Kazel's lips parted, but no words came at first. His throat felt dry, the memory too heavy for air to pass through. The flicker of the candlelight trembled between them, reflecting in his cold blue eyes as if uncertain of what truth would follow. Then, quietly—without armor, without pride—he said, "Yes."
The word hung in the air like a wound reopened. Masha's gaze wavered, her composure fracturing for the briefest moment before she turned away, her shadow long against the wall. Outside, thunder rolled again, as if the heavens themselves had heard what neither of them wished to remember.
"Vil, leave us," said Masha softly — yet her tone carried the weight of command that brooked no argument.
Caladbolg, the skeleton once known as King Vil, froze where he stood. The faint light of the lantern glimmered against the hollow of his skull, where faint soul-flames flickered like blue wisps. "Y–You know my name?" he asked, voice trembling between awe and disbelief, the echo of his bones whispering against the wooden floor.
"Of course," Masha replied with a small, knowing smile that seemed to pierce through centuries. The smile was gentle, but in it lived the poise of someone who had seen kings rise and heroes fall.
For a moment, the room fell into a tranquil stillness — broken only by the sound of the rain pattering against the tiled roof, and the occasional hiss of wind through the paper walls. Caladbolg's jaw moved faintly, as though words wanted to escape him, but he said nothing more. Instead, he bowed his head ever so slightly, a gesture that felt both humble and heavy.
"Your crown too," Masha added, her voice calm yet edged with quiet insistence.
"Hehe…" the skeleton chuckled, though it came out dry and hollow. He turned to the nightstand, where the ancient crown rested — dull gold now, but humming faintly with dormant power. He picked it up with a reverence born of old regrets, then placed it upon his skull. The faint blue light in his sockets dimmed to a softer hue.
With slow, deliberate steps, Caladbolg turned toward the door. The wooden boards creaked under his weight as he slid it open, the corridor beyond bathed in pale moonlight. Before leaving, he cast one last look over his shoulder — at the two souls within that room, bound by history deeper than the bones he wore — and then quietly closed the door behind him.
The sound of the door sliding shut was like a seal upon the world.
"Let's reminisce a bit," Masha said at last, her voice soft but steady, her amber eyes glimmering like molten honey under the flickering lantern light. The faint scent of rain drifted in through the cracks, and her smile — that haunting, bittersweet smile — lingered as though it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken yesterdays.
---
Durandal and Arhatam had already been relocated to the Curved Blade Sect, their bodies still weak, their minds barely able to process the chaos that had unfolded. The entire evening had been swallowed by turmoil — the echoes of steel and thunder still lingered in the air like ghosts refusing to leave.
Outside, the once-proud road that led through The Fang was now a scarred battlefield. The rain had eased into a cold drizzle, and in the middle of it all lay the colossal carcass of the Blue Phoenix — its magnificent plumage dulled and matted by blood and mud, yet still faintly shimmering with an otherworldly hue of blue. Steam rose from its body as the warmth of its spirit struggled against the chill of the night.
No one dared to approach. Not even the most reckless of cultivators, nor the greediest of hunters. The beast's presence still emanated a faint echo of wrath, a pressure that made the air too heavy to breathe near.
Whispers spread like wildfire through the sects surrounding The Fang. They spoke of the Immortal Sect's return, of a tyrant's resurrection, of a warlord who smiled amidst ruin. Yet among them all, one truth stilled every tongue — the Blue Phoenix was slain, and its soul remained untaken.
For to touch it, to even think of integrating with it, was to tempt a curse more dreadful than death.
Everyone knew it — the rightful killer's claim over the beast was absolute. And whoever defied that claim would find their lineage severed, their bloodline doomed, and their name erased from the order of Heaven itself.
So the mighty carcass remained untouched, lying solemn and regal even in death — a monument to the storm that had just passed, and a warning to those who still dreamed of power beyond their reach.
Whispers slithered through the mountain passes and crossed the rivers that split the Land of the Wolf from its neighboring domains. By the time the news reached the Crimson Phoenix Sect, it arrived like a storm — wild, unbelievable, yet too vivid to dismiss.
"A Blue Phoenix has fallen.""By whose hand?""Kazel. The boy from the Immortal Sect."
The grand hall of the Crimson Phoenix was shrouded in incense smoke, its scarlet banners shifting gently under the breeze that leaked through the carved windows. Elders gathered in a crescent formation, their robes embroidered with golden feathers that shimmered under the flicker of lanterns. Their murmurs were low, but the weight of greed bled through each word like poison.
"The soul of the Blue Phoenix is still intact," one elder said, his aged fingers tapping the armrest of his chair. "It floats without a master. Whoever claims it... claims its legacy."
Another elder leaned forward, eyes gleaming like rubies. "Such a soul cannot fall into lesser hands. It must be brought to our Sect. Imagine—a new generation of phoenix-blooded disciples soaring across the skies."
Their footsteps as they stood echoed through the marble hall, steady and hungry. The sound itself carried greed, each step declaring the same thing: possession.
Yet, someone else had been listening. Behind the half-opened door stood a young man in crimson robes. His long hair cascaded down his back like molten fire, his eyes sharp yet contemplative — Ashborn, the Prince of the Crimson Phoenix Sect.
He furrowed his brows, a faint scowl breaking his otherwise composed face. The memory of a blue-eyed youth surfaced unbidden — that day at the archery tournament.(He took down a phoenix...)He could still recall the way Kazel had moved — cold precision, the arrogance of someone who didn't need approval.
Ashborn's thoughts were broken when a deep, gravelly voice filled the hall.
"Enough."
The patriarch had spoken.
Zhen Wuheng entered, his long robe trailing behind him like the fading shadow of dusk. His black hair was tied in a high knot, though a single streak of silver hung freely — a burn-like scar, gleaming in the lamplight. His presence silenced the elders instantly.
"I warned you once," he said, his tone calm but edged with the kind of authority that made even the boldest disciples avert their eyes. "Do not act rashly. That boy… Kazel… is not someone to provoke without reason."
One elder, more daring than the rest, dared to speak."But Patriarch, the Blue Phoenix soul—"
"—is a bait for death," Wuheng cut him off. "Do not forget, the one who might protect him might still be watching. Even I would rather not clash with that man again."
The elders exchanged glances, pretending to nod in obedience. Yet their eyes betrayed them — filled with hunger, shimmering with schemes already forming. Their mouths agreed, but their hearts were burning with avarice.
After they dispersed, the hall grew quiet again. Only Ashborn remained, standing by the door, his reflection shimmering faintly against the polished obsidian tiles.
He clenched his fists.(They'll move regardless of Father's warning…)He looked toward the open sky beyond the window — a sea of clouds tinged in red by the setting sun.(And if they cross paths with Kazel… this will not end well.)
---
The Duskwind Inn was quieter than usual. A haze of smoke floated lazily above the tables, catching the orange glow of the lanterns that hung from the wooden beams. The night wind hummed through the open shutters, carrying with it the faint scent of spice and steel from the streets below.
Yasha sat by the window, one leg crossed over the other, her chin resting against her palm. The petal in her mouth twitched slightly as she sighed.
Across from her, Liodra reclined on the couch, her violet hair spilling across the cushion like a pool of amethyst. She lifted her gourd lazily, took a long gulp, and laughed.
"The death of a legendary spirit beast is not something to be trifled with," said Yasha, her voice calm but edged with unease.
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Liodra replied between swallows, shaking the gourd to check how much was left.
Yasha's eyes narrowed. "I envy how chill you can be in this situation."
"You overthink too much," Liodra said with a lazy grin.
"And you never think," Yasha retorted, rolling her eyes.
"Meh," Liodra shrugged, sinking deeper into the couch. "Thinking never helped anyone sober."
Yasha clicked her tongue and bit down on the petal, the faint crunch lost under the hum of the inn. Her eyes drifted toward the door, where shadows flickered under the dim lanternlight.
"The Shield and Spear had two Black Knights," she said finally, her tone lower now. "One of them is dead. What do you think the other one is going to do?"
Liodra raised a brow. "Take revenge?"
"Exactly. And where do you think that revenge will happen?"
Liodra shrugged again, smirking faintly. "Hopefully not here?"
"I don't like it," Yasha muttered, gaze turning toward the window. Outside, the torchlights of the Fang flickered like restless eyes in the dark. "This town is for trade, not war. Goods, services, rumors… not corpses."
"Rumors are a kind of trade too," said Liodra, swirling what was left in her gourd.
"I'm more interested in Kazel," Liodra admitted. "The grandmaster of the Curved Blade Sect knows him. Just who the hell is he… or was he?"
At that, Liodra tilted her head, a lazy grin tugging at the edge of her lips. "That grandmaster never shows their face to anyone. And yet somehow, he knew them. Either he's incredibly famous—"
"Or dangerously important," Yasha cut in.
"Mm. I'll drink to both." Liodra lifted the gourd, gulping deeply before exhaling with satisfaction. "Too much thinking. More booze."
Yasha leaned back, half-annoyed, half-amused as Liodra's laughter filled the quiet air. She turned her eyes back to the window — to the faint outline of the Fang under the moonlight.
(Things are about to get messy.)