"Looks like we got a mute one," one of the three men said, his tone dripping mockery.
The others chuckled, closing in just enough that Durandal could feel the heat from their torch.
Durandal's eyes flicked from left to right, noting the gaps — narrow, but there. His mind ran through possible exits, but his pulse… barely stirred.
He pictured another scene, burned into his memory:The fat, towering man who once ruled over him in the slums. The stink of his breath, the weight of his threats.And then — Kazel's blade cutting through him as if the man's bulk was nothing but rotted wood.
Durandal breathed out slowly. The memory was not fear. It was clarity.
For his young master, three armed men like this wouldn't even register as an obstacle.They'd be swept aside like dead leaves in the wind.
And if he was truly Kazel's disciple… he had to think the same way.
( These three won't stop me. )
The boy in him — the starving thief who had once been beaten into obedience — was gone.
What stood here now was the prime disciple of the Immortal Sect.
Durandal straightened ever so slightly, enough for the men to notice the shift. His eyes, the only part of his face visible beneath the bandages, were steady.
One of the armored men frowned. "What's with this brat's stare…?"
Durandal's hand lowered toward the ground, toes flexing once. Heat began to curl faintly around them, barely visible in the dark — but the air between them was already growing heavier.
The men closed in, boots crunching on gravel, weapons half-raised.
Durandal shifted his weight, one foot sliding back just slightly. His hands stayed loose at his sides — a boy's posture, harmless.But in his core, heat was already building. Not in his palms… in his legs.
The fire of the Lava Harpy curled up from the soles of his feet, invisible at first, until faint wisps of heat distorted the air around him. Every muscle in his legs tightened, coiling like springs.
They still didn't see it.They saw a cloaked, bandaged brat.A stray.
Big mistake.
Durandal inhaled once, deep and steady.( One chance. )
He launched forward.
The ground shattered beneath his first step, embers bursting outward in a half-circle. In a single pivot, his leg swung up in a vicious arc, trailing a blade of molten flame that burned bright against the night.
The first man — the torchbearer — didn't even scream. The searing talon-shaped flame cleaved him diagonally from shoulder to hip, molten heat carving through flesh and bone alike. His body crumpled in two smoldering pieces before the torch even hit the dirt.
Durandal's foot came down hard, sparks exploding from the impact.
He spun on his heel — the momentum carried into a second upward kick, sharper, faster. The talon-flame curved mid-air, catching the second man in the chest. Steel armor hissed and split apart under the molten strike, his sword falling from lifeless fingers.
The third tried to backpedal, panic in his eyes, but Durandal's final step was a short, brutal snap-kick low to the ground. The talon's fiery arc swept beneath the man's guard, cutting through both legs at the thigh. He went down shrieking, the smell of scorched fabric and flesh filling the night air.
The fire died as quickly as it came, leaving behind nothing but a lingering heat haze and three ruined bodies.
Durandal didn't pause.
He yanked open the marked crate — bundles wrapped in oilcloth, each stamped with the Shield and Spear's proud sigil. He grabbed as many as would fit in his pouch, ignoring their weight.
From deeper in the camp, voices were shouting, boots pounding against dirt.
He had seconds.
Durandal turned and slipped into the shadows between the tents, feet barely touching the ground, his stolen prize thumping against his side. The trail of fire was already cooling behind him.
( Steal. Retreat. )
Tonight, that was victory enough—
"You're fast, thief… but not that fast, hahaha!"
The voice cut through the night like a blade.
Durandal's instincts screamed, but before he could react, a shadow blurred past his flank — faster than any of the men he'd faced so far.
A claw-like hand shot out from the dark.
Thwack!
It clamped around his neck with crushing force, the fingers digging into the bandages like iron talons. His legs left the ground in an instant, momentum snuffed out as though he'd slammed into an invisible wall.
Air scraped from his throat in a ragged gasp.
Trepidation bled into his limbs.
His pupils tilted downward — and there it was.The bald head gleaming under the cold light of the moon, each scar catching the silver glow like an ugly badge of survival.
And beneath it… a smile. Not of amusement, but of ownership.
The bandit captain's voice was low, almost casual, but each word dripped with menace.
"Thought you could dance in my camp and leave with my things?"
His grip tightened just enough to make Durandal's vision blur at the edges.
"Hmmm…"The bandit captain's breath was hot against Durandal's face, tinged with the bitter scent of wine and smoke."Not even at Soul Refinement… and you dare not to say hello to me in my home?"
His tone was almost conversational, as if they were speaking over tea instead of in the middle of a midnight hunt.But the crushing weight of his grip told another story.
Durandal's feet dangled, the world tilting in his vision as the captain shifted his arm. His pouch — heavy with stolen goods — swung uselessly at his side.
Then the captain moved.
Without effort, he turned and began walking back toward the glow of the camp, dragging Durandal along like a misbehaving pup.Each step sent jarring tremors up Durandal's spine as his boots scraped the dirt.
The night air was still thick with the scent of scorched leather and flesh from his earlier strike.Shadows shifted at the edges of the torchlight as men gathered, their voices rising in confused murmurs.
"Is that… a kid?""He's the one?""Can't be. Too small."
The captain ignored them all.
They reached the center of the base, where the largest firepit burned bright, and the hammering from the smithy had stopped.Here, under the full gaze of the camp, the captain finally let Durandal's feet touch the ground — but his hand stayed clamped on the back of his neck, an unspoken warning.
The two white-armored men from before emerged from the headquarters tent, their visors tilting toward Durandal.One chuckled darkly."So… the thief finally shows his face."
Durandal's head hung low.Not in submission — but because the captain's grip on the back of his neck forced it there.
The dirt beneath him was warm from the nearby firepit, its heat licking up against his shins. Around him, the crowd thickened — leather-clad rogues, half-armored mercenaries, and the curious stragglers of the camp, all drawn to the sight of their captain parading a prisoner.
And then came the sound.
Laughter.
Raucous, unrestrained laughter.
"Hah! That's the 'attacker' they were talking about?""Looks like he hasn't even grown into his boots!""Careful, boys. He might scuff your shin with his baby kicks!"
The mockery rippled through the camp like a cruel wave. Some slapped their knees, others whistled, one even tossed a small bone that bounced off the dirt near Durandal's feet.
The captain's smile widened as if the jeers were music.
Durandal stayed silent.His bangs and bandages hid most of his expression, but his eyes — beneath the shadow — were fixed on the firelight ahead, unblinking.
He could feel the laughter trying to worm its way in, to eat at his pride, to make him small again.
The captain's fingers hooked into the loose bandages at Durandal's jaw.
With a slow, almost mocking tug, he began to unwind them. The dusty strips fell away one by one, brushing against Durandal's cheeks before fluttering to the dirt.
When the last strip dropped, the boy's face was revealed.
Silence.
"…Who?""Who the fuck is that kid?""Does anyone know him?""I've never seen him in my life."
The murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd. Confusion, not recognition, filled their eyes.
The bald captain chuckled, resting a heavy hand on Durandal's shoulder."Well, kid…" His tone was syrupy with sarcasm. "…looks like everyone here's dying to know. Why don't you introduce yourself?"
One of the white-armored knights from the Shield and Spear stepped forward, visor glinting in the firelight."And more importantly… who are you working for?"
Durandal raised his head slowly.The firelight danced across his features.Around him, the bandits were still smirking, still waiting for something to laugh at.
"My name…" he began, voice low.
Then, memory struck. The scene replayed in his mind — the Duskwind Inn, the weight of his young master's gaze, and the words that had reshaped him:
"Your name shall be… Durandal."
His jaw tightened. His eyes hardened.
"My name…"He drew in a breath so sharp it cut through the camp's noise.
"MY NAME IS DURANDAL!!"
The shout cracked through the base like a whip, carrying beyond the tents and into the black depths of the forest.
"And I am the PRIME DISCIPLE of the Immortal Sect! The follower of the great young master Kazel — the SECT SLAYER!!"
The words hit the camp like a thrown torch.The jeers died in their throats.Men stared.Some blinked as if they'd misheard. Others went pale.
And then —
"You're goddamn right."
It was soft. So soft it should have been drowned by the fire's crackle… yet every soul in the camp heard it, each syllable sliding through the air like a whisper carried on the wind.
All heads turned.
From the shadows between two tents, a figure stepped into the torchlight. The smirk came first — sharp, cold, and confident — followed by the glint of blue eyes that seemed to look through men, not at them.
The tyrant himself had already arrived.