Aaryan trudged behind Somu like a man returning from a funeral—his own.

Somu, oblivious, was still in tour guide mode. "This rock here? Looks like a goat from the right side. But from the left—wait, no, it still looks like a goat."

Aaryan blinked at it. "It looks like someone sat on a potato and gave up."

His tone wasn't sharp, but it carried that deadpan weight that made Somu glance at him sideways. "You okay? You've been walking like someone insulted your bloodline."

"If they had, at least I could punch them," Aaryan muttered.

He wasn't angry, not exactly. The problem wasn't even the shrine staying open. If that were all, he'd have just slipped in during the night, grabbed the damn box, and vanished like a polite thief. No goodbyes, no mess. But he didn't want to leave that way.

He'd hoped for something cleaner. Shrine closes, he takes the box, then heads out at sunrise with Binay and Chottu like some well-meaning family friend. From there, he'd spend the next two months convincing them not to come back. And if they did—well, by then the bandits would have rolled through, and nobody would be blaming him for a missing box.

'It should have worked. Right?'

But no. Now the shrine was staying open, and the villagers were chanting like the bricks had ears.

He sighed. "Somu, tell me honestly. Do you think your shrine is magic?"

Somu blinked, looked around to make sure no one was listening and then replied. "Of course. It's protected us for generations."

Aaryan stared at him. "Your shrine is made of stone and prayer. I've fought a wolf that coughed and knocked down better walls."

Somu opened his mouth. Closed it. "Okay, maybe not magic-magic. But it's protected us. That counts for something."

Aaryan gave a grunt that could've meant agreement or the beginnings of a sarcastic monologue. Before he could decide which, he clapped Somu on the shoulder. "Alright. I'm going to go stab air for a few hours."

"You mean training?"

"I like my version better."

Vedik was playing with Chottu—left behind deliberately. If anything happened, at least someone who could actually protect them would be close.

The hours blurred after that. His movements sharpened, his control over Qi more fluid than ever. For the first time, it felt like the Dawnshard wasn't just a weapon, but a partner—like it breathed when he did, pulsed when he moved. No wild bursts, no guesswork. Just rhythm and response.

Even so, he didn't stop until the sun dipped and his muscles throbbed with protest.

Wiping sweat off his brow, he muttered, "Of course they kept the shrine open. Not because of tradition, but because someone finally said the word bandits, and suddenly, faith had terms and conditions."

He shook his head and started back.

"Faith, huh. As reliable as wet wood in a storm. If a leaf rustled too loudly tonight, half the village would pee and run to that building to pray."

He was halfway through another rant about the villagers' unfaithful faith—how they had centuries of tradition and still managed to worship convenience—when a faint crack broke through the night.

He froze mid-step.

That wasn't a squirrel. Too deliberate. Too heavy.

His eyes narrowed. He cast out his soul sense like a net, catching two silhouettes in motion, not far to his left. They moved low and quick, slipping between trees, feet brushing softly against the undergrowth. Trained. Alert. But not cautious enough.

His body moved before thought finished forming.

The Heavenly Silken Mask snapped into place. His presence melted into the jungle like mist in the wind. His breathing slowed, aura disappeared completely, and his footsteps left no sound behind as he ascended into the canopy.

He glided above them, each branch taken with the grace of someone who'd done this too many times before. The forest didn't even seem to notice him.

Below, the two figures kept moving.

The bald one had a thick neck and a jaw that looked like it had been punched into place. He kept turning his head, scanning behind him like paranoia was part of his bloodline. Beside him, the dark-skinned man was thinner, snake-like, with a restless kind of energy in his shoulders.

"They're not idiots," the skinny one muttered. "They're long gone by now. We're wasting time."

The bald man snorted. "If I'd known they'd run off that fast, I wouldn't have wasted time playing with that girl." He chuckled, low and coarse.

Aaryan's fingers twitched against the branch. Just a twitch. But his grip tightened right after, steadying the sudden urge to drop down then and there.

The skinny man grinned. "Still worked out. We already cleaned out the others. If anyone had time to warn this one, we'd have heard. Doesn't matter now anyway. Chiefs are on the move. This whole area's gonna be locked down by tomorrow night."

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He shrugged with both hands.

"Anyone still here? They're stuck. Can't run. Only one option left." He made a mock cutting gesture across his neck. "Patiently die."

Aaryan's gaze sharpened.

He didn't blink. Didn't move. Just crouched there, balanced on a thick branch, eyes dim with calculation, cold as moonlight.

"So they're bandits," Aaryan muttered, crouched high above them, shadows draped over his back like a cloak.

But their robes didn't match the ones from earlier kills—different cut, different stitching.

'Another group?'

His eyes narrowed. That meant at least two separate groups were preying on this region. Possibly more. He let out a slow breath.

'Coordinated or not, it didn't matter. Either way—it was a problem.'

They weren't heading toward Brackenhill—not directly. Maybe they were after those travellers who'd come to the village earlier that morning. Or maybe someone else entirely. Whatever their goal, Aaryan had heard enough.

He followed them for a few more minutes, silent as mist, watching them slip through the jungle like snakes who thought they were kings.

He weighed the odds. No reinforcements, no way to alert others. Just two loudmouths in the wrong place. Time to act.

The two were mid-conversation when he dropped in front of them.

No flourish. No warning. Just one moment empty path—next moment, Aaryan standing there, barefoot and smiling like someone who'd been waiting all day to deliver bad news.

The bald man's eyes went wide, but before he could even open his mouth, he saw the skinny one fall face-first into the dirt beside him.

No attack. No flash of steel. No blood.

Just down.

Aaryan didn't even glance at the corpse. He was already raising one hand.

The bald man tried to move—maybe run, maybe scream—but a sharp flick of Aaryan's fingers sent a whisper of death slicing through the air. Something small, thin, and silent slammed into his left eye.

He dropped like a puppet with cut strings.

Five breaths.

That's all it took.

Aaryan stood over the bodies, not even winded. He bent down and checked their robes. A few spirit stones, a bundle of low-grade herbs, and some common pills. No maps. No messages. No clues.

"Tch," he muttered. "Bandits don't carry planners."

He was about to start digging a hole when his gaze drifted to the bald one's face—still frozen in surprise, mouth slightly open like he'd meant to ask why.

Then Aaryan smiled. Slowly. That mischievous curve that started crooked and kept climbing.

He looked at the corpses. Then the jungle. Then the stars—still shining, like nothing had happened.

"Oh, right," he said, voice light and full of amusement. "They love their divine blessings and signs, don't they?"

He chuckled to himself, already pulling out a spirit stone.

"Well then… let me give them a sign they won't forget."

All his earlier frustration—the villagers, the shrine—it vanished.

In its place: quiet laughter, and the glint of someone about to cause divine-inspired trouble.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Aaryan returned late. The village lay quiet, draped in the kind of stillness that only deep night could conjure. No lanterns burned, no murmurs carried from behind shut doors. Even the breeze moved gently, as if not to disturb the sleeping clay homes and their fragile peace.

He stepped through the main path, passing silent homes and shadowed corners until he reached the door. One knock—just enough. A few breaths passed.

The door creaked open. Binay stood there, hair sticking out in odd angles, eyes squinting like he'd just been dragged from a dream. He sighed once, then muttered, "I suggest you enjoy your life a little, and you train even longer in response."

Aaryan gave a small smile and stepped inside. "Couldn't help it."

He washed up in silence. When he returned, Vedik shot across the floor and launched onto his shoulder like a coiled arrow. He landed, then paused—head tilted, nostrils flaring as he sniffed Aaryan's cheek twice, quick and sharp. His low trill followed right after, a blend of irritation and quiet relief.

"Yeah, I know," Aaryan murmured, scratching the back of Vedik's neck. "First time we've been apart this long."

From his pouch, he drew a dull-red monster core. The dragonling snatched it eagerly and, without ceremony, swallowed it whole. Then he curled tighter than usual around Aaryan's shoulders, his real tail looping around his hand, anchoring himself there like he wasn't letting go again anytime soon.

Binay had reheated food already—simple, but hot. Aaryan sat down and ate quickly, with practiced efficiency. He didn't make conversation. He didn't need to. Binay watched him for a moment, then turned away, muttering something about getting more sleep.

Later, Aaryan lay on his cot, staring at the ceiling beams. Vedik curled close, snout pressed against his sleeve, body twitching slightly with each breath.

The grin on Aaryan's face hadn't faded. It sat there, slow and crooked, not the kind that came from joy—but satisfaction. The kind that lingered when everything was in place.

His trap was set. Now all that was left was for the villagers to react the way he expected them to.

For once, he didn't curse their blind faith. If anything, he was grateful. If fear and superstition made them move, then who was he to complain?

With that thought, he let himself drift off. Sleep came easier than usual. The coming dawn would carry noise, chaos, and questions.

He was ready.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

Dawn was still a few breaths away when old Bheema, half-asleep and holding his walking stick like a sword, shuffled out of his home toward the trees. Nature's call waited for no man, not even at his age.

What he saw made him freeze mid-step—and then shriek.

The scream wasn't powerful or deep. It was high, startled, and sharp, like a kitten discovering pain for the first time.

Doors flung open. Feet scrambled over stone and soil. Men and women rushed toward the gate, hearts already preparing for another bandit raid.

But what they found stopped them cold.

Two corpses hung from one of the larger trees near the village's entrance. The branches creaked lightly with the weight.

One corpse had a ruined face—a hole where the left eye used to be, blood caked around the jaw. The other looked cleaner, almost peaceful, save for a smear of dirt on his cheek.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Then someone gasped. "Bandits."

Eyes turned toward the voice. A gaunt survivor from the recent refugee group, clutching his arms to his chest like a child afraid of shadows.

"Yes," he stammered. "It's them! I saw them—back when we ran. They were the ones. But... who would kill them like this?"

The villagers didn't speak. Some exchanged glances. A few whispered prayers. Relief fought with suspicion in every face.

Then a voice broke through the murmur. "There's something on their chests."

And sure enough—beneath the folds of their robes, just barely visible—something was marked across their chests. A few faint strokes, dark against skin. Letters, maybe. Or symbols.

No one could quite tell what they were. But they were there.

Two villagers climbed the tree, nimble and nervous. With careful hands, they cut the ropes and lowered the corpses to the ground. The crowd gathered closer, a wave of hushed awe and unease moving with them.

Aaryan stood among them. He'd been the one to call out earlier, his voice calm and clear, guiding attention like a spotlight.

Now, as the bodies were brought into view, his smile widened. No mockery. No chill. Just the satisfaction of someone whose plan had worked better than expected.

Somu noticed.

He watched Aaryan from a short distance, confusion clouding his face.

This was the same Aaryan who had sat by his side, offering comfort when his grandfather passed. The same man who spoke like he understood his pain.

But yesterday, he'd snapped at everyone like a bitter old spirit. And now, he looked like a boy who'd unwrapped two gifts and liked both.

Aaryan looked like someone who'd finally found a hobby he liked—turns out it involved corpses and dramatic timing. Somu wasn't sure whether to be impressed or start sleeping with a knife.

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