The Ironhide Sect had become a bastion in these turbulent days.
nside the walls, life tried to maintain normalcy. Training grounds echoed with grunts and shouts. Durandal, sweating in the morning sun, was locked in a sparring match with Batu—the calm tortoise against the impatient flame. Their movements were spirited but respectful. Durandal's form was rough, but his soul burned with purpose.
From a nearby shade, a thin man watched with mild amusement—his hands stained with herb ink, a trail of scent clinging to his sleeves. Arhatam, the traveling alchemist, had settled in with surprising ease. He tutted whenever Durandal missed his footing and nodded when Batu corrected him with a patient word.
The atmosphere, while vigilant, held a fragile peace.
Then—
BANG.
A thunderous knock slammed against the sealed gates. Not once.
BANG.
But again.
BANG.
And again.
The iron trembled with each hit. A sharp rhythm. Not a fist. Something heavier. Deliberate.
Durandal froze, halberd in hand. Batu tensed, sliding in front of him on instinct.
Arhatam stood slowly, eyes narrowing.
From atop the central hall, Patriarch Toghon appeared, robes billowing. His presence alone silenced the courtyard. The disciples parted without a word as he descended the stone steps, his eyes locked on the gates.
No one needed to speak.
(Second Moon?) Durandal thought, swallowing his breath.
Batu frowned.
The patriarch reached the base of the stairs. Another BANG echoed.
He raised his hand once.
The gate guards, pale and stiff, held their ground—but waited.
And the air around the sect grew heavier.
Quiet.
Waiting.
One more strike could shatter the stillness.
Patriarch Toghon stepped closer to the iron gates, his expression grave as he listened. His brows drew tight, his sharp ears trained for the slightest whisper beyond the wood and steel. Yet, what struck him more than the banging—was what he didn't hear.
(No growl... No beast. No rustling of armor. No rallying cries...)
His voice, deep and calm, cut through the courtyard.
"Who are you?"
The echo of his words rippled over the high walls and out across the still forest beyond.
And then—silence.
A stillness so profound, the wind itself seemed to hush. The soft clatter of bamboo leaves stopped. The usual chirping of spiritfinches, gone.
The elders stood frozen, hands clasped behind their backs, eyes narrowed, each mentally preparing for the worst. One had already summoned his spirit beast into partial form—a shimmering outline hovering near his shadow.
The disciples, wide-eyed, held their weapons with trembling arms. Some tightened their grip; others fumbled for breath.
Noel held Lana's hand, instinctively placing her behind him. His other hand was already on the hilt of the sword he hadn't drawn in years. But old habits—and older love—made it feel like instinct.
Batu, broad-shouldered and silent, had positioned himself protectively in front of Durandal. His shell-like aura was already brimming, yet still grounded—he was calm, but not relaxed.
Arhatam was no fighter, yet his eyes were deadly sharp as he uncorked one of his concoctions, letting wisps of orange mist trail through the air from his palm. The faint bubbling hiss spoke of preparations made long ago.
And Durandal…
The boy's jaw clenched. His knuckles white around the halberd he had once swung so awkwardly. His eyes locked on the gate.
It wasn't just fear in them.
It was something else. Something rising in his chest—an urge to act.
The silence drew long.
Too long.
A single crow called in the distance, hoarse and lonely.
And yet... no reply came.
Not yet.
A voice rang from beyond the gate.
"Heh... you of all people should know me."
It wasn't loud.
But it didn't need to be.
Lana's eyes widened instantly, a soft gasp slipping past her lips. Her hands rose to cover her mouth, trembling. Tears gathered before she could stop them. Her knees weakened, and she stumbled forward, as if the voice alone had struck her heart.
Noel froze—completely. His breath caught in his throat, and a cold, crawling sprinted up his spine. The voice echoed through his bones—not just heard, but remembered.
Toghon's eyes widened for only a second, then narrowed.
"OPEN THE GATE!" he thundered, urgency wrapping around every syllable.
The disciples scrambled, the large seal unlocking with a groaning crack. Metal clanked and chains rattled as the double-doors creaked open.
A shaft of sunlight poured in from the outside—golden and warm.
And there, standing alone in the dust, was a young man.
Kazel.
His robe was torn and tattered, soaked in dried blood that was clearly not his. His halberd rested lazily on his shoulder. Wind tousled his dark hair, his blue eyes half-lidded in calm amusement.
He looked like a survivor of war.
But more than that—
He looked like its author.
Gasps rippled through the courtyard.
Batu's jaw went slack. Durandal's hands trembled. Even the elders who had fought battles years before whispered under their breath.
Kazel smirked as his eyes scanned the frozen courtyard.
"...Home's still here," he muttered. Then he looked straight toward Lana and Noel.
"Sorry I'm late."
Lana was the first to move.
She rushed forward without grace or hesitation, her arms wide before she could even breathe his name. The moment she reached him, she embraced him tightly—her sobs muffled into the torn remnants of his robe. Her trembling fingers clung to him, confirming that this wasn't a dream or an illusion. This was her son. Alive.
"Kazel…" she whispered between sobs. "My baby… my boy… you're really here…"
Kazel stood frozen for a moment, startled—but only slightly.
His hands lifted, hesitant at first, then wrapped around his mother's back. "I'm home, Mother," he said. His voice was steady, calm… yet warmer than anyone had heard it since his return to this world.
Noel approached slowly. His lips were parted but words failed him. His fists were clenched at his sides—perhaps from disbelief, perhaps from the tide of emotion crashing within. When he finally reached Kazel, Lana stepped aside, wiping her eyes but remaining close.
Noel stared at his son—at the lines on his face, the sharpened edges, the deep weight behind his eyes.
"You've grown," Noel said, his voice thick with restrained emotion. "You carry the eyes of a man who's seen too much."
Kazel nodded. "And lived to tell it."
Then—Noel, the iron-willed father who had once held back armies with words alone—stepped forward and embraced Kazel with a powerful arm around his shoulder, bringing their foreheads together in silent understanding.
"Welcome home, son," he said.
Kazel's lips curved, ever so slightly.
Behind them, the others gathered.
Toghon stepped forward, his expression stern but his eyes thoughtful. He gave a curt bow of the head. "It is not my place to speak of family reunions. But as the patriarch of Ironhide Sect, let me be the first to formally welcome the Sect Slayer into our stronghold."
Kazel straightened slightly, giving Toghon a respectful nod. "Thank you, Patriarch Toghon."
"I presume we'll be hearing the tale in full, then?"
"In due time," said Kazel, "though I'd prefer to bathe first—unless you'd like the blood of the Second Moon to stain your floors."
Several disciples shifted uncomfortably at that statement. Batu's brows raised. Durandal's mouth opened slightly, looking from Kazel to the others.
The words hung in the air like thunder without lightning.
"The blood of the Second Moon."
It echoed in their minds, but no one dared speak. The courtyard was frozen. Even the wind seemed to still.
Lana stepped back slowly, her lips parted, but her eyes struggling to reconcile what her ears had just heard. Noel's grip loosened, his hands hovering by his sides. Batu blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear a fog from his mind. Arhatam's usual smirk was gone, replaced with silent disbelief.
Even Durandal, who had been sharpening his blade just this morning, stood there with slackened shoulders and a heart beating like a drum inside his chest.
Kazel's words hadn't landed yet—not fully.
It was Toghon who broke the silence, his tone cautious but heavy with authority.He took one step forward, his expression unreadable.
"…Kazel," he said. "I need to ask, and I ask not as a patriarch, but as a witness of this land."
He looked him dead in the eyes.
"Did you truly destroy the Second Moon Sect? Not cripple it. Not wound it. Did you slay it?"
The weight of the question fell harder than any weapon.
Kazel didn't blink. He didn't boast. He simply met Toghon's gaze, unwavering."I left no second chances," he said. "Their patriarch. Their elders. Their disciples. Their treasury. Their name. All of it—gone."
A cold gasp ran through the courtyard like a shiver.Someone dropped a basin. The clang rang out sharp and lonely.
Noel stepped back, swallowing hard. Lana's hand rose to her mouth. Batu muttered a curse under his breath.Durandal… smiled. Just faintly.
And this time, when he looked at Kazel, it wasn't just as a guest.It was as something more. Something heavier.
Toghon smiled. "We'll have a bath prepared. And food. And a room."
"That," Kazel said with a soft breath, "would be wonderful."
And so, the gates of Ironhide closed once more—this time not to keep danger out… but to hold something far more dangerous within.
A storm had returned home. But for tonight, it would rest.