Night settled over the forest like a held breath—quiet, waiting, almost reverent.
Aldrich didn't look back at Tavian's corpse.
He only paused long enough to flick the blood from his fingers. The dagger he'd thrown—Kyra's dagger—still quivered in Tavian's throat, the handle catching the moonlight as the dying Saelari scout lay facedown among the roots.
Tavian's body gave one last twitch.
Aldrich didn't bother acknowledging it.
He turned, tightened the black cloth tied around his forehead, adjusted the weight of his katana at his hip, and continued north.
The path narrowed until it became nothing more than a deer trail, but he followed it like he'd walked it his entire life. For nine years, Hollowdene had sharpened him—endurance, senses, instincts. Now every heartbeat of the world felt familiar to him: the wind brushing through leaves, the shift of distant footsteps, the sound of water somewhere far ahead.
The forest thinned.
Aldrich stepped out onto the cliffs of North Ridge.
The air was cooler up here—thin, sharp, biting at his lungs. He walked forward until his boots touched the edge of the stone and he looked down.
Below him spread the clan of Saelari.
A wide settlement enclosed by wooden barricades and watchtowers. Smoke rose from chimneys. Lanterns hung along the main road, glowing a dull orange. He saw guards drifting lazily at their posts, chatting, drinking, bored—never expecting anything unusual to come from the wilderness.
He watched them in silence.
He watched the ease on their faces.
He watched men who had lived their lives while his parents were burned inside their own home.
His jaw tightened.
His pulse remained calm.
Aldrich reached down and drew his katana. The polished steel caught the moonlight, painting a thin silver line across the night.
He whispered something only Hollowdene would've heard:
"…This ends tonight."
Then he walked.
The Front Gate-
Two Saelari guards flanked it, leaning on spears, laughing about something crude and meaningless.
They didn't even register him at first.
A lone young man, black coat swaying, dark eyes unreadable, walking toward them with a sword held loosely in one hand.
One guard straightened.
"Hey—hey! You there. Stop. Who are you?"
Aldrich didn't stop.
"Oi! Boy—stop!"
He stepped into the lantern light.
Both guards saw the sword.
One inhaled sharply to shout.
Aldrich blurred forward.
The first guard's throat opened in a clean, horizontal line—he didn't even get to gasp.
The other guard thrust his spear out—and Aldrich shifted, stepped inside the attack, and drove his blade upward through the man's ribs. The guard choked on his own breath as Aldrich pulled the sword free and let him fall.
An alarm bell began to ring.
Voices rose.
Boots thundered.
Aldrich walked into the clan grounds as though he had all the time in the world.
Lanterns burst to life. Doors slammed open.
Swords, spears, axes—men and women poured into the streets.
"INTRUDER!"
"KILL HIM!"
Aldrich didn't quicken his pace.
The first wave came—seven men rushing at him with blades raised.
Aldrich took a single breath.
Then he moved.
His katana cut through the first man's chest in a downward arc, continued the momentum, spun outward, disarming the second and striking across his jaw.
Blood sprayed the dirt.
A spear thrust from the right—Aldrich ducked, sliced the shaft in half, then stepped inside and drove his pommel into the attacker's nose. Bone crunched. He ripped the katana downward, splitting the man open.
The others faltered.
Aldrich's expression never changed.
More came. Fifteen… twenty… thirty. The bell screamed above them, calling the entire clan to arms.
Aldrich stood alone.
He tilted his head, cracked his neck once, and stepped forward.
What followed wasn't a battle.
It was extermination.
Aldrich danced through them with precision born from nine years of killing monsters—monsters far tougher than men. His blade carved clean lines of silver through the air. Every strike was exact. Every movement waste-free. He pivoted, sidestepped, cut, blocked, struck again.
Bodies fell.
Screams filled the night.
A woman hurled a throwing knife—a flick of Aldrich's wrist sent it spinning back into her forehead.
Two archers fired from a balcony—Aldrich swung, slicing both arrows in midair, then sprinted up the wooden steps and cut both men down before they could breathe again.
Blood soaked the dirt road.
The more they tried to overwhelm him, the more efficient he became.
A spear clipped his coat once.
Only once.
Aldrich shifted his stance, redirected the next blow, and stabbed the attacker through the kidney.
A man tried to flee.
Aldrich cut him down without looking.
Ten minutes. Fifteen at most.
And the clan courtyard was covered in bodies.
But Aldrich stood, blood dripping from his sword, coat fluttering softly in the dying wind.
Still calm.
Still breathing evenly.
Still empty-eyed.
The central doors of the Saelari manor opened.
Out stepped a tall man in a long black robe, hair tied back, a sword sheathed at his hip. His face was lined, proud, severe. He walked across the corpses without looking down.
Patriarch Vaelor Saelari.
He stopped a dozen paces from Aldrich, studying him.
"So," Vaelor said, voice deep, slow, disdainful, "this was the boy left behind from that useless Yagurah clan."
Aldrich looked up at him, eyes unblinking.
His voice was calm… almost polite… but edged with something cold and final.
"If I'm truly useless," he said, raising his katana, "then why are so many of your family lying dead at my feet?"
The wind shifted.
The patriarch drew his blade.
And the night held its breath.