Teacher

The night crept in, blanketing the sect in a quiet chill. Inside the broken hall, the trio had gathered once more—though only two remained conscious. Arhatam was already passed out on a mat, snoring with his mouth half-open, a faint trail of smoke rising from one of the spent cauldrons beside him.

Durandal leaned back, stretching with a satisfied grin. "We made a killing today."

"No," Kazel replied, arms crossed as he stared into the dim-lit corner. "This is nothing compared to conquering a bandit hideout."

Durandal blinked. "Still... the market was a success. Everyone was rushing to buy our pills."

Kazel gave a slight nod, but his expression remained serious. "Yes. But did you see the other merchants? They were watching us—measuring. We could keep selling pills like this, but it's not sustainable. Just look at our alchemist."

On cue, Arhatam let out a loud groan and mumbled in his sleep, cheeks puffed from exhaustion.

Durandal sighed. "So we can't do this every day."

"Not unless we hire more alchemists," Kazel said. "Or… we secure a rare, highly sought-after recipe. One strong enough to justify an auction."

"But if it's too high-tier," Durandal mused, "Arhatam might not be able to handle it. He's just a Level Two Alchemist."

"Then he needs to level up," Kazel said simply, his gaze sharp. "As do you."

Durandal's smile froze. He turned slowly toward Kazel. "W-what do you mean?"

"Tomorrow morning," Kazel said, rising to his feet. "Daily sparring. I will train you."

Durandal's pupils shrunk. The Sect Slayer himself… would be his teacher.

The next morning, Arhatam yawned and wiped the drool off his mouth. Still half-asleep, he shuffled toward the courtyard, drawn by the sharp, rhythmic clashing of metal.

Outside, beneath the rising sun, Kazel stood effortlessly—parrying Durandal's strikes with a single hand.

Durandal was gasping, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His shoulder trembled, his grip barely steady. Kazel, meanwhile, looked like he was hardly trying. His posture seemed loose, his stance almost nonexistent—yet every movement carried deadly intent.

"You're nervous," Kazel said with a smirk.

(Who wouldn't be?) Durandal thought. This was the same man who had slain three sects before his twentieth year. Standing before him was not just a warrior—but a living execution.

"Hold it tight," Kazel said, referring to the sword. "One hand."

"Y-Yes!"

"Now swing. Tune with me," said Kazel, stepping back and beginning to demonstrate.

He slashed the air—slow, precise movements. One slash, two slash. A powerful cut, then a dismantling sweep. A flick of the wrist sent the blade dancing left, then right. Parry. Step. Slash again.

"Keep up," Kazel said, not even glancing at Durandal. "As best as you can."

Durandal gritted his teeth and tried to follow—swinging his blade in rhythm, copying Kazel's tempo. But each time he did, he felt like he was a second too late, a palm too wide, a breath too shallow.

From the courtyard's edge, Arhatam watched with wide eyes, now fully awake.

(Just how high is the gap between them…?)

After a few maneuvers, Kazel effortlessly toppled Durandal.

The boy landed hard on his butt, gasping, arms giving out as he collapsed flat onto the courtyard floor. Eyes barely open, he stared at the sky.

"Perhaps you need a more... hands-on approach," Kazel said, tossing aside the practice sword. "You're a former thief, Durandal. That doesn't mean your skills are disgraceful—at least not in my eyes."

Arhatam entered the scene, still groggy, scratching his head. "Young Master, don't tell me you're going to make him steal again?"

"Of course," Kazel answered calmly. "But not from helpless villagers or drunken merchants. I'm talking about stealing from the enemy."

Durandal propped himself up. "From who?"

Kazel stepped forward. "Find the nearby bandit hideouts. Maybe we'll cross paths with the Punctured again. Maybe the Spear and Shield mercenaries have filth under their fingernails. Maybe the flowers of the Five Ladies aren't so pure. Or maybe the noble swordsmen of the Curved Blade Sect have bent a little too far."

He paused. "The fact that bandits still roam freely between the Land of the Wolf and the Land of the Lamb tells me there's a treasure cove out there—unclaimed, or more accurately, unpunished."

"You want me to rob a bandit hideout?" Durandal blinked.

"I think you're good enough to reach the Soul Refining realm," Kazel replied. Then, without a hint of hesitation, he tossed Durandal the prize from the archery tournament—his winnings in Spirit Stones.

Arhatam and Durandal stood frozen, speechless, staring at the pouch as if Kazel had just tossed them a royal inheritance.

"It means nothing to me," Kazel said. "But you two? You can make something out of it."

Then he turned to Arhatam. "I haven't forgotten you. I want you to advance in alchemy—whatever it takes."

Arhatam gulped. "I'll need to take the exam in the Land of the Tiger... and, last I checked, we're broke."

"It must be expensive then," he said calmly.

Arhatam, still groggy from sleep, blinked. "It is," he muttered. Then his eyes widened. "Wait, are you serious? That would cost a fortune!"

Kazel's gaze remained steady. "As long as you pledge your loyalty to me, Arhatam, I will not disappoint you."

Those words landed like a hammer on Arhatam's chest. Before he could muster a reply, Kazel turned his attention to Durandal.

"Durandal," he said, voice cool and commanding, "after absorbing all of these Spirit Stones, go challenge the bandit at the crossroads between Wolf and Lamb."

Durandal stiffened, eyes rounding. "Bu-But, young master… I don't have a Spirit Beast."

Kazel tilted his head thoughtfully.

Arhatam, still stunned from earlier, blinked back to life. "I-If you want to buy cheap ones, the market has some."

"But are they good quality or shit quality?" asked Kazel.

Arhatam sighed and shrugged. "Mostly shit. The best ones are in the auction."

"Forget it, then. We won't be able to buy anything there," he added, deflating a little.

Kazel crossed his arms, silent for a moment. Then his brows lifted. "Right… I still have this."

With a flick of his wrist, Kazel retrieved a scroll from his spatial ring, bound in a crimson ribbon. He unfastened it, letting the parchment roll open in the air.

A vivid illustration of a Lava Harpy flared across the grey canvas—wings aflame, talons glowing molten red.

Soul Skill Level – Second: Talon SearThe ability brings fire through a whip of a kick.

Kazel gave a half-smile. "Well, isn't this convenient," he said, before casually lobbing the scroll toward Durandal.

"I expect results, Durandal."

Durandal fumbled with the scroll. "Y-Young master!" he exclaimed.

"Are you seriously giving him this? No disrespect, but… don't you need it more?" said Arhatam.

"The pill-maker is right," Durandal added hesitantly.

"The name is Arhatam," Arhatam chimed in, arms crossed.

Durandal lowered his gaze. "I-I don't think I deserve this. I…"

"I have decided," said Kazel flatly, cutting through the hesitation. "Integrate the skill, and own it. It should carry you for now."

He turned on his heel and strode away, robes swaying behind him, leaving the two of them staring after him in disbelief.

After a long silence, Arhatam exhaled and scratched his head. "Hah… I guess I'm going back to making pills."

He gave a lazy wave. "Good luck, Prime Disciple."

With that, he disappeared into his cluttered mancave, leaving Durandal alone in the courtyard, clutching the scroll with trembling hands—and a storm brewing in his chest.