Kael looked down on Red Hallow Village. The reconstruction had begun, but scars of destruction still marred the land.
His destruction.
He clenched his fist.
"Is Sheila awake yet?" he asked Nyric without turning.
Nyric shook his head. "No. She hasn't improved since."
Kael's hand tightened into a trembling fist. If only he hadn't been so weak... He couldn't even bring himself to face her.
He turned sharply, the village fading behind him as he faced the vast, untamed world beyond the mountain ridge.
He would grow stronger—strong enough to ensure nothing like this ever happened again.
But for now, there was nothing he could do.
"Let's go," he muttered, breaking into a run down the mountain path.
Nyric lingered a moment, gazing at the village before sighing and following after him.
At the foot of the mountain, Kael waited. "Where to now?" he asked as Nyric caught up.
"First, we need transportation. I know just the place," Nyric replied.
"Follow me," he added, then turned and dashed east.
Kael followed closely, leaving behind the ashes of his failure and stepping toward the unknown—toward the path where he would either shake the world or become just another nameless martial artist.
---
Kael sat in a tavern, hungrily devouring a bowl of steaming soup. He hadn't eaten in a day, having run nonstop from Red Hallow to this new place.
The town was called Brassgate, and unlike Red Hallow, which was cradled in mountain silence, this place was loud, crowded, and constantly moving.
Massive fortified gates loomed at the entrance, half-rusted and green with age, flanked by guards who barely lifted their eyes as travelers passed. Some lounged with spears resting on their shoulders, others bartered with hawkers, too indifferent to notice the occasional pickpocket slipping through the crowd.
The streets reeked of sweat, smoke, and cheap wine. Stalls overflowed with trinkets and travel supplies. Children ran barefoot through muddy alleys. Beggars lined the walls, ignored by the wealthy traders striding past them. The town bustled with life, but it pulsed with uneven rhythm—order held together by greed more than law.
According to Nyric, Brassgate was the largest town in the region and a favored stop for merchants hiring protection for the long journey to the capital.
Nyric had gone off to find a merchant caravan they could join as mercenaries. "Traveling in a group's safer," he had said.
Kael didn't argue. He barely cared. As long as it moved him forward—toward strength, toward something that could make all of this mean something.
But that was for later.
For now, he focused on his soup, oblivious to the man seated in a shadowed corner behind him.
Watching.
The figure wore a tattered gray cloak with the hood pulled low, shadowing most of his face. But now and then, a flicker of lamplight caught the sharp glint of his eyes—cold, calculating, and far too focused.
A jagged scar ran from the man's jawline to his neck, disappearing beneath the cloak's collar. His fingers worked in silence, twirling a slender dagger with casual grace, the blade dancing between knuckles like it had a mind of its own.
He didn't drink. Didn't eat. Didn't blink much either.
Just watched.
---
Kael leaned back in his chair, patting his stomach, the empty bowl before him a quiet trophy.
"Glad to see you enjoyed yourself," Nyric said, sliding into the seat across from him.
Kael just smiled.
"Alright, we've got to move. I found a caravan—they leave by sunset," Nyric said. "If there's nothing else you want to do, let's go. Best we know who we're traveling with."
Kael stepped out of the tavern, the door creaking behind him. He adjusted the ring on his finger and followed Nyric into the street.
"They're at the edge of town," Nyric muttered, weaving through the crowd.
Brassgate pulsed with life—though not the kind Kael liked. Stalls lined the streets, selling everything from skewered meat and rusted weapons to half-diluted potions. The air smelled of smoke, spice, and something slightly rotten.
A butcher hacked into a slab of meat, flies thick in the air around him.
I wouldn't eat that for the world, Kael thought.
The town was loud and colorful, but behind its energy was something hollow. Something rotten at the core.
They passed a hunched man performing for children. Flames danced from his fingers—subtle use of veinfire shaping crude figures of heroes and beasts. The man's eyes locked onto Kael. He smiled. Too wide.
Kael stiffened.
"Ignore him," Nyric said under his breath, pulling him forward.
They turned a corner and found a pair of guards laughing as they overturned a beggar's plate, kicking the man as he curled up on the ground.
Kael's fist clenched. He didn't know what the beggar had done—but no one deserved to be treated like that. Not like that.
He started forward, but Nyric caught his wrist.
"Don't," Nyric warned, gesturing subtly with his eyes. Across the square, more guards leaned casually against a wall, watching—waiting.
Kael's jaw tensed. He forced himself to turn away.
"That's their game," Nyric said as they walked. "They bait someone into interfering—then they drag them off. Say it was assault. Or inciting a riot. Either way, it's 'justice.'"
Kael didn't reply. He hated it. Hated the way his blood boiled without anywhere to go.
A group of boys passed, all wearing matching green tunics embroidered with brass patterns. They walked with chins high and sneers ready, throwing insults and shoving through the crowd. People avoided their eyes. Lowered their heads.
"The Coinveil Sect," Nyric said. "Only sect in the city. They've got the town lord in their pocket. Arrogant bastards act like they own the place—because they basically do."
Kael's fist clenched again.
"If you had strength, what would you do?" Nyric asked quietly, not turning. "Start a fight? What happens after that—when you're gone? Nothing changes. The next poor soul just bleeds for your moment of fury."
He drifted toward a stall, exchanging a quick nod with the owner.
Still, Nyric rubbed the back of his neck, eyes scanning the thinning crowd. He couldn't shake the feeling.
Someone's watching us.
But who? And why?