The forest slept under a ceiling of mist.
Every breath of wind carried dust and ash from the far-off battle, scattering them through the maze of trunks. In the heart of that silence, a single tree rose above the rest—an ancient giant whose branches speared through the fog like the bones of something older than war itself.
High on one of those branches stood a figure.
Thin but carved in steel, muscles held tight beneath a long black coat that swayed only when the wind dared. His hair, dark and long, hid his neck and ears, drawing a curtain over a face that carried no warmth.
From that height, he could see the world of blood below—the broken ground around Tormond's house, the flicker of fires, and the hundred Kingspawn closing in from every direction. It was a perfect view for someone who preferred to watch before deciding if the world was worth stepping into.
The coat he wore was cut like a soldier's but heavier, every line strict, every fold disciplined. Chains and belts crossed his waist, each pouch in its place. At first glance, it bore no emblem, no crest—only the black, like night itself had chosen to take human shape. But on closer inspection, two eagles clashed mid-air, wings spread and talons locked, with a blazing sunburst between them—the emblem of the Karvan Empire, a silent declaration of strength through struggle and unity through power. The mark glinted faintly with each subtle movement, hidden yet undeniable, a legacy woven into shadow.
At his right side, resting quiet and straight, lay a katana.
Its scabbard shimmered from deep violet to black, a serpent sleeping in the dark. Gold-and-black cord wrapped the weapon tight, not decoration but claim. Beneath the dark wrappings of the hilt, diamond flashes of gold blinked with each flicker of light from below. Between hilt and blade sat a rough iron guard—unpolished, real, the kind forged for killing rather than ceremony.
A weapon made to endure, not impress.
His eyes narrowed toward the battlefield.
Below, Tormond stood at the center, katana drawn, facing down an ocean of enemies. His stance was sharp—movements calm, precise, the way only someone who had seen too much war could move.
The man on the branch brushed his chin lightly with two fingers.
"...That rookie performing the Dragon Ritual, huh."
His voice was low, rough with disbelief more than anger.
He watched as Tormond released one tier after another, each wave of power flaring like fire breaking through the fog. The ground cracked under his steps; Kingspawn fell in rows, their forms shredded by invisible strikes.
"Looking at that katana…" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "Don't tell me he's an unaffiliated one. Wait… a retired Kingspawn?"
For a moment the watcher said nothing. Only the wind moved, carrying the cries of battle upward. Then he sighed—a quiet, tired breath, the sound of someone who'd seen this pattern repeat too many times.
"He's cutting through all of them," he said to himself, almost disappointed. "If I don't act now… that wild beast will want answers for why his dogs died."
The forest trembled as he shifted his weight forward. The branch creaked but didn't dare break. Then, without warning, his body blurred—turning into a dark violet flash, streaking down through the fog.
The air shattered where he passed.
Light fractured like glass, twisting itself into a thousand cracks across the sky. At the point where the fractures met, a single violet star ignited—brief, blinding, unnatural.
When the flare faded, he stood behind Tormond.
Silent. Sudden. Terrible.
His katana was already drawn, reversed in his grip.
The thrust came down with no hesitation, sliding through air and flesh as if the world itself yielded to him.
Tormond's eyes widened—no time for shock, no sound, only the weight of finality settling behind him.
The assassin didn't pause. Even as the motion ended, his stance shifted again, already ready for the next cut, the next breath, the next kill.
Far away, in the wooden house facing the field, four young figures froze at the window—Mikayle, Yuhan, Ivan, and Marco—their master's silhouette framed by violet light.
The sky flickered, torn by the dark violet streak, and all else faded into that unnatural light. The dragon that Tormond had been controlling—the tiered, immense beast—stopped mid-roar, as if caught in a trance. The violet radiance stole its attention completely, leaving the battlefield in a sudden, unnatural silence.
Inside the house, Mikayle and the others could only stare. Their breaths caught, their hearts pounding like hammers against fragile ribs. The sight below was something no lesson, no master's warning, had ever prepared them for.
Then, in a flash too fast to follow, it happened.
The black-coated man appeared behind their master.
The blade, held reversed, slid upward with calm precision. It was no chaotic strike, no reckless blow—this was a weapon moving with intent, with the silent inevitability of death itself.
Tormond's knees buckled under the strike. Blood spattered, his body trembling as if the world itself had struck him. The four students froze, tears already threatening to spill, hands hovering uselessly. They couldn't scream. If they made a sound, they knew the same fate could be theirs.
The black-coated figure lingered only a heartbeat. Fingers brushed the hilt of his katana like it were a living thing, a pet obedient to his will. Every motion was measured, elegant, terrifying. His long violet hair swayed slightly with the wind, the twin-eagle mark on his back catching faint light, a silent reminder of some authority no one dared question.
Mikayle's mind raced faster than his heartbeat.
No… this can't be real… Boss can't die like this… He had so much to answer…
The man's eyes—cold, unreadable—watched the battlefield below. There was no celebration, no victory, no personal thrill. Only the silent acknowledgment of something that needed to be done.
From their window, Mikayle and the others watched their master slump, knees hitting the ground with a heavy, sickening thud. Blood poured from him in torrents, painting the earth dark. The dragon roared again, confused, breaking free from the ritual's control. Wings flailed, scales glittering, but it could do nothing to save him.
Mikayle's hands trembled, his tears falling freely now. He wanted to shout, to demand answers, to somehow undo this. But no sound escaped—his own palm pressed hard over his mouth. Yuhan, Ivan, and Marco mirrored him, silent witnesses to a horror that could kill them with a single misstep.
It was more than grief. It was disbelief, anger, fear, and an unbearable helplessness all at once.
No… no… boss can't just die like that… Mikayle thought, every fiber of his being rebelling against the world.
There were so many questions, so many lessons left unlearned. The truth about their master's past, the mysteries of the blessed ones, the untold stories… all vanished in a single flash of violet light.
He clenched his fists. His body shook, but he remembered the last words their master had given him—the last task, the last chance: to save others, to survive, to carry on no matter what.
The black-coated man stepped back slightly, allowing the moment to settle. His katana lowered, still deadly, still commanding. The violet glow faded into the mist, leaving only shadows and blood behind. He didn't speak. He didn't hesitate. He simply existed as a storm of silent finality.
Mikayle couldn't comprehend it.
He stared at the ground where Tormond's body had fallen, his mind screaming questions that would never be answered here. Who was this man? Why now? What purpose had he served, and what did it mean for the world they knew?
And yet, beneath the grief, a single thought began to solidify—a faint, trembling ember of resolve.
Life doesn't stop because the cruel hand of fate strikes. Especially not when this life… was given to me by him.
Mikayle took a shaky breath, forcing himself to stand taller, to remember the mission, the promise, the burden. His tears continued to fall, but they did not bind him.
The dragon's roar echoed one final time, retreating into the distance, leaving the battlefield scattered with the dead and dying.
Mikayle knelt beside the window for a long moment, staring at the blood-stained ground. He remembered every strike, every lesson, every unspoken word from his master. The tears kept coming, but his resolve hardened. The cruelty of life was undeniable—but he would not waste the gift he had been given.