The silence between them was rich with flickering light and the faint scent of aged parchment lingering beneath stone and polished wood. A candle hissed faintly nearby as if reacting to the tension in the air.
"That is a very interesting choice of words that you use," Kazel said, his tone deceptively casual, but the slight edge in his grin betrayed the knowing beneath.
Liora took a subtle step back, arms loosening from their fold. Her brows furrowed, not from fear—but from confirmation. "So it's true?"
The air turned still. Not cold, but still, like even the dust dared not stir.
Then Kazel's voice cut through, smooth and precise.
"Of course," he said, flashing a grin that was both proud and amused, as if he'd just flipped over a long-concealed card. "What would be the point of hiding it now?"
Liora exhaled slowly, her shoulders dropping. Not in defeat, but in acceptance.
"I see… no wonder she spoke highly of you," she muttered, half to herself.
Kazel tilted his head. "Highly of me?" he echoed. "Well, I haven't seen any statue of me yet."
Liora let out a soft bark of laughter, one hand on her hip. "Hahaha! No statue, huh? What a pity. You'd look good cast in bronze."
"How far did she speak of me?" Kazel pressed, eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. "You brought it up, after all."
Liora smirked, her amethyst eyes gleaming under the golden glow of the candlelight. "You think it'd be that easy? That I'd just spill her name like some tavern gossip?" She gave him a quick wink. "But I'm feeling generous... I'll give you a hint."
"Oh?" Kazel raised one brow. "And what's that?"
"She's really beautiful."
Kazel leaned back slightly, folding his arms with a mock expression of deep thought. "You have no idea how little that narrows it down."
Liora laughed again, a musical lilt to her voice now, as if she'd found some delight in this little verbal dance. The moment softened—but didn't lose its tension.
The teasing glint in Kazel's eyes dimmed the moment Liora's laughter faded. His shoulders sank ever so slightly, and he looked toward the hallway leading out.
Disinterest veiled his expression like a curtain drawn at dusk.
Then—
"Kazel," Liora called, her voice softer now, almost curious, almost concerned. "What were you like?"
He paused mid-step, one hand hovering near the doorframe. He didn't look back.
"She didn't tell you?" he asked, voice low, edged with something unreadable.
"Not that far," Liora replied, her tone cautious, as if treading on fragile ground.
A moment passed.
Then Kazel glanced over his shoulder, the faintest smirk playing at his lips — but it wasn't amusement that sparked in his eyes. It was memory. Heavy and distant.
"I was a hero in times of chaos," he said. "A tyrant in times of peace."
"What?" Liora blinked, the words weighing heavier than she expected.
But Kazel didn't explain. He didn't need to. That line alone painted enough for those willing to understand.
"I'm tired," he added casually, turning away. "I have preliminaries tomorrow."
"You—" Liora started to speak, but the words never found form.
He was already gone, vanishing with the same ease he had arrived. Only the subtle creak of the closing door remained in his wake, and the lingering echo of a man whose past walked beside him like a shadow.
Liora stood in silence for a moment longer, eyes narrowing not in anger — but in thought.
---
The morning haze still lingered over the courtyard as a soft breeze danced through the newly cleaned grounds. Durandal's broom whispered across the stone tiles while Arhatam leaned against a pillar, half-asleep, arms folded and posture slouched like a sack of herbs left too long in the sun.
"Aren't you going to wake the young master?" Arhatam muttered with a yawn that seemed to rattle his whole chest.
Durandal scoffed lightly, not looking up. "Why should I do that? Should I?"
Arhatam shrugged, his eyes barely open. "You're his disciple, aren't you? Isn't that what disciples do? Wake up their masters before they oversleep a public event that could affect the sect's reputation?"
Before Durandal could answer, a voice beat him to it.
"What are you two mumbling about?"
Both of them flinched slightly as Kazel emerged from the corridor, robe loose around his shoulders, collar open, hair tousled like a man who'd just barely convinced himself to leave the warmth of bed. A yawn danced on the edge of his words, but his eyes — though heavy-lidded — were alert.
"Let's go to the preliminaries," Kazel said casually, already adjusting the sash around his waist.
Arhatam blinked. "What time is it?"
Durandal scratched the back of his head. "Uh… eight-ish? Give or take."
"Are we late?" Kazel asked as he stretched his arms, joints popping.
"Are we—? I mean… I don't know." Arhatam frowned. "Wait! Shouldn't we care?"
Kazel waved it off, already turning on his heel. "Who cares? Let's go."
"You're seriously going in that getup?" Arhatam called after him, flabbergasted. "Young master, please—"
"This is fine," Kazel replied without even slowing down.
Arhatam let out an exasperated groan and rubbed his forehead. "By the ancestors… I'm traveling with a lunatic."
Not long after, the three were mounted up — Kazel on his own dark, muscular horse, riding like a man going for an afternoon stroll rather than a high-stakes competition. Arhatam shared a horse with Durandal, who tried his best to stay calm despite the awkward bumping of their ride.
Glancing ahead at Kazel's loose posture and half-closed eyes, Arhatam leaned closer to Durandal and whispered, "Do you really think this is fine?"
Durandal followed Kazel's silhouette with concern etched across his brow. "I… let's just believe in him."
Arhatam exhaled through his nose. "Damn… that's the one thing an alchemist shouldn't do."
And yet, the road ahead was bathed in warm sunlight, as if even fate was keeping its breath held — just to see what Kazel would do next.
Meanwhile, the Fang was alive with motion — the scent of fried rice cakes and roasted meats from street stalls wafted through the air, clashing with the scent of oiled leather and pine from the nearby training fields. Today, the bustling chaos was more than the usual noise of commerce and chatter. The branch of the Heavenless Bow Sect had set up for the much-anticipated archery tournament, and the entire side of the city that faced the open plains was humming with energy.
The tournament grounds were set on a wide meadow just outside the Fang's eastern gate, a natural bowl of open grassland kissed by the morning wind. That wind, usually pleasant, had taken on a mischievous mood today — breezing in with sharp gusts and unpredictable shifts, making even seasoned archers mutter under their breath. It wasn't violent, but it was certainly alive, and it promised a true test of skill.
Wooden fences and rope boundaries marked the arena. Rows of spectators were already gathering, sitting cross-legged or leaning against crates and carts, chattering excitedly. Among them were not just locals, but wandering cultivators, traveling merchants, and spirit beast tamers — all curious to witness the young talents and perhaps catch a glimpse of the rising name rumored to have brought down a sect.
The shooting targets were arranged with precision — each one set exactly one hundred meters away, made of pale haycloth circles framed in black rings, with a crimson dot at the center. That single red dot would decide glory or failure.
"The wind's going to ruin someone's chance today," one man muttered, shielding his eyes.
"That's part of the challenge," a Heavenless Bow disciple responded proudly, "If you can't shoot through the wind, you don't deserve to wear the badge."
Everyone knew: this wasn't just a tournament for prestige. For many, it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity — the only open path for outsiders to be considered for entry into the Heavenless Bow Sect, one of the most respected archery factions in the Land of the Wolf.
At the edge of the range, a long table draped in immaculate white cloth stood like a line between chaos and order. Upon it rested uniform bows, each identical in size and weight — elegant, mid-length bows crafted from dark spiritual wood reinforced with silver lining. Beside each bow were three arrows, their shafts painted with white streaks for visibility, and their fletching feathered in matching pale tones.
Disciples dressed in the sky-blue robes of the sect oversaw the equipment and took names from the registrants.
"It's a level field," one girl said to her friend as they watched the setup. "No treasures, no artifacts, no beast-bound bows — only skill."
"And luck," the friend whispered. "Especially with that wind."
But amidst the excitement, there was one name on several whispering lips. A name said with hesitation… and awe.
"Is it true? That he might be joining the preliminaries?"
"You mean Kazel?"
"That boy who flattened the Second Moon Sect…"
"No way he'd join a bow competition, right?"
And yet… there were no confirmations. Only a rising tide of anticipation.
Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd like a dropped stone in still water. All attention — previously scattered among idle conversations and petty wagers — now zeroed in on a single man walking with unhurried confidence toward the white-clothed registration table.
He was lean, yet carried himself with a posture that made him look carved from conviction. His crimson red hair fell just past his neck, flickering slightly in the wind like a slow-burning flame. His skin was fair, his smile effortless, and his eyes glinted with an arrogant calm, the kind that demanded attention without trying. There was no fanfare. No spiritual aura flaring about him. And yet, he walked like the wind itself would part for him — and it did.
A few younger participants who were previously stretching or boasting among themselves went still, their mouths slightly ajar. Even some elders in the audience leaned forward, narrowing their eyes.
"Who… who is that?" a girl asked, clutching her bow nervously.
"You don't know?" her friend whispered, "That's him. The Crimson Phoenix Sect's prince. Ashborn."
Meanwhile, on the private viewing platform just above the crowd, Juni's eyes narrowed as she tapped a finger rhythmically over her crossed arms, frustration lacing her voice.
"I thought you said he would be joining," she said flatly, gaze flicking from the field to Liora beside her.
"That's what he said," Liora replied, her tone casual, though her fingers tugged lightly at the end of her sash. "Kazel's not exactly the type who follows timetables."
"I hope he shows up," Yasha drawled lazily from her seat, chewing on her petal like it was candy. "Otherwise, I'm going to be bored watching your little tournament." Her eyes stayed half-lidded, but there was amusement flickering in them as she watched the rising tension.
Juni gave a breathless sigh and raised her hand to signal the officiators.
"Let the participants take their spots!"
The call rang out, and lines began to form. Yet no one missed how someone moved — not rushed, not boastful, but like a prince strolling through his own garden. He took his place at the farthest end, claiming a bow with the indifference of someone who didn't need it.
From her place, Liora gave a soft, appreciative whistle.
"That's a special guest."
Yasha's gaze sharpened.
"The Phoenix Prince, Ashborn," she said under her breath, the usual nonchalance thinning.
Juni didn't hide her discomfort as she shifted on her feet. "What's scary is how we didn't notice him till now."
The three of them stared down at the field. And now… so did the entire crowd.
The people whispered his name with awe, some with reverence, others with the fearful curiosity of those witnessing the eye of a growing storm.
Ashborn, standing still now, smiled.
And somewhere beyond the edge of the field, a horse's hooves clopped softly against cobbled stone. A lazy voice mumbled about missing breakfast.
Arhatam nearly tripped over his own robes as he dismounted, flailing his arms slightly before catching balance. "I told you, young master — that place has nothing but corpses and cracked walls! Even the rats left!"
Kazel sighed dramatically as he adjusted his slightly wrinkled robe and stepped forward. "I survived a week in a bandit den eating moss and dirt stew, but that doesn't mean I enjoy starving."
"You made that stew yourself!" Arhatam pointed, catching up to him. "And you said it was 'a unique culinary experience.'"
"I lied," Kazel deadpanned.
The two now walked side by side, approaching the wide open meadow just outside the Fang. The bustling crowd was like a festival in full swing. Young archers adjusting their grips, elders scrutinizing stances, spectators murmuring from shaded tents — all of it a vibrant backdrop to the tension that had begun to rise.
Durandal trotted behind them, still on horseback, his expression somewhere between awestruck and anxious. "Is that… who I think it is?" he muttered, catching sight of the red-haired Ashborn standing proudly by the shooting line.
Kazel paused, brows raised. His eyes narrowed as he observed Ashborn from afar. The wind swept a few strands of Kazel's hair across his eyes, but the smirk still found its way to his face.
"That guy," Kazel murmured.
"You know him?" Arhatam asked.
"No," Kazel shrugged. "But I can already tell he eats well." His stomach growled faintly, betraying him.
Arhatam groaned. "Please don't challenge him just to steal his lunch, young master…"
Kazel waved him off, striding toward the gathered crowd. The moment he stepped closer, murmurs began to rise.
"Wait... that's him."
"Isn't that the guy from the rumors?"
"No way... he looks too young…"
But none dared step in his path. The air felt off around him — casual but heavy, like a blade sheathed but unsheathed in intent.
Somewhere up on the platform, Yasha, chewing idly on her petal, noticed the shift. Her gaze followed the whispers, and her lips curled ever so slightly."There he is."
Ashborn's posture remained relaxed, almost regal, yet his crimson eyes were sharp — tracking Kazel like a hawk watching an unfamiliar predator.
Liora exhaled through her nose with a smirk, arms still folded beneath her chest. "Hmm… Looks like we know why Ashborn is here."
Juni, standing beside her, furrowed her brows as her eyes darted between the two young men. "Of course…" she muttered, a note of unease creeping into her voice. "It's not the tournament that brought him here… it's him."
Ashborn had yet to move, but the tension in his stillness said enough. His practiced grace, his calm breath — it wasn't just observation. It was assessment. Weighing Kazel.
And Kazel, still rubbing his belly like he truly cared more about food than archery or politics, returned the stare with a tilted smirk, his blue eyes glinting in the sunlight. He looked amused… almost pleased.
(That sigil, it's the same as the envoy from before) Kazel thought, his gaze never wavering. (Then let's see what the Land of the Tiger has to offer.)
Durandal, now fully dismounted, leaned toward Arhatam. "Is it just me, or is this not a normal tournament anymore?"
Arhatam shook his head, eyes wide. "Nope. Nope. This is no longer an archery contest. This is a clash of monsters in disguise."
Behind them, the wind shifted slightly — as if the sky, too, held its breath.