Words spread like wildfire, drifting from the far edges of the Land of the Lamb to the bustling markets of the Land of the Wolf. No snow or frost, just the same cracked stone roads and sun-warmed walls, same whispers carried on the wind. People didn't speak his name—they didn't know it. But they talked.
In a smoky tavern wedged between two brick alleys, a merchant spoke with too much drink in him and not enough sense.
"I swear on my cart's wheels—I saw it," he said, leaning forward. "This man, with a halberd longer than he was tall, cut down a spirit beast with eight slashes. Eight! In a blink."
"Eight, he says," muttered a man with a hood pulled low. "And I suppose your cart grows wings too."
"I didn't say I saw everything, but I saw the aftermath. And the Luminous Huntress was there too."
The murmurs caught like dry leaves in fire. The moment her name dropped, voices lowered.
"The Mistress was there?" asked another, her voice half-laced with disbelief. "Then it wasn't just some back-alley brawl."
"No. It was something else," the drunk merchant nodded. "They say she didn't speak a word. Just watched and walked."
Elsewhere, in the midday heat of a market corner, two cultivators leaned beside a fruit stall, blades at their waist and dust on their boots.
"Did you hear about the beast outside the cave east of Dalgona?" one asked, peeling a fruit with his thumbnail.
"I heard it killed one of the squad," the other replied, frowning. "But also heard it was already half-dead before they even arrived."
"That's the thing," the first one said. "One man did the bleeding. The rest just watched."
"No name?"
"None. Just 'the man with the halberd.'"
A few paces away, a boy pretending to sort herbs whispered to his grandmother, "They say he didn't even flinch when one of the cultivators got their head crushed."
"And?" the old woman asked without looking up.
"He just smiled," the boy whispered. "Kept fighting like nothing happened."
On the steps of the Jade Basin, where old men and wandering wanderers gathered to drink cheap tea and pass time, the tale changed shape again.
"Every time someone talks about it, the beast gets bigger," one of them chuckled. "Next time I hear it, the thing'll have wings and spit fire."
"Maybe," said another, "but one thing stays the same."
"And what's that?"
"The halberd. And the way he walked away without turning back. That kind of walk… you only get it if you've killed more than once."
They sipped their tea and let the silence fill in the blanks.
No one said his name.
Not yet.
Tales spread like wildfire, twisted by tongues and stretched by imagination. Yet the echoes of what had transpired in that nameless cave traveled far—some fragments grounded in truth, others warped into legend. From the mouth of strangers in dim-lit taverns, to whispers in busy markets, the name Kazel was beginning to stir the winds of awe.
By the edge of a quiet dock where reeds swayed with the breeze, a hooded man sat with a fishing rod in hand, the line cast into the murky waters below. Cloaked in calmness, the man's weathered fingers tugged ever so slightly as the bait shifted. Silence hung thick, disturbed only by the creaking wood beneath approaching footsteps.
"Would you like to hear a story?" asked a young man behind him, his voice crisp and precise. He wore the emblem of a sect—a thunderbolt crashing into the earth—stitched proudly into his robes.
The fisherman chuckled, low and amused. "That's odd. I'm usually the one who tells the stories, not the one being offered them."
"For a vagabond like you," the young man said with a hint of smugness, "perhaps this one will pique your interest."
The man laughed lightly. "Shalam... if your tale intrigues me, I'll grant you a spar."
"Deal." Shalam's tone sharpened with enthusiasm. "There's a genius rising from the bottom region. Word says he's from the Land of the Lamb."
"Hmph." The man tilted his head slightly. "And tell me, will this genius soar to the Land of the Tiger or the Dragon… or stay trapped in the Wolf's jaws?"
Shalam shrugged. "That, I don't know. But they say he killed an Epic-class spirit beast—deep in a collapsed cavern. And here's the kicker… Ondira was there too."
The man's fingers twitched slightly. "The Luminous Huntress? Hah. Then it wasn't a solo hunt after all. Still, that's no small feat. Been a while since anything stirred the region like that."
Shalam nodded. "Last time something like this happened… it was you."
The man's laugh this time was deep, almost fond. "And yet the world turns."
"What got me," Shalam said, leaning forward, "was the name. They're calling him Sect Slayer. Apparently, he dismantled two sects in a single afternoon. Just strolled into a tournament, left ruins behind."
The man blinked. "He what?"
"That's what they say. You know how these things go."
"Sect Slayer," the man repeated with a grin. "Now that's a name. Got to admit, it's got bite."
"His name… is Kazel."
The fishing float jerked violently—then stilled. The rod bent into a deep arc, the line quivering with tension. But the man didn't flinch. His hand held steady, no struggle, no alarm.
Then, silence, five minutes of pure silence, albeit the struggle beneath the water was intense.
Slowly but surely, a massive fish floated up to the surface, belly-up, gills no longer moving. It wasn't pierced or cut—it had died from pure exhaustion. It couldn't overpower the tenacity of the one who held the rod, nor the string that never once gave in.
Shalam stared at the floating beast in disbelief. "You didn't even pull…"
The man stood, letting the rod fall gently to the dock behind him. He looked up at the pale morning sky, his voice quieter now. "K… Kazel? You're sure that's the name?"
"Yes," Shalam said, watching the man carefully.
The hooded figure's breath caught for just a moment. His brown eyes, once tranquil, now stirred with something heavier. "The sect slayer… the impossible feat…"
The fishing rod lay still, the dead fish drifting below it like a fallen titan. The man stood up slowly, raising his gaze to the clouds above.
"Have you come to this world as well… my liege?"