A group of disciples surrounded Kent.
Their eyes… their eyes were not the eyes of rival disciples. They were the eyes of hired blades, sharpened by greed.
"Quite the welcome," Kent murmured, his voice light, almost amused.
One of them stepped forward, a broad-shouldered youth with a tiger emblem across his chest. "Kent King," he said, voice low but trembling with the thrill of the hunt. "You've made enemies in the wrong places. The house that backs me offered a year's worth of mana cores for your head. Others here…" He gestured around, and the remaining disciples tightened their circle. "…were promised more than that. Some were offered weapons forged by divine hands."
A wiry man with a scarred cheek smirked. "All you have to do is die here. Clean, simple. You don't even get the honor of facing the beasts."
The circle tightened further, boots crunching on the wet roots, hands gripping hilts.
