Evening had just begun to settle over the valley when Kiaria and Orman stepped out from their rooms.
The mountain air carried the cool scent of pine and damp stone, touched faintly by smoke from the tavern’s hearth below.
They had rested for a few hours after the long descent from the sect, letting the fatigue of travel fade from their limbs. Now, the inn stirred to life beneath them–the hiss of boiling broth, the sizzle of oil, the slow rhythm of bamboo blinds tapping against wooden fras.
Lanterns glowed in rows, their paper skins painted with fading tales of beasts and gods. Smoke curled lazily toward the rafters, blurring the edges of the world outside the door.
At one corner table sat two travelers in simple robes.
The younger traced a fingertip around the rim of his cup, gaze distant yet focused–the kind of calm that unsettled those who mistook it for frailty.
Across from him sat Orman, the Seventh King, youthful and restless, his grin bright enough to match the lantern light. He drumd his fingers against the table in mock impatience, a picture of royal mischief disguised as humility.
"Little Brother," Orman said, his tone carrying the teasing ease of soone too young to fear consequence but too proud to admit it. "You sit there like a monk who’s forgotten the taste of food. I, on the other hand, am starving to death."
Kiaria looked up, eyes faintly amused. "Then order, Brother. The table does not eat itself."
Orman sighed dramatically. "Ah, but how can a King lower himself to shout for service? You, my noble disciple of enlightennt, must shout for both of us."
Kiaria tilted his head, a trace of dry humor flickering at the corner of his lips. "You an the starving King cannot lift his own voice?"
Before Orman could retort, the tavern keeper appeared–a man broad-shouldered but calm-eyed, his grey-streaked hair tied neatly behind his head. His steps made no sound on the wooden floor.
"Honored guests," the man greeted, smiling warmly. "What will you have this evening?"
"Sothing honest," Orman replied with a grin, "and preferably alive when it was caught."
The man chuckled softly. "You’ll find no deception in this kitchen. Tonight’s stew is mountain hare, caught at dawn. Shall I serve it?"
"Perfect," Orman said, rubbing his hands. "And double the portion for ."
Kiaria only nodded once. "Small serving."
When the man left, Orman leaned across the table, lowering his voice. "Brother, do you not find this place... too quiet?"
Kiaria glanced around. The tavern, though warm and fragrant, was strangely empty. The benches were bare, the bar unattended save for the keeper himself. Outside, the path through the valley was silent. No chatter of rchants or travelers, no clatter of hooves.
"It is unusual," Kiaria admitted. "A place like this should echo with voices."
"Exactly," Orman said. "Every tavern I’ve ever entered was full of noise. Gambling, laughter, fights... even a song or two. This calm makes my spine itch."
When the keeper returned with steaming bowls and fresh bread, Orman decided to ask.
"Boss," he said casually, "is it usually like this?"
"Like what?" the keeper replied, blinking.
Orman gestured around the half-empty room. "Quiet. Too quiet."
The man laughed softly, not unkindly. "Ah, that... Happens often. Beasts or bandits, one of the two. The roads are not as safe as they once were. If you sit long enough, you might see a show."
"A show?" Orman arched a brow. "If it’s boring, you owe us one free al."
The man only smiled, shaking his head. "The heavens take no reviews from mortals, young master."
Minutes passed. The food’s scent mingled with the soft rustle of wind. Then the door slamd open.
A half-dozen n burst in–bandits by their look, dust-streaked, their blades glinting in the lantern light. Laughter like gravel filled the tavern as they spread through the room.
"Well, well," one jeered, swinging a knife toward the nearest table. "Looks like we’ve found tonight’s entertainnt."
Another kicked a stool aside and barked, "No heroes here, right? Just sit quiet and hand over your valuables."
Custors froze. Even the tavern keeper lowered his gaze, voice barely above a whisper. "Is this wise?"
Kiaria said nothing. His calmness irritated them. One bandit leaned closer; eyeing the boy’s composed face, and sneered. "You little brat. Do you even know what’s happening? Look scared, at least."
Kiaria’s lips curved slightly–not in fear, but in sothing unreadable. "Fear? I have no need of it."
The words, calm as water, struck harder than mockery. Rage blood in the bandit’s eyes. He grabbed Kiaria by the collar, pressing a knife against his neck. "Then you’ll bleed without trembling!"
Orman chuckled under his breath. The sound was low, almost sympathetic, but it stoked fury in the n around them. "You dare laugh?" the knife-bearer shouted.
"You wouldn’t understand," Orman said lightly. "It’s just... I’ve seen this play before. The ending never changes."
Before the man could strike, a sound cracked through the air–like frost splitting wood. The walls shimred white. Frost blood along the floorboards, spreading in veins.
The tavern keeper had moved. His hand held an opened scroll, its inscription patterns burning blue.
An explosion of light filled the room. Shards of ice ford midair, slashing toward the intruders. The bandits scread as frost lacerated skin and froze blades in their hands. Two fell instantly, the others stumbled, shouting and bleeding.
The keeper’s voice turned sharp as a blade. "Where are you running? You ca for a show–stay for the finale!"
One bandit stamred, "You... you’re–"
"I said stay!" The keeper lifted another scroll, and fla replaced ice, roaring to life like a dragon’s breath.
The remaining n bolted for the door, tripping over one another. Their leader turned at the threshold, face pale with fury. "You’ll regret this, old man! You and that brat both!"
The keeper smiled. "You’re welco to return anyti."
When silence returned, Orman exhaled. "That was... impressive. But it raises a question."
He leaned on the table, eyes narrowing. "Who exactly are you, Boss?"
The man hesitated for a breath. Then a soft voice ca from the doorway.
"Father, I’m back."
Both turned. A small girl stood there, perhaps four years of age, her hair bound in a ribbon the color of dusk. Her presence seed to light the room brighter than the lanterns.
"Fine feathers make fine birds," Kiaria murmured, almost without thinking.
The girl’s eyes widened. "Are you... them?"
Kiaria nodded once. "Yes."
"Then I guessed right," she said with an innocent smile.
Orman frowned, still unsure what they were talking about. "What exactly is going on?"
The tavern keeper sighed softly and faced them. "These two are disciples of the Enlightennt Sect–Kiaria and Orman, yes?"
Kiaria inclined his head.
The man smiled faintly. "As I thought. My na is Dijun. Once a disciple of that sa sect."
Orman blinked. "Wait... Dijun? As in–"
The man’s gaze sharpened, and with quiet gravity, he said, "Phantom Beast."
The title hung in the air like a thunderclap.
Orman’s mouth fell open. "The Phantom Beast... prodigy who endured the heavenly tornts and lived? That was you?"
Kiaria did not react outwardly, though a flicker of recognition passed through his eyes.
Dijun chuckled softly. "Once, long ago. The world forgets easily."
Orman imdiately rose, bowing deeply. "Master Beast, forgive any offense we’ve caused."
Dijun waved a hand, amused. "No offense. The mountains are wide enough for humility and pride to walk together."
His daughter giggled, stepping forward and tugging at Kiaria’s sleeve. "You’re funny, all of you. Co outside, let’s play!"
Orman choked back a laugh. "You hear that, Little Brother? A summons from a lady. You’d best obey."
Kiaria blinked, uncertain. "Play?"
Orman smirked. "You forget yourself, little brother. You’re still a child too. Go on, she might beat you in a fair match."
Kiaria sighed, defeated by their smiles. "Very well. But what ga do we play?"
Diala grinned. "Hide and seek! You find if you can."
She darted toward the back door, bare feet barely touching the ground.
Orman laughed. "Well, this should be good."
Before he could finish, Kiaria vanished. One breathe, he was gone. A mont later, Diala’s surprised voice rang out from behind the tavern.
"Got already?" she gasped, half in awe, half in protest.
Kiaria stood before her, a faint smile on his lips. "Found you."
Orman’s laughter echoed from the doorway. "You see little one? Never challenge a monster at his own ga."
Her jaw dropped. "How... how did you–?"
"Because," Kiaria said softly, "even when you hide, your spirit sings."
Dijun chuckled softly, though a private thought crossed his mind. This boy knows only cultivation. One day the world will mistake that innocence for arrogance.
Orman’s laugh rolled through the tavern yard. Dijun leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching the children play beneath the lantern glow. For the first ti in years, his smile reached his eyes.
And far away, beyond the valley’s mist, the Empire’s torches burned through another sleepless night.
The light on Dijun’s face dimd. "Co," he said to Orman, voice low and hollow.
"We have things to do–let them keep their joy."
Reviews
All reviews (0)