The sky over the northern reaches of Zemlyost did not hang; it pressed. It was a ceiling of bruised iron and coal-ash, suffocating the light until the midday sun was nothing more than a pale, sickly smudge behind the clouds. Here, the air tasted of sulfur and wet stone, a stark departure from the crisp pines of the southern border. The ground was not yet white with winter, but it was dying—a landscape of black mud and freezing slush that crunched like broken glass under the weight of passing wheels.

  In the center of the rutted road, Azuma stood motionless.

  He was a vertical line of absolute stillness against the shifting grey of the mist. He did not wear the heavy furs of the locals, nor the boiled leather of road-thugs. His posture and commanding silhouette, looked out of place—a silent, stubborn refusal to let this world dictate his form.

  Directly ahead of him, the rhythmic snort of horses and the low creak of wood announced the convoy. Three heavy wagons, their iron-barred windows weeping rust, labored through the muck. The lead wagon jerked to a halt as the driver hauled on the reins. A guard sat in the box, his hand resting on the hilt of a notched broadsword.

  "Stranger, what are you doing?" the guard barked, his voice rasping through the damp air. He squinted, his eyes traveling over the flawless silhouette of Azuma’s attire. He had seen the silks of the capital and other Western kingdoms, but nothing like what this stranger was wearing. "A noble? What do you want? This road is Crown-sanctioned. Move, or be moved."

  Azuma said nothing. He simply raised his hand, his fingers snapping with the dry, clinical crack of a bone breaking.

  The world reacted with a violent, synchronized shudder.

  From the left, the moisture in the air crystallized instantly into a jagged block of rime-frost, encasing the front wheels of the lead wagon in a suffocating grip of ice. Simultaneously, thick, black vines erupted from the ditch, coiling around the rear wagon’s spokes like the fingers of a titan.

  "What?! They're Craft users! We're under attack!"

  A dozen guards tumbled from the wagons, boots splashing into the freezing slush. They fanned out, steel singing as it left scabbards. "You’re making a mistake, stranger," the lead guard shouted, his pride masking a sudden, cold tremor in his gut. "We have the legal right to transport these slaves to Chornov, according to the laws of Zemlyost!"

  Azuma’s hand went to the hilt of his katana. He drew it in a single, fluid motion that seemed to pull the remaining light from the air.

  "I understand you have a job to perform," Azuma said, his voice level and devoid of heat. "Leave now, and none of you will be harmed."

  The lead guard spat into the mud. "Is that supposed to scare me, foreigner? Do you think I'm afraid because you're a noble? Kill him."

  He lunged, and Azuma moved. Steel met steel in a dull ring that vibrated through the mist. They locked blades, the guard’s face turning a desperate shade of purple as he tried to use his weight to bear Azuma down. Azuma merely leaned in, his eyes meeting the guard’s with the terrifying emptiness of a machine mid-calculation.

  "Keikoku shita zo."

  "I warned you."

  Azuma’s left leg snapped out—a Muay Boran low-kick delivered with the force of a falling hammer. It caught the guard’s lead knee from the side. The sound was visceral: the wet pop of ligaments and the sickening crunch of the patella shattering. As the guard’s body began its inevitable descent, Azuma disengaged the blade lock. Before the man’s torso could even tilt toward the earth, the katana traced a vertical arc.

  It was a clean, silent stroke. The guard’s head didn't roll; it was simply no longer attached, a spray of dark crimson painting the frozen slush.

  Behind him, the scene was one of controlled, non-lethal brutality. Anneliese moved like a ghost through the mist, her movements a masterclass in Aiki-jujutsu. She caught a guard's wrist, pivoted, and snapped his radius with a sickening crack. Elowen and Kaien followed her lead, utilizing joint locks and momentum to dismantle the remaining hostile guards. Kaien’s face was set in a mask of grim focus, his breath hitching as he applied a standing arm-bar that left a man screaming in the mud with a ruined elbow.

  "Leave. Now," Azuma commanded the surviving guards.

  The guards looked at their fallen leader, then at the man in the black silk suit who hadn't even broken a sweat. They didn't hesitate. They dropped their heavy weapons but scrambled to grab their water skins and food pouches—essential for survival in the barren north—before vanishing into the grey fog like spirits of the damned.

  Azuma gave a sharp, melodic whistle. From the hill, the villagers of Pribezh emerged to take charge of the wagons. Before the transport moved, Anneliese, Elowen, and Kaien began a methodical check of the wagons. They moved from one cage to the next, their presence a stark contrast to the brutality of the guards.

  "You're safe now," Anneliese said, her voice soft but carrying through the iron bars. "The road to the West ends here for you."

  The hostages huddled together, their faces gaunt. As the trio moved through the wagons, they discovered that every single one of the slaves was a Craft user. Some were little more than children, their small hands scarred by industrial labor; others bore the jewelry and woven patterns of the Kingdom of Castalia.

  Azuma approached the group. "Kairah is from Castalia. She's looking for someone. They could be with this group."

  He gave his companions a meaningful look, and they understood. Anneliese and Kaien moved among the Castalian prisoners, asking if any of them recognized the name. One by one, the prisoners shook their heads, their eyes filled with a weary, hollow ignorance.

  "No," an elder from the third wagon rasped. "We were taken from the southern borders. We have heard no such name in the camps."

  Azuma nodded once. The lead was cold, but the objective remained. He turned to the village elder from Pribezh. "Take them. Feed them and hide them until the moon is high."

  Anneliese and Elowen took their positions at the flanks of the convoy, ready to escort the villagers and the refugees back to the safety of the village. The wagons began to creak away, the sound of wooden wheels on gravel slowly fading into the mist.

  The atmosphere suddenly curdled. A low-frequency hum set the marrow of Azuma’s bones to aching.

  From the fog toward Chornov, six horsemen paced forward. They wore charcoal coats and heavy armor. The Wardogs. High Queen Rhea's inquisitors.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  The leader halted his mount. "I take it that you're the foreign noble, Azuma? We got information from Temnov that you were the one who removed Valev from his seat. You and your group were also the ones that stopped the High Queen's guild in Blackwood Canyon."

  "Sore ga dō shita?" Azuma responded.

  "So what?"

  The leader didn't debate. He didn't understand what Azuma said, but knew instinctively that it was hostile. "Masks on. Kill them."

  All six horsemen donned obsidian-colored iron masks.

  The horsemen dismounted, the sigils inside their masks began pulsing with a yellow, unnatural light behind each eye slot. One Wardog raised a staff, a beam of concentrated energy lancing toward the group. Caelum moved instantly, stepping in front of Kaien and Azuma. He raised his shield, activating his Aegis; the energy beam hit an invisible wall of a hyper-dense, energy field, flattening and dispersing into the slush, like water against stone.

  Azuma didn't wait.

  Bolt Blitz.

  He translated across the distance, leaving flashes of electricity in his wake. A violent discharge of white-blue lightning arced from the wet road into his saya. He appeared in front of the staff-wielder in a burst of ozone. The Wardog was still reeling from the shock when Azuma performed a Nukiuchi. The blade traveled from groin to crown, splitting the man vertically in two.

  Nearby, Caelum roared, his Norveg shield preceding him as he charged. He caught a second Wardog in a gravity crush, the man’s ribs collapsing inward, before engaging a third in a duel of heavy steel.

  While Caelum locked blades with his own opponent, Kaien didn't hesitate. He charged the remaining two Wardogs, his hand already on the hilt of his short blade.

  One of the Inquisitors stepped forward, the sigils on his mask glowing a sickly, necrotic green. He took a sharp breath, and from the mouth portion of the iron mask, he blew a thick, billowing cloud of poisonous mist. Kaien’s instincts screamed; he dove into a low roll, the acidic vapor hissing as it passed over his head and withered the grass behind him. Rising from the mud with explosive force, Kaien closed the distance. He seized the poison-user’s leading wrist, utilizing a classic Aiki-jujutsu redirection to send the man’s own momentum against him.

  The Wardog was flipped violently onto his back. Before the man could recover, Kaien delivered a brutal, snapping kick directly into the iron face-plate, the force of the impact rattling the man's skull against the mud.

  Kaien spun, but the second Wardog was already mid-strike. This one possessed the ability of extremity elasticity; with a series of wet, popping sounds, his arms elongated like coiled serpents. He lunged from ten feet away, his hands gripping jagged daggers that blurred through the air. Kaien twisted his torso, pushing his reflexes to their absolute limit. He barely dodged the primary thrust, but the tip of one blade grazed his cheek. A thin, hot line of crimson opened across his face, the blood steaming slightly in the freezing air.

  Kaien hissed, retreating into a defensive stance as the elastic limbs snapped back to their original length, the Wardog's iron mask glinting with a predatory light.

  Azuma turned his attention to the leader, who had drawn a longsword. The man ran a gloved hand along the steel, and the metal erupted into a roar of white-hot flame.

  "Come, foreigner," the leader challenged. "Let's see who the better fighter is."

  Azuma fully unsheathed his sword, the light of the fire reflecting in the polished black silk of his vest.

  "Kisama-ra no inochi wa koko de owaru."

  "Your lives end here."

  Blue electricity shrouded the katana. They clashed several times, the leader’s frustration growing as Azuma’s blade refused to melt. "What kind of sword is that?! It should have turned to slag already!"

  "My sword, turn to slag?" Azuma replied. "Let's see which one of our swords melts first."

  Azuma activated his plasma blade. The air around the steel of his katana ionized into a blinding, humming ribbon of a flickering lightning bolt. When they locked blades, the leader’s sword literally melted in his hands, the white-hot liquid metal searing his flesh. He screamed in pain as the slag fused with his gloves. Azuma delivered a swift spinning heel kick to the side of the leader's head, dropping him to one knee. Azuma placed his katana against the man’s neck.

  "Do you think you can defeat our queen?" the leader yelled defiantly. "She will crush you like an ant."

  With a casual, horizontal swing, the conversation ended. The leader’s head rolled into the slush, a look of eternal shock frozen on his face as his iron mask rolled away in the opposite direction. Azuma performed Chiburi, the blood vaporizing off the plasma-heated steel before he sheathed it.

  He turned his head. Caelum had finished his opponent, but Kaien was struggling. The boy was locked between two Wardogs—one exhaling poisonous mist, the other a monstrosity of elastic limbs.

  Caelum moved to help, but Azuma stopped him. "Wait. I need to evaluate him in a real fight. He needs to be pushed physically if he wants to overcome the wall that's halting his progress. If things get too dangerous, you may intervene."

  Azuma’s eyes shifted to the second attacker, who was already inhaling to release another cloud of the corrosive green mist toward Kaien. Without looking away from the boy, Azuma pointed a single finger at the poison artifact user.

  "Caelum, crush that one."

  Caelum didn't need a second order. He pivoted, his left hand slightly raised, locking onto the Wardog’s signature. He closed his left fist sharply then the atmosphere around the Wardog shifted. "Thirty-fold," Caelum said in a low voice.

  The Wardog didn't even have time to exhale. The gravity in a five-foot radius around him spiked instantaneously, increasing his effective weight by thirty times. The sound was horrific—the wet, splintering crunch of a spine collapsing under the weight of a mountain. The Inquisitor was pancaked into the frozen slush, his iron mask flattened into his chest cavity before he could even register the shift. He was dead before the mist could leave his throat.

  The elastic Wardog, taken aback from the sight he had just witnessed, lunged directly at Kaien, his arm stretching with a wet, popping sound. Kaien dodged, but the attacker's other arm whipped out with uncanny speed toward Kaien's blindspot, his dagger sinking deep into Kaien's thigh. The boy gasped, his leg buckling as one knee fell into the mud.

  Caelum made a move to step in, his hands tightening on his blade, but Azuma’s gaze was absolute. "Wait."

  At the threshold of trauma, Kaien’s body began to flicker—a violent, high-frequency blurring. It looked as if two different bodies were trying to take control, a tug-of-war of physical presence. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a reverberating, hollow boom as if two different people were speaking at once. Kaien had awakened his dormant Craft.

  Dual-State Resonance.

  Kaien used a short range teleportation vector to "Blink" behind the elastic Wardog. He performed a Muay Boran low kick, shattering the man’s leg. The Wardog turned his broken limb elastic to stay upright, whipping his arms at the boy, but Kaien Blinked again, vanishing in a strobe of static and reappearing behind the Wardog once more. Expecting another low kick, the Wardog turned his good leg elastic, but Kaien instead unsheathed his sword and drove it deep into the man’s back.

  The Wardog screamed. Kaien’s hands tightened on the hilt to finish him, but Azuma appeared, his hand catching Kaien’s wrist with the strength of a vice. "Kaien. No. No killing, not yet."

  Kaien let go, the blade remaining in the Wardog’s back. Azuma reached out, grasping the handle of Kaien’s sword while it was still inside the enemy.

  "Raikō."

  "Lightning."

  A massive surge of white light poured from Azuma’s palm through the steel. The Wardog was electrocuted until his heart exploded, his body slumping dead into the slush. The resonance faded, and Kaien looked up at Azuma, trembling as he deactivated his craft. Azuma placed a hand on his shoulder.

  "Good job, kid."

  "Master?" Kaien whispered. He bowed his head, the adrenaline fading into a deep, bone-weary exhaustion, his Craft deactivating. "Thank you... Master."

  Azuma reached down and picked up the Wardog's iron mask. He turned it over, seeing the interior lined with complex, glowing runes. Caelum approached, looking at the mask with disdain.

  "Artifacts," Caelum rumbled. "The Spell Weavers created these to grant Craft to those not born with it. Just like the weavers themselves, these men use artifacts to mimic what we have by blood. We just killed the High Queen’s Inquisitors, Azuma. The infamous Wardogs."

  Azuma stared out toward the horizon. Two days away, the distant orange glow of Chornov clawed at the underside of the smog-choked clouds.

  "Whatever she's up to," Azuma said, his voice cold and certain, "we need to stop her."

  Caelum nodded. They both then looked at Kaien.

  "Azuma, did you know the boy is a Craft User?"

  "No, I didn't." Azuma responded, "I also think that he didn't know it either."

  In a low voice, Azuma just says one word, "Ashura..."

  Kaien in his Dual-State Resonance