The smell of blood still clung to the air. The dirt road was stained red, horses pawed nervously at the ground, and the villagers stood frozen, staring at the bodies that only moments ago had been armored knights full of life.
Fazer wiped his knuckles on his pants, then flicked sweat from his forehead. His crimson eyes glowed faintly under the sunlight. He looked proud, almost cocky, but his chest rose and fell fast. He was still a boy—still breathing hard after a fight that had nearly cost him his life.
Brad, tucked in among the villagers, couldn't take his eyes off him. The sight of a boy his own age standing over a dead knight's body shook him. "That's impossible…" Brad thought, heart racing. "How can someone like me… do something like that?"
The villagers murmured. Some stared in awe at the boy. Others pulled their children closer, fear in their eyes. The name "Fossa Clan" passed between lips like a curse too dangerous to speak too loudly.
The hooded man broke the silence. He stepped between two bodies, his boots leaving dark prints in blood. With one hand, he grabbed a knight by the collar and tossed the corpse aside like it was nothing more than a sack of grain. His coat swayed as he walked back toward the villagers, his steps calm, unhurried.
"Don't look so frightened," he said, voice rough but steady. "They came here to burn your homes and kill your people. My son and I simply… stopped them."
His words were true, yet they carried no warmth.
Brad shrank behind the elder he had spoken to earlier. The old man's face was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp.
Finally, the elder spoke. "You are… from the Fossa Clan." It wasn't a question.
The hooded man tilted his head slightly, his lips curving into a humorless smile. "It seems the stories still live."
Gasps followed his words. A young woman whispered to her neighbor, "The cursed ones… here?"
Another villager spat on the ground, but he didn't dare say more.
Brad glanced at the elder, tugging at his sleeve. "Grandpa… is it true? They're really cursed?" His voice cracked as he asked.
The old man's reply was soft but heavy. "A curse is a chain, boy. And a chain can make monsters out of men."
Fazer's crimson eyes flicked toward them, sharp as blades, as if he had heard every word. His fists tightened.
"Monster, huh?" he muttered under his breath, his tone low, dangerous.
The hooded man rested a hand on his son's shoulder. "Ignore them," he said firmly. "Their words are wind. What matters is strength. Nothing else."
Still, the faint tremor in Fazer's jaw showed he had heard—and it hurt.
Just then, a weak groan rose from the ground. One of the knights was still alive, struggling to lift his body from the dirt. His armor was dented, his face streaked with blood, but hatred burned in his eyes.
"You…" he rasped, coughing blood. "Fossa… filth. You'll never escape… your curse."
The hooded man's expression didn't change. He knelt by the knight, his coat brushing the dirt. Then, without a word, he pressed a hand against the man's chest.
There was a dull crack.
The knight's scream died in his throat. His body went limp. The hooded man stood, dusting his hands as if he had merely crushed a twig.
Gasps rose again. Children hid behind their parents. Even some men stepped back.
Brad's small fists clenched. He didn't understand everything, but he knew one thing: this man was terrifying. And yet… he had saved them.
The hooded man turned his head toward the elder, his crimson-eyed son still at his side. "Tell me," he said. "Is this village ruled by cowards… or by someone worth my respect?"
The elder held his gaze, silent.
The air was heavy, as if the entire village waited for the next word.
The silence stretched on until it felt unbearable. Even the chickens had stopped clucking, as if the whole world was waiting for the elder to speak.
At last, the elder took one slow step forward. His cane sank slightly into the dirt as he leaned on it, but his voice was steady. "This village," he said, "belongs not to cowards, nor to reckless men who crave blood. It belongs to its people—every farmer, every child, every woman who keeps our homes alive."
The hooded man's eyes narrowed. "A pretty speech," he said coldly. "But pretty words do not stop blades." He gestured toward the corpses of the knights. "Strength does."
The villagers flinched at his tone. Some pulled their children closer. One young man muttered, "He's right…" but shut his mouth quickly when the elder's glare cut toward him.
But the elder did not back down. His wrinkled face was calm, though shadows of sorrow filled his eyes. "Strength alone builds nothing but graves. Fear keeps people silent, but it cannot plant crops, it cannot raise children, and it cannot feed hungry mouths."
For the first time, the hooded man's lips pressed into a thin line, almost thoughtful.
Fazer frowned, crossing his arms. "Old man," he said, his young voice carrying sharpness that didn't belong in a boy, "you talk too much. My father and I just saved your lives. You should be thankful, not lecturing us."
The villagers murmured nervously, some nodding, others shaking their heads. Brad bit his lip, staring at Fazer. "He's my age… but he talks like a grown-up warrior…"
The elder's gaze softened on the boy, but his words didn't falter. "And you, child. Do you think killing is all there is? Do you think a curse is something to be proud of?"
Fazer stiffened. His crimson eyes darkened, and for a second, Brad thought he might explode in anger. But the boy didn't speak—he just turned his face away, jaw tight.
The hooded man stepped forward, his shadow falling across the elder. "Careful, old one," he said quietly, but every word dripped with warning. "If you insult my son again, I won't be patient."
Brad felt the weight of those words like a knife pressed against his own throat. His knees shook.
But the elder simply sighed, as if he had expected this. "Then do what you will," he said. "I am too old to fear death. But I will not let my people live under another tyrant's shadow, not even one who calls himself a savior."
The villagers gasped. Mothers clutched their children. Some whispered prayers.
For a heartbeat, everything seemed ready to explode—sword against cane, curse against courage.
But then, unexpectedly, the hooded man chuckled. The sound was low and rough, but it wasn't mocking. "Heh. You've got a backbone after all," he said, stepping back. "That's rare."
He looked down at Fazer, who still stood scowling. "See, boy? Even without a weapon, some men still fight with their will. Learn that."
Fazer's lips pressed together, but he nodded once.
The tension eased slightly, though unease lingered in the villagers' eyes.
The hooded man turned to his son. "We're done here."
He placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder. "We saved them. That's enough."
The elder's eyes softened, but his grip on the cane remained steady. "Then go," he said, voice low. "And may your path lead you somewhere better than blood."
Without another word, the hooded man walked away. Fazer hesitated for a heartbeat, his crimson eyes flicking across the villagers—pausing, just for a moment, on Brad. Their gazes met. Brad felt a shiver run down his spine.
Then Fazer turned, following his father into the fading light. The villagers slowly exhaled, as if a storm had passed, though the fear remained heavy in their hearts.
Brad stood frozen, staring at the road long after the two figures had vanished. He didn't know why, but deep inside, something told him this wasn't the last time their paths would cross.