A wicked scene played out on the streets of Gridan. Hushed whispers slipped through cracked windows, carrying the worry of those young and old, both equally fearful for their lives after bearing witness to a horrible event.

Some peered through narrow gaps, hidden by the dark, tempted to sneak a glance at the face of a daring young man who’d committed a grave sin that night.

Without a doubt, he’d become the talk of the town soon enough and yet nobody would dare to confess having been there in person.

There had been a murder, the murder of a noble at that. Viscount Hobb was bound to rain hell upon their quarter, innocent as they were. But what could they do?

Nobody dared to imagine what winds would follow, but there was one thing that left no doubts: that the young man’s life was forfeit.

The city militia, which had come to investigate the disturbance, encircled Riaz and cut off all routes of escape.

The Viscount’s third son was murdered under their watch. There had no excuse. If they didn’t catch the perpetrator now, they’d be hung for their sins come sunrise.

Riaz, having killed Volan, felt little in that moment, other than the sheer disgust towards the deed itself. It seemed even the pain had left him.

He looked down at his bare chest, the faint outline of the pulsing web still somewhat discernible to his eyes.

‘This feels… strangely familiar.’ A sudden flashback visited him in that moment. Did he not suffer from this living curse before? He was poisoned, his fate sealed.

And yet, somehow he was alive.

The ground under his feet strangely trembled; it could barely be felt, but felt it was. Riaz realised that sharp rock projectiles grew out of the road and took aim at him. He knew that this time was different from before and the rocks were aiming to harm him.

It was to be expected. Riaz knew there was no due process for what he’d done, not in a place like this. He would have likely died either way, so what was there to worry about?

He figured that he’d at least kill the little tyrant, holding onto the faint hope that Viram would lose interest in Salara and her father afterwards. At least he’d be able to prevent his choices from impacting the father daughter pair any further.

As for himself, he had disappointed his teacher and couldn’t really blame Aldean if the latter left him to rot in a cell for his willful actions.

They hadn’t been together for long and one could hardly find fault with Aldean wanting to cut ties with him at this junction; he had offended the aristocracy of the kingdom after all.

It felt as if time had slowed down. Riaz thought of his teacher. The memory of his sometimes stoic, hardened face blurred in his mind.

Regardless of how stand-offish Riaz was at the start, he always found comfort in being with his teacher. In a world filled with unknowns, the man had a distant feeling of familiarity to him.

There once was a man much like him; one he cared for very much. That man held him close to his bosom when times were dire and when his chest ached in ways worse than he could imagine.

‘Your face, it’s almost like I can see you. Old Hem, just who are you?’ A hint of a smile formed on his face.

He reflexively reached down and felt the fabric above his pocket. It took him a while to remember that he no longer possessed Old Hem’s ring. His teacher had taken the ring and the pendant too.

Riaz felt a bit empty without the items.

The memory of Luvia and Old Hem helping him escape floated around his mind, elusive at times, but seemed more clear now than ever before. However, he knew one thing for certain: those two cared a great deal about him.

He really wanted to know why he lived. He hoped to find them one day and ask them directly; alas, could he still do so?

‘I’m really pitiful…’ He couldn’t help but think so.

Just moments before, he had lost the resolve to live and yet moments later felt a burning desire to live, just when it seemed all but impossible.

At that time, Viram’s angry roar reached his ears, “You little animal! You’re dead, don’t even think of getting out of this!”

Next to him, Eustace, maintaining his spell, shouted, “Give up, all paths are sealed. Boy, you have no idea what you’ve done. I’m truly disappointed.”

The men around Riaz echoed the words for him to surrender his life.

Amidst the precarious situation, Riaz reeled on the spot, weakened and beaten. Against all expectations, he smiled.

Viram, drawing his sword, yelled, “Is it funny? Laugh all you want, but I’ll be sending you off to accompany my nephew. It’s over, you brat!”

But was it really over? He always gave up too quickly when faced with near impossible odds of success. Sooner or later, he’d have to kick that habit.

“Ha… haha.” Riaz cackled aloud. “Guess we’ll have to see.”

He wildly roused the qi within him and filled his lungs with one deep rebellious breath. He had never found it easier to think clearly and his senses sharpened to their fullest with his life on the line.

‘I think I am starting to see it now, teacher. Watch… your disciple will show you that he has managed to learn at least this one thing from you.’

His hand stubbornly clung to his sword and he lifted it with conviction. His spirit rose to unprecedented highs, intimidating the ones around him. Any sane person would hesitate to provoke someone who they felt had nothing to lose.

“Come!” spoke Riaz and Eustace narrowed his eyes. The primed rock projectiles shot towards Riaz. At the same time, Viram gathered qi into his blade, reinforcing it with a stable, translucent glow.

Riaz was stuck between two rocks and an angry noble. It was impossible for him to fight off both at the same time, but he could try!

He moved his foot forward and stomped into the ground, then, with a coarse roar, he swung his blade around him in a whirl, creating an upwards draft of air.

His sword smashed through the rocks on both sides near simultaneously and he finally pulled up his sword to block Viram’s incoming attack. He could sense his impending death, but chose to bravely embrace it.

Viram’s sword cut right through his steel and towards his neck, but, in the most critical moment, a hand reached out from the side and easily caught the blade between its fingers.

Just when Riaz was most vulnerable, a stalwart figure had interposed itself between him and Viram’s blade. Their cloak fluttered momentarily under the blowing winds caused by his swift movements.

Riaz fell to his knees and weakly lifted his head; his vision blurred.

“Wha—” Viram gaped. “Who are you? How dare you interfere?”

He stared incredulously at the unknown person, eyes laced with hostility. In the heat of the moment, he was not accounting for the fact that his blade was caught without difficulty.

The savior pulled back their hood and Riaz immediately recognized the person helping him.

“T-teacher… I thought… you’ve abandoned me,” uttered Riaz in a weak voice. The fatigue had finally caught up to him, as did the injuries.

“Brat, who do you take me for? You really underestimate the weight of our relationship.” Aldean remarked coldly, but his hardened face could not fully hide his concern.

Riaz weakly smiled and passed out cold, his upper body toppling over.

Aldean had already let go of Viram’s blade and pressed him with his piercing glare. He sternly commanded, “I don’t care what grievances you have, but you will write off what had transpired here and get lost.”

“Y-you…” stammered Viram, having difficulty to retort in face of such audacity. As his anger flared, the veins on his face began to bulge as well.

For the past hour or so things had been nonstop going downhill for him. It had begun with his authority being questioned and his carefully laid out plans of using his nephew as a puppet to replace the Viscount going down the drain. Then, to make matters worse, his nephew got himself killed like the moron that he was.

Enough was enough. Who was this snide bastard to make him lose face? When has anyone dared to mess with him? He was Viram Hobb!

“Die, you bastard.” He swung his sword with a big wind-up, aiming towards Aldean.

Little did he expect his opponent to remain unflinching, in complete disregard of the threat he posed. Aldean merely lifted his hand and casually flicked the blade, which then shattered into a thousand pieces.

It took the crowd a solid few seconds to let the sight sink in. The one most flustered by it all was Viram.

In full disbelief he stumbled backwards, dropping the hilt of his sword in the process.

He pointed his shaking finger at Aldean, asking, “Wh-who are you?”

Instead of giving a verbal reply, Aldean unleashed his aura, covering all those present with it, thereupon his hand reached towards his waist.

A unique purple metal gleamed in the moonlight as he elegantly drew his sword. Once drawn, a long, curved sword rested in Aldean’s hand and the streets quickly filled with a mysterious purple fog.

While the crowd quickly grew alert to his actions, the radiant silhouettes of numerous swords formed in the air around Aldean and danced like phantoms, their ghostly hisses sending shivers down the grown men’s spines.

Some weak-willed militia officers could no longer remain standing under the oppressive weight of Aldean’s aura and thus fell onto their arses.

From the outside it looked like their minds were affected by a harmful substance, incapacitating them.

Eustace covered his mouth, wary of inhaling poison. He then reached into a satchel on his person and withdrew a leaf from inside. Quickly, he placed it between his lips and chewed on it.

“Everyone, fall back!” He yelled, then his eyes moved towards Viram’s men, who nervously held their hands to the hilt of their swords.

They were with Viram’s escort group: Wildeboar Tusks, a group of trained warriors, up for hire. They only listened to their leader, ready to lay down their life at a moment’s notice and yet still they felt stifled by one man’s aura.

One man could suppress Viram’s entire group. No, this aura was out of the ordinary and those floating swords… there was no doubt. Eustace understood that this person was most likely a rumored martial king.

“This is as far as the persecution of my disciple will go,” spoke Aldean coldly and the tone of his voice rose further. “Those who wish to take the boy, step up and die a death not worth mentioning.”

As though on cue, the dancing blades up in the air came to the halt and, like compass needles, each pointed at an individual among the group of armed men.

It seemed laughable of him to pose such a warning, since those oppressed by his aura could hardly move a muscle even if they wanted to. Nonetheless, the fervid situation cooled down quickly under his domineering hand.

Among the wary, a disgruntled roar could be heard, followed by a series of curses.

It was Viram who finally couldn’t stand the lingering silence any longer and angrily uttered, “You will regret this…”

However, where he was shortsighted, another was quick on the uptake.

Eustace quickly arrived next to Viram and spoke to Aldean with great deference, “Esteemed one, please won’t you reconsider your stance? The boy you are protecting has committed no small crime. The blood of the Viscount’s son is still fresh on his hands.”

Aldean swept his gaze over Eustace and the piercing glow of his eyes dimmed. “Do you have wax in your ears? The brat is my disciple, so you can save your breath.”

“But the Viscount—” Eustace couldn’t even finish his words, as he was cut off by Aldean.

“Viscount my foot, just a measly ant. Go tell your Viscount that he can come find me if he has complaints. I will tell you one last time, take your men and go.”

He sheathed his sword and the projections in the air faded along with the fog.

Eustace didn’t dare to test Aldean’s limits and bowed with respect, before pulling Viram by the arm.

His eyes conveyed a deep meaning to Viram. The latter had been blind to the danger this man posed, but, seeing Eustace treat him with respect, he managed to gain a clue or two.

It became clear that this time he would have to lower his head, that is if he wanted to keep it. It didn’t matter anyway. He was good at biding his time and, sooner or later, there would arrive a day when he’d give way to his pent up grievances.

Before anything, he had to gather information on this stranger and find out who he was.

Viram dusted his clothes with exaggerated motions, then gathered his men to leave after carefully loading the young lord’s remains onto a cart.

He exchanged a few words with Eustace prior to taking his leave, while Aldean’s entire attention was focused on his disciple and the terrible condition that the boy was in.

Salara and her father were quick to arrive next to them, shocked by what they laid their eyes upon.

“What is happening to him?” Salara was flustered, her eyes fixed on the writhing ‘thing’ on Riaz’s chest.

Aldean’s eyes narrowed and even he was hard-pressed for answers.

“There is no telling what this is, but his condition is terrible even without it.” He quickly unfastened his cloak and wrapped it around Riaz to keep him warm. “Go, lead the way to our rooms. I must treat him quickly.”

The innkeeper and his daughter immediately rushed their steps once they’d entered the inn, while Aldean took Riaz to his room upstairs and laid him down on the bed.

He ripped the shirt, fully exposing the bleeding wound on the back. The wound was deep, but luckily there was no apparent damage to his nerves as far as his reliable examination revealed.

The priority now was to close the wound after cleaning it.

Right on time, Salara came in with a bucket full of water, while her father brought in a generously stacked first aid kit.

Seeing the wound, bare in full, the girl felt appalled, but, when proposed by her father to wait outside, she stubbornly insisted on staying.

Faced with her firm attitude, her father could say no more and reluctantly gave his consent.

It fell onto her to clean the wounds after Aldean had pressed a series of pressure points on Riaz’s body to stem the bleeding; however, before she soaked her towel in the water, she had noticed Aldean pour exactly three drops of a clear liquid into the water.

“What is that?” She paused, her eyes glued to the tiny, intricately shaped glass ampule in Aldean’s hand.

“Primordial Source Water.” Aldean quickly stowed away the ampule and refused to disclose any more. “Just make sure to perform your job well, then call me before doing anything else.”

He draped his arm over the innkeeper’s shoulders, then dragged the man downstairs to have a drink, leaving the young ones alone.

Salara experienced a scare when she first wiped the towel across the wound on Riaz’s back, since the flesh sizzled briefly when it came in contact with the wet cloth.

She was under the illusion that she had spilled boiling water over him, when in reality the water held special healing properties.

Primordial Source Water, as Aldean called it, was something Misaf had entrusted to him in case of an emergency.

It was a potent liquid that was bestowed to them by the Goddess Lefra herself. Only a chosen handful of elders in the village knew of it: it was one of the main boons raised from their ever-dutiful worship of the Goddess.

The amount he had received didn’t amount to much, but its value was no less astronomical.

Father Olden had used some on Riaz before, making this his second time for him being treated to its holy properties.

Feeling bad for exposing his disciple to his harsh nurturing, Aldean didn’t hesitate to make use of the water. Still, he could not deny that them being hard-pressed for time had an influence on his decision.

Aided by the water, Riaz should be able to make a swift recovery.

No more than thirty minutes passed before all three people had gathered around Riaz again and Aldean began dressing the boy’s wounds.

The injuries proved to be no obstacle to someone experienced like him, leaving the real headache for last.

All three looked down at the softly pulsing web above Riaz’s heart. They had each their own questions, but the hour was turning late and the father-daughter pair had grown tired. Aldean used that as a pretext to send them off, since there was no need for them to get further involved with Riaz’s secrets.

Salara was loathe to leave, but couldn’t raise a complaint against the imposing Aldean. Consequently, the room grew quiet and only master and disciple were left in the room.

Aldean lightly pressed his palm against Riaz’s chest and guided his energy into him.

As his concentrated will poured into the mark, the pulsing web seemed quite reactive: it squirmed upon making contact with the foreign energies. A droning hum, which carried some sort of sickening tune, played in Aldean’s head before the skin around the mark began to tear and spray blood.

Aldean felt like the mark was giving him a warning, almost like it had some sort of will of its own; however, Aldean couldn’t stop just yet. The glow in his eyes intensified and his aura rose sharply with his will then violently prying into the depths of the corrupt entity.

His efforts culminated in a violent response coming from the mark. Tendrils, formed of blood, tore themselves from Riaz’s body and lashed out towards Aldean.

“Blood arts?” he exclaimed. “No…”

He knew of practitioners who used blood as a medium for their techniques. It bore similarities, but it was not the same.

“Don’t underestimate me.” Aldean formed a protective layer around his body; one that withstood the assault. All the while, his will dug deeper into the entity.

He all but thought the entity had given up when the tendrils withdrew, but, to his horror, a deep droning hum, unlike the one before, echoed throughout the room. It manifested a wave that propelled Aldean backwards into a wall.

“W-what?” groaned Aldean as his body crashed into the firm walls, forming a human shaped crater.

As his body detached from the wall and touched the floor, a series of voices reached his ears. The commotion had clearly woken up the guests of the inn and maybe even the neighbours in the surrounding buildings.

He tasted blood and reached with two fingers for his mouth. Looking at them, there were clear traces of blood. The backlash unexpectedly caused him internal injuries; him, a manifestation realm expert.

“Brat, just who in the world are you?” Aldean wiped his mouth and stood up straight. He sensed people approaching.

The first to storm through the door was Salara, anxiety written all over her face.

“Girl, don’t let anyone come in. Hurry and close the door!” shouted Aldean.

Salara had many questions after seeing the disheveled appearance of the proud warrior, but obeyed and quickly returned to the hallway, shutting the door behind her.

It was up to her to come up with an explanation that would deflect the numerous inquiries, while Aldean had to worry about the next step to take.

He clearly remembered the sensation that ripped his own aura apart like paper. He had never encountered such a firm will before.

“It’s almost like…” Aldean’s sentence trailed off and the way he looked at Riaz changed greatly.

As he was worried that the mark on Riaz’s chest could harm his disciple, he was surprised to find that the entity had become dormant again.

The squirming stopped and the color and glow faded.

Aldean approached the bedside and touched the mark. It felt no different to the touch than skin and appeared as nothing but a six-pronged tattoo.

He had believed Misaf when the latter told him of the divine mark, but he still had his doubts and couldn’t be certain of the mark’s nature.

Were it not for the fierce retaliation he had experienced earlier, he’d be mildly tempted to carve the mark out by force.

He confirmed that Riaz’s breathing had calmed and he was soundly asleep. There was nothing more he could do, but still, he pulled up a stool and sat in the corner of the room to guard him.

The night passed and the rising sun was met by a growing commotion downstairs.

Aldean opened his eyes and stretched his body. After letting out a yawn, he checked on Riaz before leaving the room.

He didn’t make it very far, since two people obstructed his path in the hallway: one was Salara, the daughter of the innkeeper, the other, however, was someone he didn’t know.

Judging from the girl’s helpless expression, an annoying fly had come to buzz around him.

He inspected the person. Their appearance was immaculate and they looked overall well groomed. It was a man with a sharp moustache who bowed deeply.

“I offer my humble greetings, Blade King. Please, excuse my unannounced visit, for I am merely here to convey a message from none other than Duke Moréy.” A look of pride crept onto his face.

Standing before a blade king, he felt he didn’t have to humble himself too much as the Duke’s person.

He extended a sealed letter bearing the Duke’s seal.

Aldean sneered. “Hmpf, you could have left the letter with the girl.”

Smiling stiffly, the man simply replied, “That wouldn’t do at all, as I’m sure you understand. I have to make sure that the letter found its intended; that much is only natural, since its my master’s orders.”

Aldean coldly swept his gaze over the man, then snatched the letter and opened it on the spot.

He casually went through the lines written before tossing the letter away.

“You can leave.” He said.

The smile on the man’s face faded abruptly, “Then your answer…”

“So he wished to invite me, but do I have to go? Can he make me?” Aldean scoffed.

“It would be in your best interest since the matter partially concerns the ‘disappearance’ of the young lord. Unless my memory fails me, House Fullock still owes obedience to his excellency Moréy.”

Aldean didn’t like the tone of this servant whatsoever. He asked, “Are those your words or your master’s?”

“Naturally, my words are all aligned with his Excellency’s intentions. I speak fully on his behalf as his representative.”

He raised his chin and postured before Aldean. Clearly, the servant had been looking down on a blade king for some time now. Aldean really wondered where he got his guts from.

“Alright, off you go!” said Aldean, then stepped forward and hooked his fingers around the man’s collar. He dragged him along as he briskly walked towards the end of the hall.

All the while, the man protested, growing increasingly nervous, “Unhand me! How can a noble behave so atrociously? Hurry now and let go! Hey now…”

“There is nothing noble about being a bootlicker,” retorted Aldean.

“But, you are borne of House Fullock, fallen as the house has—”

Aldean corrected him, “No, if you had done your homework, you’d have known that I have nothing to do with that family any more. Look, there is the door.”

The man swallowed and started to panic. “But that’s a window!”

“It’s a shortcut.” Aldean re-assured and threw him out of the window.

“This… hold on!” cried the servant. “We are on the third floor… AHHHH!”

The shutters clamored as the servant’s meager passed over the windowsill and fell.

Aldean rubbed his hands together and spoke to Salara, “Watch the brat for me, will you? I would like to see what gave this duke or whatever the confidence to throw his weight around.”

He then stomped his foot. “This is why I hate drawing attention. All these annoying flies keep buzzing around.”