Zen slipped through the chaos like smoke, blending with the rushing bandits as they scrambled to stop the beast.
One of them shoved a crate into his arms. "Where are you going? Help me get this to the front!"
Zen's shadow stretched silently across the dirt. His masked face tilted toward the man.
"Why should I help you," he said evenly, "when I'm the one who caused this chaos?"
The shadow pierced the bandit's chest before the man could react. His eyes widened, a strangled cry rising in his throat — too late. He collapsed.
Zen vanished with a shadow step.
He moved west, intent on finding the treasure. Searching blindly would take forever. Better to capture one of the bandits and make him talk.
Being a ghost in plain sight was a skill: walk like you belong, don't look like you notice anything, let the crowd's panic be your cloak. Zen ducked into alleys, slid through gaps in tents, skirted the command posts.
A drunk bandit retched behind a shed. Zen struck with shadowstep, dropping him like a sack of grain. He dragged the man to an abandoned storehouse, bound his limbs, and slapped him awake.
The man blinked blearily, then froze at the sight of the masked figure with white hair spilling over his shoulders.
"Wh-who are you?"
"You don't need to know."
A dagger of shadow formed in Zen's hand and drove into the man's knee. His scream was muffled as Zen stuffed cloth into his mouth.
"I'll ask. You'll answer. Nothing more. Understand?"
The man nodded frantically.
"Good. Where's the treasure?"
"T-the treasury… underground. Only the commanders know the exact location. No one trusts anyone here."
"Where's the commander's base?"
"You'll know it. Each commander flies his own flag — different colors, different patterns."
Zen knocked him unconscious. He wouldn't kill him — not out of mercy, but because he'd been useful.
From a rooftop, Zen scanned the camp. Four banners marked the commanders' bases. He chose Jorik's.
Inside, the chaos had left the guards distracted. Zen slipped through with shadowstep, moving room to room. Then he heard it — screams.
He peeked inside. The stench of blood hit him first. Tools lined the walls — hooks, hammers, pliers, blades — each one stained from use. A man sat broken in a chair, wrists bound, face swollen.
Jorik hummed a tune as he worked, a smile stretched across his face. He pressed a glowing iron against the merchant's arm. Flesh sizzled. The man screamed, thrashing against the ropes.
"Beg louder," Jorik chuckled. "The walls don't hear you yet."
He set the iron aside and picked up a thin awl, sliding it under the man's fingernail. The merchant's voice cracked, hoarse from pleading. Tears streamed down his face.
Jorik drove the awl deeper, then tossed it aside and reached for a mallet. He brought it down on the man's knee with a sickening crack. The merchant howled, his body jerking violently.
Still humming, Jorik switched again — this time to a pair of pliers. He gripped the man's thumb and twisted until bone snapped. The merchant's cries broke into sobs, his voice nearly gone.
Jorik leaned close to his victim, whispering almost tenderly:
"Don't pass out yet. I'm not finished with you."
He reached for a drill‑like tool, turning it slowly in his hands, savoring the anticipation.
That was when Zen moved.
From the shadows, his blade flashed once, twice. Jorik's humming cut off mid‑note. He looked down in shock as both his arms fell useless at his sides, severed before he even realized someone else was in the room.
The drill clattered to the floor.
The torches guttered. Flames bent unnaturally, shadows stretching long across the chamber. For a heartbeat, the light seemed to ripple across Zen's body — not blinding, but a subtle flicker, as if the darkness itself was straining to contain him.
Then he stepped forward. His mask caught the glow, white one moment, swallowed in black the next. On his neck, half‑hidden by his collar, the crescent moon tattoo shimmered faintly, glowing silver in the dark. It pulsed like a heartbeat, casting a cold light that made the blood on the floor gleam.
And in his hand, his sword burned with a thin blue aura, cold and sharp as moonlight on steel. The glow wasn't fire, but something deeper — a spectral edge that made the air hum, as though the blade itself rejected the world around it.
Jorik's eyes widened, horror dawning.
Zen's voice cut through the silence, low and steady:
"Power makes men careless. That's why you lost."
Jorik staggered, blood pouring from his stumps. His gaze locked on the glowing mark and the blade's eerie aura, realization crashing into him.
"You… you're not one of mine," he rasped. His face twisted with sudden clarity. "It was you. The beast… the chaos… all of it—"
Zen's sword carved through his legs before he could finish. Jorik collapsed, screaming, the silver glow of the tattoo and the cold blue aura of the blade the last lights he saw before darkness claimed him.
He searched Jorik's quarters.
A faint mana flicker caught his attention. Zen pressed against the wall. Stone shifted, revealing stairs. He descended, footsteps echoing.
The chamber below glittered with treasure. Gold, jewels, weapons — more than he could count.
For a moment, he froze at the sheer scale. Then his shadow stretched, swallowing it all into storage.
Zen slipped back into the night, Jorik's treasure already hidden away. From a rooftop he scanned the camp again. Four banners still flew, but one drew his eye — crimson and black, jagged as claw marks.
Kael's.
He moved closer, weaving through alleys. The difference was immediate. These guards weren't panicked like Jorik's. They stood in formation, eyes sharp, armor marked with the same crimson sigil. The air itself felt heavier.
Zen ignored the warning in his gut and slipped inside. The corridors were too clean, too quiet. Every step echoed. It felt less like a stronghold and more like a stage.
At the end of the hall, a chamber opened — another treasury, glittering with gold and weapons. Zen's shadow stretched, ready to claim it.
Then the torches flared — not brighter, but blood‑red, as if the flames themselves bent to another will. The air thickened, heavy with iron and smoke.
A slow, deliberate voice echoed through the chamber.
"Well done. You even killed Jorik for me. Saves me the trouble."
Zen's eyes snapped up.
From the far side of the vault, the shadows peeled back like curtains. A tall figure stepped forward — but he wasn't alone. Half a dozen armored subordinates flanked him, their weapons already drawn, their eyes cold and disciplined.
Kael himself walked at the center, his armor polished but unscarred, his hands clean, his stride measured. He didn't radiate power like Jorik or Rask. Instead, he radiated control.
Kael spread his arms, as if welcoming Zen into his own stage.
"You thought you were the hunter. But you've been in my web since the first scream. Every step you've taken, I've allowed. Every treasure you've touched, I've marked. And now…"
He gestured lazily, and his subordinates stepped forward in unison, forming a wall of steel between him and Zen.
"…now you'll learn that strength is nothing without foresight."
Behind him, the treasure shimmered faintly — not all of it was real. Illusions rippled, gold melting into ash, jewels flickering like dying stars.
Zen's grip tightened on his blade, the blue aura humming low, the crescent moon tattoo on his neck glowing cold against his skin.
The trap had been sprung.