The morning air was crisp, the kind that usually promised a peaceful day. But Brackenhill was anything but peaceful. The fear from moments before had curdled into fury. Villagers stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces dark with rage—not at the bandits, but at the man who'd betrayed them.

Ramy had fallen to his knees, begging the thick-browed bandit. "Please… spare my family. They won't cause—"

A hoarse voice cut through the din. "You don't have a family here anymore."

His father's face was bloodied, one eye nearly swollen shut from the strike he'd taken earlier. But his voice carried loud and clear, filled with scorn.

The bandits howled with laughter, clapping and jeering. "Look at them," one shouted, "can't even keep their own in line!"

But the mockery didn't last.

Every time a villager was struck down, another rose to take their place. They fought without formation—just sticks, tools, and bare hands—but they fought. They held the line, blocking the bandits from moving deeper into the village. From reaching the shrine.

From inside the cart, Varen narrowed his eyes. He slammed a fist against the side. "Push more men in. Now."

Orders rippled through the ranks. More bandits joined the clash, until more than half of their force was caught in the scuffle. The rest stayed back, guarding the cart. Even with the added numbers, the bandits weren't advancing fast enough. Some villagers had already fallen, blood staining the dirt, but the line still held.

Inside the cart, Karek leaned toward Ghoran with a lazy smile. "Seems that shrine matters more than their lives. Why don't you step out and break their spirit? Kill a dozen—maybe the rest will scatter. Save us the effort."

Ghoran said nothing, just smiled. Then he glanced at Drenval.

Drenval gave a small nod.

The cart creaked as Ghoran stepped down. His heavy frame was wrapped in deep violet robes, and every step felt like it added weight to the earth. He walked slowly, with no urgency, yet the effect was immediate. The fighting slowed. Bandits backed away. Villagers hesitated.

Even the most furious among them felt their grip falter when they saw him.

Ramy froze. He'd never seen any of the higher level members of the group before. He opened his mouth, tried to bow, desperate to prove himself again. "I—I did everything you… all… told me to…"

Ghoran laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You did great."

Ramy blinked, mouth parting in relief. "Thank yo—"

Ghoran's hands moved faster than they should have for someone so big. He cupped Ramy's head between his palms and pressed.

A sickening crunch rang out.

Ramy dropped like a sack of meat, head burst open.

Silence followed.

Ghoran turned to the villagers, blood dripping from his hands, and smiled calmly.

"I don't like people who aren't loyal."

The square fell silent for just a breath after Ramy's skull gave out beneath Ghoran's hands. But it didn't last.

A scream tore through the crowd—raw and broken.

Ramy's father stumbled forward like a man in a fever dream, his legs barely carrying him. He dropped beside the crumpled body, his hands shaking as they touched the mangled mess that was once his son. His cries rose and broke and rose again, until they no longer sounded human. He clawed at his own face, his clothes, the blood on the ground. Then, all at once, he collapsed beside Ramy—like his strings had been cut. Dead. Or maybe his mind was simply gone. No one had time to check.

A few younger villagers vomited on the spot. One stumbled backward and fell. Even among the bandits, faces had turned pale, some unable to meet Ghoran's gaze.

But it was a brief silence. And then the killing began again.

The bandits surged forward, their earlier mockery replaced with brutal focus. Ghoran's display had unhinged something inside them. Their weapons moved faster, their strikes crueller. The villagers, already shaken, couldn't hold their ground. The line buckled.

They had tried—five hundred of them. To defend their homes, their families, their faith. But thirty blades were more than enough.

Cries of pain filled the square—wet, gurgling, final. Sticks snapped under sabres. Iron clanged against bone. The scent of blood was thick, riding the morning wind like a curse. The dirt turned black and slick. Bodies collapsed in dozens—sprawled in contorted heaps, some clutching wounds, some with eyes frozen wide.

More than sixty had fallen in moments. And still the bandits pressed in.

Bheema, one of the village elders, swung a chipped harvesting blade with both hands. His voice cracked as he shouted, "Don't run! The shrine will protect us! Have faith! Don't—"

He never finished. A blade swept clean through his neck. His head hit the ground first. His body followed a second later.

The blood had reached the children now.

Binay stumbled, knees nearly giving out. He clutched Chottu tighter, the boy shrieking as if the world was ending. A small dagger shook in Binay's old hand, slashing at the air. Cuts already lined Binay's back and arm from earlier blows. He barely felt them now.

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One of the bandits noticed them and strode forward with a grin. He raised his sword overhead.

Binay didn't run. There was nowhere.

The blade came down.

And stopped mid-swing.

The bandit froze—eyes wide, sword trembling in his grip. Then his gaze went blank. His knees buckled, and he dropped, face-first, to the bloodied dirt. Dead before he hit the ground.

Binay stared.

His breath caught, his limbs locked. Then slowly, almost in disbelief, he looked up.

On the rooftop of a hut, barely twenty paces away, stood a lone figure.

He was barefoot. Still. Unmoving.

His azure robes fluttered with the breeze, stained faintly at the edges. His face was unreadable, shadowed by the morning light—but the sight of him made Binay's chest tighten with something cold and clear. Like waking after days of fever.

The killing hadn't stopped.

But for the first time in hours, hope stirred.

He had come—just as Binay knew he would.

🔱 — ✵ — 🔱

The wind stirred, fluttering the hem of Aaryan's azure robes. A quiet exhale escaped him, his gaze passing over the broken bodies littering the square—men, women, even children. It lingered a moment longer before shifting to the bandits, then to Ghoran, and finally to the three seated inside the cart. He'd already sensed them. Their aura couldn't hide from his soul sense.

His face was wrapped with a strip of black cloth, but if anyone had looked closer, they would've noticed the subtle oddities. His eyes, no longer the clear blue they once were, held a brownish tint. His features, too, seemed changed—almost familiar, yet not.

It was the other half of the Heavenly Silken Mast Art at work. Where Silken Shadow blurred aura and presence, Silken Flash bent the body itself—tweaking muscle, flesh, and bone until even close allies might hesitate.

Aaryan tilted his head slightly. Just enough for Vedik to see.

"Stay close to Binay and the boy. Don't show yourself. Only act if they're in danger," he said quietly. "There are too many of them. Any slip could get them killed. Leave the rest to me."

Vedik, in his original form and cloaked by illusion, gave a soft nod. Then they moved.

Aaryan didn't land near the villagers.

He dropped into the heart of the bandits.

For a breath, nothing happened. Then his fist blurred—and a man collapsed, ribs crushed inward. Another turned to shout, only to vanish beneath a sweeping kick. Blades came from all sides, but Aaryan moved like water and broke like thunder. Joints buckled. Limbs bent wrong. Screams followed.

Above, still unseen, Vedik hovered silently over Binay and Chottu—watchful, unmoving.

By the time Ghoran turned, five bandits had already died. Their bodies were scattered like broken dolls.

"What…?" Karek's voice trailed off.

Drenval squinted. "That movement—those strikes…"

Varen's face darkened. "That's the one. Unit Three. They were ambushed by him."

Down below, Aaryan slammed a bandit into the dirt and twisted his arm until it cracked like dry wood. His head turned—meeting Ghoran's eyes for the first time.

The chaos stopped.

No one moved. Even the clash around the square fell still, like someone had drawn a curtain over the noise. Even the surviving bandits near Aaryan had backed away, their weapons shaking in hand.

And so they stood, between bloodied earth and rising wind—storm meeting stone, hunter meeting beast.

Ghoran's eyes narrowed as he studied the young man before him. Though the sight of someone so young had caught him off guard, his voice held steady.

"It was you who killed Unit Three."

Aaryan tilted his head slightly, lips twitching under the black cloth. "You mean the ones who screamed louder than they fought? Yeah. They didn't leave much of an impression."

The calm tone, the mockery—it got under Ghoran's skin. He glanced at the cart behind him. Still no movement. His expression tightened. Useless bastard, he cursed Drenval in his heart.

Turning back to Aaryan, he spoke slowly. "You might be some prodigy from a high clan, doesn't mean you should stick your nose where it doesn't belong."

Aaryan gave a mock sigh. "You bandit types always think the world's your backyard. Someone trips over your mess, and suddenly it's meddling."

Ghoran's jaw flexed. His aura stirred.

Inside the cart, Drenval watched without a word, his aged face as still as stone. Karek glanced sideways. "Wasn't he backing Ghoran earlier? All that loyalty and barking... What's stopping him now?"

Drenval didn't even blink. "I'm not foolish enough to test the waters for someone else's battle. I'll leave this cart only with the two of you."

Varen chuckled. Karek joined in with a short, cold laugh.

Outside, Ghoran's calm cracked. A low, furious laugh escaped him.

"You think a lone mongrel can stand against me?" He snarled. "I've spent a decade carving discipline into dogs like you."

His qi surged—red and flame-like—bursting out around him. The ground beneath his feet singed, the air growing thick with heat. A third-stage Qi Condensation cultivator—few in the area would dare stand against him alone.

With a roar, he charged.

His massive fist lit with red-hot qi. A fireball erupted from it, hurtling toward Aaryan with blistering heat.

Aaryan stepped forward. His fist met the ball, wrapped in colourless qi. No elemental resonance, no showy technique—just raw power.

Ghoran blinked. A Qi Condensation expert? This young?

Then he saw Aaryan's bare hand clashing with elemental fire and couldn't help but scoff.

"No techniques? No elemental qi? You're just asking to—"

His words died.

Cracks spread across the fireball. Then, with a sharp crackle, it burst apart midair—sparks scattering like broken glass.

The nearby bandits stood still. Villagers watched with wide eyes. One old man clutched his chest, whispering, "The shrine... he must be sent by the shrine..."

But no one paid him any mind.

All eyes were on the figure in blue robes, standing unharmed, calm, in front of a splatter of bodies.

Ghoran growled and rushed forward, preparing to strike again—when Aaryan moved.

No warning. No flash.

Just a sudden blur.

But Ghoran didn't panic.

He slammed a foot into the ground, sending a quake through the dirt. Dust billowed up, cloaking everything in a blinding haze.

A flicker—movement on his right.

He twisted with surprising speed, elbow lashing out—not toward where Aaryan was, but where someone would be if they moved through the dust.

Aaryan darted into view half a heartbeat later. Fast—but not fast enough.

The elbow grazed his ribs.

Not deep. Not crippling. But it landed. And Aaryan staggered a step from the blow.

Ghoran didn't stop—he stepped in, following up with a brutal knee meant to break ribs.

Aaryan twisted, barely clearing the strike. It clipped his side again, drawing a sharp breath through his teeth.

Just then—

A shout from behind. "Watch out!"

One of the remaining bandits, seeing Aaryan off-balance, lunged in with a curved blade.

Aaryan shifted instinctively. The sword arced down—a hair's breadth from his shoulder.

Vedik started to move—but stilled when he saw Aaryan was safe.

Aaryan ducked under the swing, caught the bandit's arm mid-motion, and slammed his elbow backward into the attacker's gut. The man crumpled with a wheeze.

Ghoran grinned, breath sharp. "You're fast. But I don't play by the rules."

Aaryan didn't stop, and with a flick of his wrist came a dozen thin needles, slicing through the air like threads of steel.

Ghoran reacted fast. His qi flared as he crossed his arms in front, forming a barrier. The needles clinked against it—sharp, precise—but most bounced off. A few pierced through, embedding shallowly in his forearm.

He smirked again. "Is that all?"

Then his smirk died.

Aaryan was gone.

Not in the air. Not behind cover. Just gone. And by the time Ghoran noticed—too late.

Aaryan appeared from his left side, close enough to touch. The earlier attack had only been a distraction.

His qi-wrapped fist was about to crash into Ghoran's guarded arms. But he managed to meet it with his own, and the clash rang out like stone cracking under pressure.

A sharp crack echoed across the square.

Aaryan's voice cut through the wind—quieter now, stripped of amusement.

"Neither do I. You just don't get second chances."

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