Chapter 7 – Blades and Breadcrumbs
Morning broke through gray skies and the smell of damp wood.
Cyrus stretched on the straw-filled bed with a dramatic groan, then immediately recoiled as his back popped in three places.
"Oh yeah," he muttered. "This inn is definitely sponsored by the medieval chiropractor's guild."
Yura was already up, of course, seated on the floor with her sword across her lap. Eyes closed. Breathing slow.
"How long have you been up?" he asked.
She didn't open her eyes. "An hour."
"…Do you sleep with one eye open, or are you just running on martial artist arrogance?"
"Neither," she said simply. "I'm used to being hunted."
Cyrus blinked, the humor fading from his face for a second.
"Right. Fun reminder."
She finally opened her eyes and stood in one fluid motion. "We should leave by midday. The roads past the ridge will take us out of the forest."
He gave a mock salute. "Yes, captain."
But inside, he felt something shift. Out of the forest. Finally.
He grabbed his gear—robe, mask, dagger—and paused for a moment in the mirror near the door.
Still didn't feel real.
Still looked like a guy cosplaying too hard at a convention.
But now, at least, the man in the reflection looked like he meant it.
They left the inn by noon, most villagers giving them a wide berth.
Some looked curious.
Others… wary.
Cyrus caught one older man whispering to his grandson and gesturing toward him. The kid stared, wide-eyed.
"Y'know," he said under his breath to Yura, "I think the rumors have legs. Next thing you know, I'll be on wanted posters for crimes like 'being too cool' and 'standing dramatically near trees.'"
Yura didn't respond.
Which made sense, because they were being followed.
He noticed it a few minutes after they left the outpost—a glint of movement from the treeline.
A person. Hooded. Fast.
"Company," Cyrus muttered. "Behind us. Left side."
Yura already knew. "He's not from the outpost."
"Yours?"
"Maybe."
She picked up speed slightly. Cyrus matched her, his hand hovering near the dagger tied to his belt.
The trees began thinning again—this time giving way to an old bridge that stretched over a rocky stream.
Cyrus spoke first.
"You wanna talk to him? Or do we go with the whole 'stab first, ask questions when they're bleeding out' approach?"
Yura didn't answer.
Instead, she stopped walking.
"Step back," she said, not to Cyrus—but to the forest.
A figure emerged.
He was young—maybe eighteen. Lean. Cloaked in dark brown with a branded sigil on his shoulder: a coiling white serpent. His eyes were hard, cold.
"Yura," the boy said. "By order of the Cloudfang Clan, return immediately."
Cyrus leaned in toward her, whispering, "Cloudfang? That's their real name? Sounds like an edgy Pokémon evolution."
Yura didn't react. "You're not qualified to speak on their behalf, Rin."
The boy—Rin—took a step forward. "You're marked. If you return now, the punishment will be lighter."
"You followed me across the region to tell me that?"
"I'm just the scout. The next ones won't talk."
Cyrus sighed. "Alright, yeah, I see where this is going."
Rin drew his blade—slim and curved, a murim-style sabre.
Yura didn't flinch.
But before she moved, Cyrus stepped slightly to the side and whispered, "If you'll indulge me… I'd like to try something first."
She gave him a glance but nodded.
Cyrus turned to Rin and raised his hands in mock surrender.
"Hey there. Look, I know this seems serious and all, but just consider this: we're both standing on a rickety bridge, you're trying to intimidate a clearly superior martial artist, and I haven't had breakfast."
Rin narrowed his eyes. "Step aside."
Cyrus grinned. "Or—crazy idea—we skip the swordplay and you just walk away with your dignity intact. It's limited-edition in this economy."
Rin lunged.
Cyrus sidestepped.
Barely.
He ducked the blade and fell back, drawing his dagger with a sharp flick.
It wasn't elegant. Or clean. But he managed to redirect the follow-up slash, twisting the blade just enough to unbalance Rin for half a second.
That was all Yura needed.
She moved faster than sound.
A single blow to the ribs. Open-palm. Loud.
Rin flew back five feet and hit the bridge post with a thud.
Groaning, he slumped, unconscious.
Cyrus stared. "...Okay, yeah. I'm never sparring you."
Yura looked at him. "You read his stance. You knew he was reckless."
"I saw that he held the sword like a guy who wins fights by yelling first," Cyrus said, twirling his dagger once and putting it away. "Not that I was confident. I just… guessed right."
She looked at him, a flicker of something behind her expression.
"…That was smart."
Cyrus gave her a cheeky grin. "I have my moments."
She turned to walk again.
He followed.
The bridge behind them creaked.
And somewhere far above—watching from a tree's upper branch—a masked figure in silver robes tilted his head.
"…The Second Oath, huh," he murmured. "Interesting."