The Master stood behind them like a predator — silent, coiled, absolute.
Blood mist drifted through the ruin, clinging to his cloak as if afraid to let go. Each step he took was measured, deliberate, the rhythm of a man who had long since mastered death itself. The battlefield bent around him, the air thick with something more than fear — reverence.
He did not need to move fast. Predators never do. The kill was already his.
From him surged a blood-red aura, swirling like smoke yet burning like fire, thick enough to choke the very air. His eyes — two blazing suns of molten orange — pierced through the haze, unblinking, merciless. He was no longer merely a man, but a living calamity, born for the kill. His gaze flicked briefly to Mikayle, assessing the boy's faltering resolve, then to the distant hills, where a low rumble hinted at approaching thunder.
Mikayle, Yuhan, Ivan, and Marco — the latter partially injured in countless places — stared at him with wide, horrific eyes. Yuhan's hands trembled, fingers twitching toward nothing. Ivan's jaw clenched, pale face draining further. Marco, still injured, barely rose to watch, muscles taut with pain and fear.
Without notice, one of the Kingspawn rushed forward, black blade raised high, silver circular hilt glinting. It darted past the boys and swung downward, aiming a clear strike at the Master's right shoulder.
But the Master acted with lightning precision. He dropped to his right knee, shifted his muscle to his foot like a cat ready to spring, and converted the stored energy into a flash step. His body pivoted exactly 90° away from the blade's path. In one fluid motion, he cut the attacker's wrist with his right dagger, spun his body clockwise, and stabbed upward into the lower back. Blood spurted like a fountain.
At that moment, another Kingspawn rushed in with multiple swings. The Master dodged with exacting precision. Each slash from right to left, each overhead strike, was met with flawless movement. Twice the enemy swung overhead, feinting the real attack — but the Master ducked, twisted, and kicked hard. The Kingspawn fell, rolling to the ground, his body flowing with blood.
Crossing his daggers, the Master struck again. The second Kingspawn lay dead, blood spreading across the soil.
Mikayle and the others watched in horror. It wasn't the first death they had seen today, but the efficiency, the raw violence, the human flesh torn so suddenly — it made their stomachs churn.
The one who had been torturing Marco was now alone. Fear settled into his eyes. His body shrank, trembling violently. He screamed and charged, blade raised.
He aimed a thrust at the Master's right shoulder, then abruptly shifted the angle, striking for the true target. The Master swung one dagger backward, intercepting, and instead of dodging, he countered. He struck with the hilt of his dagger, a forceful pommel intended to knock back the enemy. The Kingspawn resisted, interfering with the Master's strike.
Instantly, the Master pulled back his blade and executed a backflip, retreating slightly from the combat zone. Then he assumed a stance, crossing his daggers, swinging his body in a deadly rhythm. Two rapid diagonal slashes — forming an X — met the Kingspawn directly. Cloth tore, blood flowed, an X-shaped scar etched across the chest.
The enemy staggered, barely able to stand, then launched a barrage of wild swings — overhead, shoulder, neck — unpredictable and abrupt. The Master dodged, countered, and prepared to execute the same lethal attack he had used on the first foe.
But the Kingspawn closed his fist and struck the Master's face. The blow sent him back, but he stood immediately. The Kingspawn surged forward, stabbing, slashing, thrusting — relentless. The Master dodged and blocked, waiting.
At one point, he used the enemy's momentum against him. He swept low, full force, landing a precise strike. The Kingspawn fell. Before he could rise, the Master rolled and attacked the eyes with full force using both daggers. The enemy blocked, struggling with all his strength.
The two fought fiercely, neither yielding. The Kingspawn attempted to overpower the Master, but his strength was waning.
Then — Mikayle stepped forward.
Possessed, ghost-like, his body eerily calm despite the chaos around him. He approached the two locked in struggle. The Kingspawn and the Master didn't notice him.
Mikayle pressed the Master's dagger forward, forcing it through the Kingspawn's pupils in an instant.
The creature went limp. Silence fell. The stench of blood and smoke hung heavy in the air. A single, distant clap of thunder rolled across the hills.
Mikayle stared at his bloody hands, knees trembling."I… I murdered him… I… I just killed him…"The words grew louder, raw and uncontrolled. "I just killed him… I just killed him… I just killed him…"
He tore at his brown hair, screaming, his voice breaking.
The Master hurried to Mikayle's side, steadying him."You did this to save me," he said firmly. "Not just me — Marco, Ivan, Yuhan… everyone."
But Mikayle didn't hear. The whisper in his left ear, which had tormented him for hours, returned, loud and insistent.
"You killed him… you did… you killed him…"
Mikayle clutched his head. He was on the brink of breaking.
The Master leaned close, whispering into Mikayle's right ear — cruel, cold, and precise:
"Yes… you killed him. He was right. We were wrong.So now you're a murderer. What now — want to finish it? Kill yourself?There is no right or wrong in this world.If being a murderer saves your life, it is better to be a murderer than a hero. Save yourself. Always."
A harsh laugh escaped the Master as he bit his lip, forcing the lie to sound like truth.
"Remember your mother, your village… when I found you in the fire?I was assigned to kill your family, and to save you.But I didn't save you for heroism. I was ordered. I followed to save myself.You did what you had to. There's nothing wrong in it."
Mikayle's eyes widened. The left-ear whisper — that cursed voice — began to fade.
The Master continued, mockery sharp in his tone:
"Yes… I let the beasts feast on your family so I could survive.If you don't want to kill your friends, go to the hall.You know the stone lion figure? Push it back. You'll find a door underneath — your escape.Or do you want to kill them too?"
Mikayle's mind cleared. The whisper ceased. Reality returned, harsh and cold.
The Master turned, moving inside the house. He emerged moments later with a katana.
Its curved blade, scarred but sharp, glowed faintly. Rain slicked the steel. The hilt was firm, worn from battle. Flames crawled along the blade — obedient, alive. The Master chanted under his breath, the flames growing deeper, brighter, hotter.
He glanced at the boys, corner of his mouth curling faintly. No one heard what he said.
Then he faced north. From the forest beyond the hill came a thunder of hooves. A hundred Kingspawn riders appeared, cloaked in off-white with twin-eagle insignia gleaming. Shadows passed across the hill, glinting steel multiplying with each step, like a storm taking form.
Mikayle and the others watched from the carved wooden window. One man — the Master — faced a hundred. An ant against elephants.
And yet, somehow, it felt as if the ant might win.