moved.
He spun the mighty halberd in a circular sweep, the polearm humming with soul force, kicking up dust in its arc. His form was fluid but brimming with raw momentum, a mixture of technique and terror. And then—he lunged forward, feet slamming the stone, a straight-line charge that felt more like a cannonball than a man.
Nobu's eyes narrowed.
With no visible tension, he raised his sword—the same sword Kazel had once wielded—and tilted it slightly, waiting.
The halberd came down like thunder.
Want me to continue this exchange with a full back-and-forth spar scene?
The halberd crashed down like a bolt from the heavens, its weight reinforced by Kazel's core strength and soul force. The air rippled as the strike descended—brutal, unrelenting, like the judgment of war itself.
Clang!
Nobu's blade met it with perfect precision, deflecting the edge just enough to avoid full impact. But even that minimal contact sent a shockwave down his arm, his feet skidding half a step back.
Gasps echoed among the disciples.
Kazel pressed the momentum. Twisting his body, he reversed the halberd's direction, sweeping horizontally like a reaper's scythe. His strikes were not wild—they were choreographed chaos, destructive and calculated.
Nobu ducked, the blade whistling just above his head. Without losing balance, he pivoted low and slashed upward in a crescent arc, aiming at Kazel's side.
Kazel stepped into the blow.
The blade grazed his shoulder armor, sparks flying, but it allowed him to close the gap. With one hand, he pushed the halberd's shaft down and up again like a lever, forcing Nobu to leap back, the ground cracking beneath their feet from the force.
"Not bad, Nobu," Kazel grinned, eyes gleaming. "You're far better with a sword than when we last met."
"And you're far more unhinged than I thought," Nobu replied, wiping dust from his cheek.
From the circle, the disciples stood silent, jaws slack. This wasn't just a spar—it was a dance of dominance between two fighters who understood death as much as they understood discipline.
Nobu advanced this time, switching grip, his stance more refined. His steps were quiet—silent almost—but each one carried deadly weight. His blade began to shimmer with a faint aura, not quite a Spirit Art, but the prelude to one.
Kazel noticed and smiled wider. "Go ahead."
Then Nobu vanished.
To the untrained eye, it was a blink. But to Kazel, it was a shift in the rhythm of wind and footfalls.
He spun just in time—steel clashing with steel, halberd shaft locking against Nobu's sword just inches from his neck. The two forces held, trembling with tension, their weapons grinding together.
"You knew where I'd be?" Nobu asked, teeth clenched.
"I've fought ghosts in darker places," Kazel replied. "You're loud in comparison."
The pressure broke. They both jumped back.
Now ten paces apart, breathing a touch heavier, Kazel spun his halberd in a loose flourish.
Nobu lowered his sword slightly, tilting his head. "That halberd style... it's not from this continent, is it?"
"No," Kazel said, his voice quieter now, but more ominous. "It's from a land that forgot peace long ago."
From the side, Saya's hands were clasped tightly against her chest. She had never seen either of them move with such force—and she now knew one thing for certain.
This was no ordinary young master.
Nobu's blade dipped.Kazel let the halberd rest on his shoulder.
Silence ruled the air for a moment.
Then Nobu smiled faintly and gave a slight bow. "If we continue, one of us will limp for a week. I say this match ends here."
Kazel nodded, his breaths calm despite the intensity moments ago. "Agreed. Any more and we'd betray the spirit of a spar."
The surrounding disciples stood still, too stunned to cheer. Only when Nobu turned to face them did they realize what had just happened—a sparring match, yes, but one recognized. Nobu wasn't just a powerful cultivator, but a respected figure in the Curved Blade Sect.
And he had just publicly tested Kazel's mettle. And welcomed him.
"Kazel of the Land of the Lamb," Nobu said, loud enough for the disciples to hear, "you are welcome in the Curved Blade Sect. A room will be arranged. Rest well."
Kazel gave a deep nod, and just enough of a bow to show respect without groveling. "Thank you for the hospitality."
Nobu sheathed his sword and walked away with casual grace.
As the disciples murmured amongst themselves, eyes now locked on Kazel not with suspicion but recognition, Saya stood still.
Her brows furrowed slightly. She wasn't thinking of the clash.
( Wait…)
She replayed it in her head.
( Nobu doesn't initiate spars like that. He's too controlled for spontaneous bouts. And Kazel... he moved too openly, too measured, like he wanted to be seen. )
Her eyes narrowed.
( Those two. They planned this. They made this spar public on purpose. )
Nobu's recognition was a stamp, a shield, a subtle gesture of political protection. Kazel now had a foot in the sect's internal hierarchy. No elder or disciple would treat him as some outsider anymore—not without second-guessing themselves.
Saya exhaled sharply through her nose.
( Tch... that bastard really does play at a different level. )
She glanced at Kazel, who stood with his halberd resting lightly, giving a casual nod to the murmuring disciples.
He didn't look smug.He didn't look proud.He looked like he expected all of this.
Saya crossed her arms and sighed. "Troublemaker…"
---
The sun had long dipped below the horizon, and the faint hum of the Curved Blade Sect settled into a nightly calm. In one of the quiet chambers just behind the training grounds, Saya leaned against the wooden beam, arms folded, her gaze cast on the floor.
Kazel was tying the final knot on his new robe.
"…Where is the kid that joined our memorable expedition back in the Land of the Lamb?" she muttered, her tone carrying more warmth than scorn.
Kazel looked at her, then at his reflection on the polished steel wall piece. His smirk tugged gently at the corner of his mouth."Still there," he said, eyes not leaving the reflection. "Just stronger."
Saya scoffed, almost fondly, then walked past him to slide the door open. "Don't cause trouble while you're here."
"No promises," Kazel replied, stepping lightly past her with a hand behind his back.
That night, he was given a robe—dark gray, sleeveless, with the silver trim of the Curved Blade Sect stitched into the hem. Simple yet elegant. Practical, yet imposing. He slipped into it, tightened the sash at his waist, and stepped outside barefoot.
The cicadas sang softly in the distance.
Gravel crunched underfoot as he wandered through the outer walkway, the wooden beams overhead casting long shadows beneath the paper lanterns.
The air was cool. Peaceful.He looked up.
The moon hung clear and sharp in the dark sea above, like a silent watcher.He smirked.
( I've walked under this moon before… but never as part of this world. )
Kazel took a slow breath, the night wind brushing against his robe, making it flutter just enough to remind him he was no longer a guest—but someone whose name had entered the folds of a sect's inner circle.
( One step at a time. )
And under that moon, he kept walking. Quiet. Observing. Letting the echoes of distant blades and buried secrets whisper across the stones of the Curved Blade Sect.