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Chapter 33 - Ashes Beneath the Southern Sun

The southern deserts stretched endlessly like an ocean of gold and fire under a sky that refused mercy. Every dune looked the same, and every horizon shimmered with a promise that vanished when he drew closer. Fenrir had been walking for days, maybe weeks, alone, time lost meaning when even shadows burned. The wind was dry and cruel, hissing against his armor, painting every breath with sand. His cloak, once black, had turned the color of dust. Each step sank deep, dragging his strength along with it. But it wasn't exhaustion that haunted him, it was the silence. The kind of silence that echoed with memory.

The desert wind howled, and Fenrir lifted his gaze. The sun was bleeding into the horizon red, heavy, and dying. The sight made him uneasy. It reminded him of another sunset long ago, one that marked the end of something he could never reclaim.

He adjusted the strap of his greatsword, the steel reflecting faint amber light. He had told himself this journey was for answers. But deep down, he knew it was also for penance, for the choices he made when he turned his back on his alma mater.

He walked on. He had to.

The name whispered by dying men, the symbols carved on ancient ruins, the strange device he found with Haroun, they all pointed to some secrets. Somewhere in this barren wasteland lay a truth buried deeper than the sands themselves. Now he must meet his master and convey his findings before he becomes a target.

As the second moon began to rise, Fenrir stopped at a ridge. The temperature had dropped sharply, his breath came out in frost. From the distance, faint blue lights shimmered along the dunes, unnatural and pulsing.

And that's when he heard it, faint footsteps behind him, too precise for a desert echo. He turned sharply, hand on his blade.

"Show yourself," he growled. The wind stilled, and a voice came from the dark. Calm. Confident. It made Fenrir's pulse tighten.

"Well, well. If it isn't the Conqueror himself," the voice said. "Hey, I never do this. But can I get your autograph? Been following you for a long long time."

From the veil of sand, a figure emerged tall, draped in white and gray, his eyes glowing faintly beneath the hood. The air around him trembled with invisible energy.

The figure handed a cloth towards Fenrir and said, "Sign right there."

Fenrir's grip tightened. "Who are you?" He unfolded the cloth slowly. The sand bit at his fingers as he held it up to the moonlight. The emblem was unmistakable, a silver crest burned into the fabric, the mark of the School of Wands. His breath caught when his eyes found the single letter etched beneath it — Y — smeared and dark, like a wound that refused to close.

His heart thudded. The air around him seemed to thin. Yuhan.

He looked up sharply, eyes burning through the veil of sand. "What did you do?"

The stranger chuckled low, almost musical, but carrying something cruel beneath. "Don't look so grim, Conqueror. I did him a favor." He tilted his head, the moonlight glinting off faint metallic threads on his cloak. "He didn't even feel it. One clean strike. Painless. I'm not a monster."

Fenrir's hand twitched toward his sword, knuckles whitening. "You killed him."

The man shrugged. "Killed, released, liberated, pick your word. He was meddling where he shouldn't. That tends to end poorly for most people these days."

Fenrir's eyes narrowed. "You're with them. The ones in the shadows."

The stranger smiled faintly, tracing his finger across the emblem Fenrir still held. "Ah, you mean them? The cult, the whispers, the bogeymen your Elders are so afraid of?" He took a step closer, and the air itself seemed to bend around him. "I'm something far simpler. I'm the hand they send when words fail."

Fenrir could feel his sense flare, the man's ambience wasn't just strong, it was distorted, like space twisted around him.

"Why Yuhan?" Fenrir demanded, his voice rough. "He wasn't part of your war."

"On the contrary," the stranger said softly. "He was. He just didn't know which side he stood on." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He had something we wanted. You might not know but he was the one with the shadows. So…" he raised a hand and mimed a clean slice through the air, "…I closed the chapter."

Fenrir's breath was hot with rage, his body trembling with restrained power. "You think you can kill one of us and walk away?"

The stranger smiled again, his glowing eyes narrowing like a predator's. "Oh, Fenrir, I'm not walking away." He tilted his head, his grin widening into something dark. "I'm just getting started."

Fenrir's greatsword left its sheath with a roar of steel. Sand flared outward in a burning spiral. The man's ambience erupted in reply, pale, cold, and suffocating. Lightning crackled faintly between them, drawn to the unseen tension of two immense forces ready to collide.

The stranger pulled out his long chained weapon, the Kusarigama. And then, beneath the hiss of wind, the stranger whispered "Let's see if the Conqueror can still live up to his name."

The wind screamed as Fenrir launched forward, his greatsword carving through the sand like a comet of steel and fury. The desert floor cracked beneath his first step raw force bursting outward in a shockwave.

The stranger didn't flinch. His kusarigama unraveled like a serpent from beneath his cloak, the chain slithering and gleaming under the moonlight. In one fluid motion, the curved blade flashed and met Fenrir's strike.

CLANG!

Sparks exploded in the dark, scattering like dying stars. Fenrir pressed harder, his muscles tensing, sand spiraling around his boots. "You killed Yuhan!" he roared, the sound echoing like thunder across the dunes.

The stranger grinned, their faces inches apart. "And now you'll join him." He twisted his wrist effortlessly, almost lazy and the kusarigama's chain coiled around Fenrir's blade. Before Fenrir could react, the stranger jerked the chain downward. The force ripped the sword from Fenrir's grip, sending it spinning into the sand several meters away.

Fenrir barely managed to step back before the curved sickle came sweeping toward his neck. He ducked, the blade grazing a line of blood across his shoulder.

"Fast," the stranger said with an amused tone, yanking the chain back into his palm. "But not enough." Fenrir growled.

But the figure stood untouched. "You rely too much on brute power," he said calmly, flicking his wrist. The chain snapped outward again, cutting through the defense. "Power without control is a child's tantrum."

Fenrir blocked the next strike with his gauntlet. The impact shattered the ground beneath his feet. He stumbled on something he hadn't done in years. The stranger used that opening instantly. The chain wrapped around Fenrir's arm, and with a sharp pull, the Conqueror was thrown off balance, slammed into the sand with a force that sent dust rolling across the plain.

Fenrir tried to get up, but the stranger was already there. He stepped onto Fenrir's chest, pressing him down with the weight of his boot. The kusarigama's blade rested against Fenrir's throat, a single line of silver death glinting under the moon.

"You disappoint me," the stranger said softly. "The famous Conqueror brought down by a simple chain."

But before the stranger could move his blade, Fenrir's hand shot up and clamped onto the chain. His veins bulged, eyes glowing faintly crimson.

The links shattered. The stranger's eyes narrowed. Interesting.

Fenrir surged up from the ground, blood dripping from his shoulder onto his sword's edge. The moment it touched the steel, the weapon pulsed like it was breathing. Veins of scarlet light crawled along its surface, twisting and writhing until the entire blade burned crimson.

The air itself seemed to recoil. The stranger tilted his head slightly, almost amused. "So the rumors were true… a blade forged with the Blood Art."

Fenrir's voice was low and ragged, each word trembling with rage and power. "You shouldn't have given me time to bleed."

Then he charged. The ground cracked open behind him, sand flying in every direction. His slash came faster, heavier each swing pushing the stranger back, the kusarigama barely deflecting the violent arcs of the blood-fueled blade. Every clash sent ripples of red energy slicing through the desert, scattering dunes like waves.

For the first time, the stranger's arm trembled slightly from the impact. He leapt back, landing on a shattered pillar of stone, his cloak fluttering. "Impressive…" he murmured. "You've learned to feed the blade with your own life."

Fenrir didn't respond his eyes were wild, his breath heavy. He launched again, blade swinging with a roar that tore through the night.

The stranger countered, the chain spiraling through the air like a storm. Steel met steel again and again until the sound blurred into a single metallic scream. Fenrir's strikes grew erratic but brutal, each fueled by pure will. Finally, the stranger caught his sword mid-swing with the sickle's curved edge, twisting sharply. The impact sent a burst of energy that threw Fenrir backward, crashing through a dune.

He coughed, blood splattering the sand. The glow from his sword flickered then dimmed. His limbs trembled, strength fading fast.

"You see?" the stranger said, stepping forward, his voice calm and cruel. "Even blood burns out."

Fenrir tried to rise again—but his knees buckled. His sword fell beside him, sinking halfway into the sand.

The stranger raised his kusarigama. "It's over."

But before he could strike, a voice cut through the desert wind. "Enough."

The stranger froze. Fenrir's head lifted weakly toward the sound.

A figure was walking toward them calm, unhurried. The man's hair was black, combed neatly back, but his blazer and trousers were pure white, the fabric almost glowing under the moonlight. A black shirt beneath, and a red tie that caught the wind like a streak of blood.

He looked utterly out of place in the wasteland refined, composed, and impossibly confident.

Fenrir, still panting, tried to focus through the haze. "It's you."

The stranger's expression changed for the first time his pupils narrowed. "Who… the hell are you?"

The man stopped a few paces away, his polished shoes untouched by the sandstorm swirling around them. He smiled faintly just enough to chill the air.

At that moment, a surge of invisible pressure rippled outward. The dunes still. The wind froze mid-whirl. Even the faint hum of energy from the stranger's chain vanished. The desert went dead silent.

Fenrir spoke first, voice colder now. "…Why are you here?"

The man in white adjusted his cuffs as though preparing for a meeting. His red tie fluttered once.

"To make sure," he said softly, "that you don't die too early."

And then he turned his gaze toward Fenrir. "Get up, Conqueror," he said. "Your part isn't finished yet."

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