The silver crescent of the moon began to fade, slowly devoured by the horizon's golden bloom. Dawn broke over the Land of the Wolf, not in peace, but in silence—a silence born of survival.
Ashen smoke drifted from shattered buildings, curling into the orange sky. The Fang had been mauled.
Stone towers once proud now stood fractured or reduced to rubble. Rooftops were split in half. Debris blanketed the ground like snow. Blood mixed with frost. Shops, homes, and inns were left gouged by the piercing wind and claws of a beast not meant to be seen by mortals.
A long gash carved through the central district, as if the Blue Phoenix had scraped the earth itself while gliding. One inn—Duskwind—stood barely upright, its walls punched through, its sign hanging by a single nail.
And yet, the people were alive.
Here and there, clusters of survivors picked through the debris, voices hushed but urgent. Children clung to older siblings. Disciples treated the wounded. Mercenaries gathered in tight groups, whispering names—checking who was missing.
Atop one of the sturdier watchtowers, Juni stood still as stone, blood dried on her cheek, her gaze distant. She hadn't said a word since her Nebula Shot. Her bow hung limp in one hand. The Silver Ram had long since faded.
Yasha leaned on a broken railing, chewing the remnants of her petal. "That was a damn phoenix," she muttered, half in awe, half in dread.
"The Blue Phoenix," someone corrected her. A scholar in spiritwear, glasses cracked, eyes still wide. "A mythical beast of the upper skies. That wasn't supposed to be real."
"But we saw it. We all saw it," Saya said, sword still sheathed, her knuckles pale from gripping the hilt too hard. She exhaled, her breath shaky. "And Kazel…"
She looked up.
The clouds were parting, but there was no sign of him.
"He was swallowed by that thing," said one of the Shield and Spear knights, his voice low.
"That boy's either dead or legendary now, but most likely dead."
"The city's still standing," Nobu added, walking with a limp and a cracked blade in hand. "He bought us that."
Everyone looked to the sky again. Where once the Blue Phoenix soared, now there was only open sky—blue, quiet, and deceptively calm.
But on the ground, nothing was calm.
---
Second Moon Sect – Grandhall
The grandhall of the Second Moon Sect was a spectacle of discipline and austerity. Grey columns framed the room like towering blades, and moonlight filtered through the slit windows in pale beams. Patriarch Maldan sat upon the elevated seat, posture stiff, expression severe. His dark, silver-streaked hair framed a chiseled face, and his black robe bore the sigil of the crescent blade over his chest.
In front of him stood Agabah—his son, the young master—hands clasped behind his back, his robe immaculate, his demeanor composed, almost theatrical.
"I must say," Agabah began with a calm, deliberate tone, "Kazel did not just spit on our name… he defiled it. He threw a severed head toward me, father. A decapitated corpse, right there and there in Fang."
Maldan's grip on the armrest tightened. "He threw a head at you?" he asked slowly, as if restraining the urge to crush the carved wood beneath his hand.
Agabah gave a light nod, eyes veiled beneath half-lowered lids. "A warning, perhaps. Or an insult. But I read it clearly: he does not fear the Second Moon. He mocks us."
The patriarch stood. The great hall went still.
"That wretch..." Maldan's voice trembled with fury. "And you let him walk?"
"I had other priorities. I was not foolish enough to provoke a scene in a neutral territory," Agabah said smoothly, omitting the part where he had been humiliated, ignored, and dismissed like a fly. "Besides, I planned something more permanent."
Maldan's brow lifted. "What plan?"
Agabah turned, slowly walking across the moonlit floor. "The Punctured. I sought their aid. They are… specialists in quiet solutions. However," his tone soured, "they demanded an offensive amount of spirit stones just to 'consider' acting. And even then, they seemed hesitant. Strangely hesitant."
Maldan scowled. "Hmph. That degenerate mercenary group? They dare negotiate terms with my son?"
"They didn't want him dead," Agabah said, his voice sharpening. "But I do."
The patriarch's fury roared to life again. His sleeve swirled as he turned. "Then we should have crushed him already. No more games. I'll send—"
The grandhall doors swung open.
A panting core disciple dropped to one knee. "Patriarch! Urgent word from the Fang!"
Maldan narrowed his eyes. "You enter this hall without invitation—"
"I apologize, Patriarch, but… it's Elder Crane's message. It bears his seal."
That halted the patriarch mid-breath.
Behind him, several seated elders stirred. Even Maldan's anger was forced to pause at the name.
"…Crane," Maldan muttered. "What's so urgent?"
The disciple rose, unrolling a scroll with shaking hands. "A… a beast. A legendary one. The Blue Phoenix descended upon the Fang last night. It tore through the skies. Witnesses described its wings blanketing the moon. Entire districts are in ruin."
A stunned silence followed. Then scoffs.
"Absurd," muttered one elder. "Blue Phoenix? What child's tale is this?"
"Foolish exaggerations," another added. "The Fang doesn't matter enough to draw such legend."
But the disciple remained firm. "Elder Crane was there. He says it happened. He saw the b beast with his own eyes and also everyone in the town."
Maldan's eyes narrowed. His mind, sharp as a blade, cut through the noise. "If Crane speaks it… then it bears weight."
"There is more, Patriarch," said the disciple. "There was a figure. Kazel. He was seen being taken by the beast—caught in its beak, dragged into the sky. His current fate is… unknown."
The hall fell into a strange stillness.
One elder finally spoke, voice dry. "So the mongrel was eaten?"
"Likely dead," the disciple confirmed.
Maldan's face twitched.
Agabah, behind him, didn't speak. His lips were thin. His fingers trembled slightly behind his back—not in grief, but in disbelief. He wanted Kazel dead—but not by the hands of a beast. Not like this. Not before he could reclaim his pride.
Maldan finally exhaled.
Maldan rose from his throne, his dark robes flowing like a stormcloud swirling in place. The moonlight above sharpened against his silver hair, casting long shadows down the hall. His voice thundered with bitter contempt.
"He might be dead, but his feat didn't die with him. The people will remember. They will whisper. A mere boy flung a head at the Second Moon and lived. If we let this slide… if we breathe without responding…" He glanced around the chamber, searing each elder with his gaze. "Then what stops the others from testing us? They will swarm us like rats. Maim us. Challenge us."
A hesitant voice emerged from the corner of the hall. "Patriarch…"
"What is this insolent background noise?" Maldan snapped.
Agabah stepped forward quickly, lowering his eyes. "Forgive them, Father. The sect behind Kazel… it's a lowly group. Known as the Immortal Sect. Based in the Land of the Lamb. Weak, obscure. Barely a speck."
Maldan's lip curled. "Vile creature," he growled. "A mutt of no bloodline dares gnash its teeth at us?"
He thrust a hand forward, fingers spread with command.
"As Patriarch of the Second Moon Sect, I issue this decree—the Immortal Sect is to be destroyed. No talks. No envoys. Ashes. Depart at once. Depart—right now!"
His voice echoed like a war drum in the stone chamber.
Agabah bowed deeply, a sharp glint of satisfaction in his eyes. "As you command."
Behind him, the elders stirred. Murmurs broke out. Some reluctant, others eager. But none dared speak against it. Maldan's fury left no room for diplomacy.
The order was clear.
The Immortal Sect's days were now numbered.
---
Meanwhile, back in the quiet, wind-brushed hills of the Land of the Lamb, the breeze carried a faint scent of dry soil and blooming rice stalks. Durandal stood stiffly before the modest, vine-wrapped gate of the Immortal Sect—or rather, the simple home that Kazel's parents had long kept apart from worldly affairs.
His throat was dry. He raised his trembling hand and knocked.
A moment passed.
Then, a voice—not stern, but calm—came from behind the wooden door. "Yes?"
The door creaked open. A man with gentle yet tired eyes stood there, his graying hair tucked behind his ears, his posture relaxed. It was a man who had seen much but chose peace over pride.
Durandal stumbled forward. "A-Are you… young master Kazel's father?"
"Yes," the man replied, brows faintly furrowing. "And who's asking?"
"I… I'm Durandal. The young master sent me. You and your wife… you need to leave. Head north. Shelter at Northpeak." His breath quickened. "Please, sir, it's urgent."
Noel looked at him—really looked—and gently placed a hand on Durandal's shoulder.
"Kid… are you alright?" His tone wasn't accusing. It was worried.
"I… am?" Durandal croaked, blinking.
Then a softer voice called from inside, "Who is it?"
A woman stepped into view, drying her hands with a cloth. She had Kazel's sharp gaze but a far gentler presence. Her eyes widened a little at the sight of the boy, and her expression shifted as if something deep in her intuition stirred.
(This must be his mother,) Durandal thought.
He straightened and fumbled to retrieve the parchment tucked at his side. "The young master told me to give this… to his mother."
He handed it over.
Lana took it and carefully unfolded the parchment. Her eyes moved line by line—and the light in them began to harden. Her hands stilled.
"Noel," she said, tone calm but firm. "We need to go."
Noel blinked. "Hah?"
Lana looked at him, eyes filled not with panic, but a chilling certainty. "Now. Get the bags. And Alhatam. The Second Moon won't hesitate."
There was a moment of silence as Noel finally understood.
The war had come to their doorstep—not with swords drawn yet, but it was coming.
And their son had tried to give them a head start.