"You must be Numen."
The voice came like a blade between the ribs, and Numen's old instincts flared to life. He sprang back three steps before he even realized he had moved. Who—?
Standing before him was a lean figure with two swords, a faint smirk curling on his lips.
"Oh-ho! So you can move like that," the man said, clapping slowly and with exaggeration. "Didn't expect that."
He stepped forward, casual as a friend approaching a campfire. "What are you scheming here, old warrior?"
Numen backed away, voice raised in authority. "Do you know who I am? How dare you!"
He hoped the crowd would hear. He hoped the peach tree spirit would notice. But the followers were still clambering up the tree, and the spirit was too busy sipping blood to care.
The stranger placed a hand on his bronze gladius, drawing it halfway from its sheath.
Numen's breath hitched. He leapt back again and took a defensive stance.
The man didn't advance. Instead, he tilted his head and grinned. "No killing intent I have. You're just scared. Haven't fought in a decade, have you?"
His tone was cruel, but not unkind—more like a craftsman assessing a broken tool. He studied Numen's reflection in the half-drawn gladius.
More like twenty years, Numen thought. Twenty years since I last stood on a battlefield…
He knew better than anyone: this was the moment to strike. When the enemy seemed distracted, pondering, open.
And yet—he couldn't move.
That man… is beyond me.
Even Prince Baram in his prime would have hesitated.
"Ah," the man said suddenly, squinting at the blade's reflection. "You're human?"
He sounded amused, even surprised.
"Well, the truth will come out eventually. Come on, let's get started."
Numen's eyes flicked behind him, searching for escape. But when he looked forward again, a heel filled his vision.
He barely had time to lower his head and raise his arms—before the kick slammed into his temple. He skidded across the ground, dragged like a sack of wheat through a trail of blood and dust.
He came to a halt near the base of the peach tree, where so many had fallen.
Silence.
The swordsman drew his bronze gladius fully now, raising it to eye level. Slowly, he turned in place, letting the polished gladius catch and reflect the faces around him—startled followers, the golden boughs, the shivering priestesses.
He stopped. A smile touched his lips.
Then he shouted:
"Come out."
Only wind responded. The peach tree swayed gently, a few blossoms drifting down.
The man rolled his eyes. "No?"
He flicked the blade toward the tree.
"Then take this."
The golden arc of sword energy burst forth. It glanced off the tree with a brilliant flare.
Nothing.
Whispers stirred in the crowd.
"What is this madman doing?" "He struck the sacred tree—!" "Is he insane?"
But then—screams.
Shrill and sharp, like glass shattering in the soul. The branches of the peach tree began to writhe, twisting like serpents. Those climbing the trunk were tossed like dolls to the earth.
Roots burst from the soil, flexing like muscles beneath the ground. The crowd recoiled in horror.
But as one root coiled up to rise, another golden arc flew from the man's blade and struck it clean. It froze, then slumped—just wood again.
"You—how dare you—!"
The voice boomed from the tree itself.
Whipping branches lashed toward the swordsman from every direction. He turned on the spot, blade flowing like silk in wind. Each strike of his bronze gladius shattered a whip into harmless twigs.
The peach tree spirit—once unseen, now screaming—felt fear for the first time in three centuries.
The real Numen, just before dying, had gasped out something strange: "If only… I had… one of the Three Sacred Treasures… of Dangun…"
Could it be?
"Who are you?!" the spirit shrieked. "How do you possess such power?!"
The man didn't answer. His blade moved in rhythm, each swing undoing another enchanted limb. The last few branches recoiled like frightened animals.
"Curious, are you?" he said with a smirk. "Too bad—I'm not in a sharing mood."
"You… you're not from here. Why would a man like you come to a wretched place like this?!"
The earth buckled as roots lunged upward to snatch his ankles—but he simply rose, his feet leaving the ground as if the wind had lifted him.
He spun once in midair.
"Cleansed!"
The final arc of golden light roared from his blade, cleaving down into the peach tree's core.
The howl that followed was neither wind nor beast nor man—it was the death cry of something ancient and wrong.
When it ended, the tree stood still. Silent.
The man landed lightly, crouching for a breath. Then he stepped forward and pressed his palm to the bark.
It was warm.
Just a tree now.
The crowd stared in stunned silence as he sheathed his sword. Without a word, he turned and walked away, fading into the woods like a spirit returned to its realm.
No one can follow. Nobody dared follow.