The sun was cresting the horizon as Kazel, Durandal, and Arhatam rode into what was once the heart of the Second Moon Sect.
The gates, still barely hanging onto their hinges, creaked as they entered. The land bore the scars of conquest — shattered tiles, blackened earth, and the faint scent of ash still clinging to the air. Yet there was a strange tranquility to it now. It was no longer a battlefield. It was a beginning.
Durandal rode in silence, eyes sharp and scanning the remnants. His youthful energy was focused — the kind of energy that had matured under Kazel's shadow.
Arhatam, however, looked around with increasing alarm.
"H-Hey, uh, Kazel," he called, scratching his head as he dismounted and adjusted his robes, his oversized satchel bouncing awkwardly at his side. "Is this even legal? Like—do we have papers for this takeover? Any sort of... transitional ownership scrolls?"
He stumbled over a piece of rubble, caught himself, and pulled out a thick bundle of papers tied with string from his satchel.
"I mean, we're technically just moving into someone else's old sect grounds, right? What if some elder from the Land of the Wolf shows up with a complaint form? Or—gods forbid—a tax inquiry! And what about neighboring powers? Do we need to send them notices or... fruit baskets or something?!"
Durandal shot him a look. "Do fruit baskets even work in diplomacy?"
"I don't know!" Arhatam squawked, flailing slightly. "But something tells me bulldozing a whole sect might've stirred up a few political sensitivities!"
Kazel, standing still at the center of the courtyard, exhaled deeply, as if breathing in his own victory again. He finally turned and glanced at Arhatam with a smirk.
"I'll handle the wrath of sects and politics," he said. "You handle your scrolls and your sleepless nights."
"Unfair labor division," Arhatam muttered, already scribbling on one of the forms.
Kazel looked ahead at the ruins, eyes narrowing with vision. "Let's build something worthy of immortality."
Durandal nodded. "The Immortal Sect will rise here."
Arhatam groaned, "And I'll make sure we're not arrested halfway through construction…"
Kazel laughed, walking toward the half-buried signpost of the Second Moon Sect. Without ceremony, he picked it up and hurled it across the ruined courtyard.
"First things first," he said with a smile, flicking his fingers.
A long wooden plank appeared from his spatial ring, freshly lacquered, engraved in bold, clean strokes: Immortal Sect.
With a single leap, Kazel mounted the broken archway and affixed the new sign. The moment it clicked into place, a strange finality settled over the ruins — the old was gone; something greater had taken root.
He turned and shouted, "Durandal! I need you to clean this entire place. That includes the corpses."
Durandal gulped. His eyes wandered across the shattered grounds, then slowly rose to Kazel, who stood tall under the morning sun, a conqueror claiming his home.
"A-At once," Durandal said, already rolling up his sleeves with a grimace.
Kazel then glanced to the side, where Arhatam was still flipping through a weathered book of alchemical notes, muttering under his breath.
"Arhatam," said Kazel, "you can use anything you find here to advance your alchemy — ingredients, tools, herbs, even corpses. If you need help moving any... just ask Durandal."
"What?!" Arhatam flailed, nearly tripping over a cracked tile. "Are you nuts?!"
Kazel shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe you'll brew a pill that rivals the Phoenix Resurrection Pill. Or... something even greater."
"That's impossible," Arhatam scoffed, waving his arms. "There's no such thing. Not unless the heavens themselves cheat."
"Is it really, though?" Kazel asked, tilting his head, the smirk not leaving his face. "A pill that doesn't revive someone at death's door — but pulls them back from death itself."
Arhatam fell silent. His goofy expression faded into something deeper, more contemplative. "You know," he muttered, "at its core, alchemy is about prolonging life... extending the light of a candle just a little longer."
Kazel nodded. "Exactly."
Then, just as easily, he turned on his heel and began walking toward the former patriarch's residence — a grand structure cracked from battle but still imposing.
"Well, either way," Kazel stretched his arms overhead with a lazy grin, "I'm claiming that big comfy room. Don't let the rats eat you while I'm napping."
Durandal stared at the corpses. Arhatam stared at the broken walls.
Both sighed in unison.
"…At least we're getting a budget this time," muttered Arhatam.
---
A few more days passed.
Kazel was lounging sideways on the old patriarch's throne, legs dangling over one armrest, a spirit fruit lazily twirling between his fingers. Sunlight spilled into the throne hall through the fractured ceiling above. His expression was unreadable—equal parts content and bored.
Somewhere in the back, Durandal let out a satisfied sigh. He was finally taking a proper bath after days of cleaning blood, debris, and shattered dignity off the courtyard.
Meanwhile, Arhatam stood at the foot of the throne, arms crossed and lips puckered in concern.
"Young master," he began, voice hesitant, "don't you find it a bit... odd? That no one's come here? I mean—not even one nosy sect elder, or merchant, or pissed-off neighbor?"
Kazel tilted his head back lazily. "Mmm. Maybe if you say it a few more times, you'll summon someone."
"You believe in superstition now?"
Kazel chuckled, eyes still half-lidded. "You might not believe it, but this whole 'me in another world, toppling sects like sandcastles' thing? Kinda screams superstition already."
"What?"
But before Arhatam could clarify, a hard series of knocks thundered across the heavy doors of the hall.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Both heads turned.
Then came a woman's voice—rough, confident, unfamiliar.
"Excuse me," she called, loud enough to cut through the thick silence.
Arhatam tensed, glancing nervously toward Kazel. "Did you actually jinx this?"
Kazel's lips curled into a smirk. "The door's not locked. Just push it open."
A beat passed. Then, with a soft creak and a rush of outside air, the great doors slowly parted.
And there she stood.
Cloaked in flowing layers of muted dusk-violet and black, her silhouette commanded attention without theatrics. Her amethyst eyes locked immediately onto Kazel, piercing and unreadable.
Arhatam's brows furrowed. He didn't recognize her, but he could feel something unsettling in her presence—something refined, but dangerous.
Kazel, on the other hand, straightened just a little. His grin widened. He raised his chin, not moving from the throne.
"And you are?" he asked, his tone both casual and calculated.
The woman stepped inside, letting the door slowly shut behind her. The silence was weighty.
"I am Liora," she said, her voice smooth but edged like a dagger tucked in silk. "Of the Five Ladies."
Her name echoed faintly through the hall, but her gaze remained unmoving—locked on Kazel like she'd already made a decision.
"Any business I need to aware of?" Kazel asked, still lounging, but his fingers subtly tensed along the armrest.
"Nothing in particular," Liora replied coolly.
Then, with a casual flick of both wrists, golden gauntlets materialized onto her hands—etched with flowing runes, humming with power. The air in the hall shifted—dense and humming.
Arhatam, now behind Kazel's throne, took a single step back, hands slightly raised."Y-You got this, right, young master?"
Kazel frowned, rising to his feet."Move, Arhatam."
At that instant, something unseen washed over him. A sudden wave of force—like a flood bursting through his soul space. His body twitched instinctively.
(What was that?) Kazel thought, narrowing his eyes.
"Level five Soul Refining Realm," Liora assessed out loud, her tone utterly flat.Like reading a dull receipt.
"You sound disappointed," Kazel said with a faint smile.
Liora shrugged, nonchalant."I thought you'd be stronger."
"Perhaps you came too early." Kazel took a single step forward, shoulders relaxed."But if you're willing to suppress yourself to my level…" he smirked, "…then maybe I could entertain you a bit."
Liora's eyes gleamed.
"Ooh? She did say you had a fearless heart."
Kazel's smile twitched.(She?)
But before he could speak—
—she vanished.
Amethyst and gold streaked across the hall like a falling star.
Arhatam gasped as a shockwave cracked the floor from Liora's departure.
Kazel barely brought his arms up in time, bracing in a cross-guard.She closed fifty meters in a blink. A comet of muscle and spirit power.
Her fist met his guard.
BOOM.
The throne shattered. Kazel's body launched backward, blasting through the hall like a cannonball—stone and splinters trailing his path—until he crashed through the outer wall, skidding across the courtyard in a broken arc of dust and tiles.
Inside, Arhatam's mouth hung open."…Oh boy."
Outside, Kazel's boots dragged across the tiles before he halted, coughing dust from his lungs. His arms stung—burned. That punch had weight.
He rose slowly. Then he grinned.
From the still-settling dust, a silhouette emerged through the freshly-blasted hole in the wall.
Liora, unhurried, stepped into view — one hand lazily lifting her gourd to her lips. She took a long drink, the black liquid within sizzling faintly as it slid down her throat.
Her other hand rested on her hip, her eyes fixed on Kazel with amusement.
"Still standing," she mused, lowering the gourd. Her lips now shimmered — glossy from the drink. She wiped them with the back of her glove, the motion slow, almost taunting.
Kazel spun his halberd once and let its weight fall comfortably into his palm. His boots scraped against the tiles as he shifted into stance, his expression sharpening.
"You finished with your drink?" he asked, voice cool, shoulders squared.
Liora smiled wider."It's best to be hydrated before a proper workout."
Their gazes locked — golden aura coiling around her gauntlets, while a subtle chill seemed to seep from Kazel's halberd.
The ground beneath them tensed, as if the land itself knew what was coming.