The south did not welcome them.
It swallowed them.
The land changed slowly at first—forests thinning into dry stretches of cracked earth, the air growing heavier, the wind sharper. Civilization became scattered. Villages appeared like ghosts—half-empty, wary, watching strangers with the kind of fear that came from experience.
the group didn't slow.
None of them did.
Because even after the ravine—
Even after the blood—
They all knew.
It wasn't over.
—
They reached the outskirts of a small trading outpost just before dawn.
No walls.
No banners.
Just wooden structures, worn paths, and eyes behind every window.
Perfect.
No questions.
If you had coin.
—
"Keep your heads down," Liora said quietly. "South traders don't care who you are—but they care what you bring."
One of the recruits tightened his grip on his weapon.
"And if they don't like what we bring?"
Adam answered without looking at him.
"Then we take what we need."
No one laughed.
—
They split into smaller groups.
Efficient.
Controlled.
Liora, and Adam moved toward the central yard—where merchants gathered livestock and transport.
Horses.
Wagons.
And men who watched too closely.
—
A thick-built trader stepped forward as they approached.
His eyes flicked across them—measuring, calculating.
"You don't look like farmers," he said.
they didn't stop walking.
"We're not."
The man smirked slightly. "Mercenaries, then."
A pause.
"Or something worse."
Liora stepped beside Siles.
"We're buyers."
She dropped a small pouch onto the crate beside him.
The sound of metal hitting wood was enough.
The trader opened it—
And his expression changed instantly.
Gold gleamed in the early light.
"Gold Korona," he muttered, almost to himself.
Now he looked at them differently.
Not with suspicion.
With interest.
"…how many?"
"Thirteen," Siles replied.
"We need horses. A wagon. Supplies."
The trader nodded slowly.
"That kind of coin… gets you more than that."
Adam' gaze sharpened slightly.
"We only take what we need."
—
It took less than an hour.
Six sturdy horses.
One reinforced wagon.
Water, dried meat, cloaks, spare blades.
Enough for thirteen.
Enough to move.
Enough to disappear.
—
But peace—
Never lasted.
—
It started with a scream.
Short.
Cut off.
—
Silas reacted first.
Of course he did.
He turned—
And moved.
A blur.
—
One of their men dropped, a blade buried deep in his neck.
Before his body hit the ground—
Silas' hand was already on the attacker.
A twist.
A break.
Then silence.
—
"ASSASSINS!" someone shouted.
Too late.
They were already inside.
—
The outpost erupted into chaos.
Civilians scattered.
Merchants ducked behind crates.
And from the shadows between buildings—
They came.
Again.
—
Not like before.
These were faster.
Sharper.
More aggressive.
No hesitation.
No testing.
Just kill.
—
Siles drew his blade.
And the world narrowed.
—
One came from the left—
Fast—
Low strike aimed for his ribs.
Siles stepped forward instead of back.
Steel met steel—
A sharp clash—
Then a shift.
His blade slid along the assassin's—
Redirected—
And in the same motion—
Cut clean across the man's throat.
Blood painted the dust.
—
Another lunged from behind—
Liora intercepted.
Her movement was fluid.
Almost effortless.
She spun—
Her blade catching the incoming strike—
Turning it aside—
Then—
A perfect counter.
Her second blade slipped between armor gaps—
Straight to the heart.
The assassin gasped—
Then collapsed.
—
Two more rushed her—
Together.
She didn't retreat.
Didn't panic.
She stepped into them.
Blades danced.
Precise.
Deadly.
One lost his arm before he realized it.
The other—
His head followed a heartbeat later.
—
Silas—
Was already gone.
Again.
—
A shadow among shadows.
An assassin turned—
Too late.
Silas' blade pierced from behind—
Clean.
Efficient.
Another tried to flee—
Silas caught him mid-step—
A silent cut—
And the man dropped without a sound.
—
The recruits held their ground.
Not perfect.
Not elegant.
But stronger than before.
They fought.
Together.
And this time—
They didn't break.
—
Minutes passed like seconds.
Then—
Silence.
Again.
—
Bodies lay scattered across the outpost.
Blood soaked into the dirt.
The survivors stood—
Breathing hard.
Alive.
Still thirteen.
—
Silas wiped his blade slowly.
His eyes moved across the fallen assassins.
"…they're escalating."
Liora nodded.
"No more tests."
Silas stepped forward.
"They want us dead."
A pause.
Adam looked at his group.
Then at the wagon.
The horses.
The gold.
The road south.
—
"…then we stop running like prey."
His voice was calm.
But it carried weight.
"We move like something worse."
—
Liora stepped beside him.
Her eyes burned with something fierce.
"Then we change the name."
The group looked at her.
She continued—
"Oblivion Fang… isn't enough."
A pause.
"It sounds dangerous."
Her gaze hardened.
"But not inevitable."
Silence.
Wind moved through the broken outpost.
—
Adam thought for a moment.
Then—
He spoke.
"We are not something that hunts."
A step forward.
"We are something that ends."
His voice dropped slightly.
Cold.
Final.
"From now on…"
A pause.
"We are Dread Sovereign."
The name landed heavier than the last.
Not just fear.
Authority.
Dominance.
Finality.
—
No one spoke.
But they all felt it.
This name—
Wasn't just a warning.
It was a statement.
—
Liora exhaled slowly.
"…that one will spread."
Adam turned toward the wagon.
"Good."
—
They didn't stay.
Didn't explain.
Didn't look back at the outpost or the bodies left behind.
—
They mounted the horses.
Loaded the wagon.
Counted their numbers.
Thirteen.
Still.
—
And then—
They moved.
South.
Again.
—
A new name.
New resources.
New purpose.
—
No past.
No chains.
No masters.
—
Only power.
Only survival.
Only what they chose to become.
—
As the sun rose behind them—
Casting long shadows across the land—
Thirteen figures rode forward into the unknown.
—
And somewhere—
Far beyond their sight—
A message was already being written.
A new name added to a growing list.
Dread Sovereign.