The road out of town was narrow, carved more by habit than design...as though it was roughly made. Stone buildings thinned into crooked fences and abandoned stalls, until at last only packed dirt and pale grass stretched ahead. The morning air was cool, and heavy with mist that clung to the ground like a reluctant dude who is infactuated with a girl.
Sanè and his group walked in silence.
It was then that Sané saw her.
Peah approached from the opposite direction, her steps were unhurried, her posture relaxed. Beside her walked one of the men who had followed them into the inn the night before—the same quiet shadow with eyes that missed nothing.
For a single heartbeat, the world narrowed.
Sané's eyes met hers..... thinking that she would try to stop him.
But contrary to what he thought there was no surprise in Peah's gaze. No warmth either. Only recognition— a sharp, fleeting, and unreadable look. A look that says "we will meet again "
They passed each other without slowing down or turning turning back. Yet even after she was gone, Sané felt the faint echo of her presence linger, like heat after fire.
Then the town was behind them.
But ofcourse...
They had not gone far when the atmosphere changed.
The road curved between low, jagged rocks, as the land narrowed into a natural corridor. The wind died first...then the sounds of distant birds faded.
Sané's senses sharpened instinctively, his aura pressing outward in quiet awareness.
They were not alone.
"Stop," 200 murmured.
Too late.
Figures emerged from both sides of the path—twenty in total—dropping from rocks, stepping out from behind broken trees, weapons already drawn. Their movements were crude but practiced, their stances loose with confidence earned through bloodshed.
Bandits.
Not mercenaries or disgraced soldiers.
But Rogue cultivators.
Men and women who had severed themselves from any family or sect, choosing instead the raw, lawless path of plunder. They carried the stench of violence—killing without restraint, taking without consequence.
At their center stood the leader.
He was broad, his round stomach straining against layered leather armor. Gold rings glinted on his thick fingers, and his aura pressed outward with oppressive weight....that showed he was in the
Dreadmark Realm.
A dangerous threshold—one foot planted firmly beyond mediocrity.
The others radiated Bloodfang Realm strength. Lesser, but numerous. Twenty in total was no small force.
The leader grinned, revealing uneven teeth. "Hand over everything," he said, voice thick with amusement. "Coins, weapons, women—"
He hasn't even finished his sentence.....when 111 attacked
Fire erupted.
111 stepped forward, his eyes blazing as crimson flames surged around his arms. The air warped, as heat crashed outward in a violent wave. He moved like a storm unleashed, fists igniting as he closed the distance.
Six Bloodfang cultivators fell within seconds.
Not burned alive—no screams, no spectacle—but overwhelmed. His fire condensed into focused bursts, smashing through defenses, shattering bones, and leaving scorched bodies collapsing into the dirt.
Sané watched carefully.
111's control was sharper now. His flames no longer lashed wildly; they obeyed him. Not mastery yet—but progress.
On the opposite flank, 123 took flight.
Bone-white wings tore free from her back with a sound like snapping branches. She rose above the battlefield, her presence were sudden and terrifying. With a flick of her fingers, the ground trembled.
Invisible force seized her enemies.
Ten bandits were lifted screaming into the air, their limbs flailing as if caught by unseen hands. Bone lines formed instantly—sleek, pale blades manifesting from nothing, shaped by pure intent.
With precise gestures, she sent them flying.
Each blade struck true.
Sané noted the refinement. Her telekinetic authority had deepened—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Even her wings moved with elegance now, no longer crude extensions but controlled weapons.
Then darkness spread.
200 moved last—and most silently.
The light around her dimmed, shadows thickening unnaturally. Where her presence passed, metal rusted, wood blackened, and stone cracked with faint hissing sounds.
Her power was not absence of light—it was erosion.
Darkness that corroded..... different from Sané's own.....more like a shadowed one.
Weapons crumbled mid-swing. As the bandits armor softened, decaying like wet paper. The remaining bandits screamed as the ground beneath them blackened, swallowing their footing.
Sané watched intently.
This was the first time he had truly seen her fight.
Her darkness did not explode—it consumed. Slow, inevitable, merciless.
Within moments, only one enemy remained.
The leader roared in fury, veins bulging as he watched his men fall apart. His aura surged violently as he turned toward 200, blade raised.
"You bitch—!"
He never reached her.
As Sané moved.
There was no sound of footsteps. No flare of aura.
One moment the bandit leader stood poised to strike—
The next, his body froze.
Sané's hand pierced through the man's chest, fingers closing around something unseen. The leader's eyes widened in shock, his mouth opening soundlessly.
With a sharp twist, it ended.
The body collapsed lifelessly to the ground.
And then silence followed.
The battlefield stilled as the others turned toward Sané.
No one spoke.
They had expected him to be strong—but not that strong.
The kill had been effortless. Final.
Confirmation settled heavily among them.
Sané sensed their gazes and exhaled slowly. "I'm a Three-Dot Hollow now," he said evenly. "At least… I think I am."
No explanation followed.
And none was asked.
They searched the bodies.
Between the fallen bandits, they found shard coins—twenty in total. Not insignificant, but hardly impressive.
"That's it?" 111 scoffed. "For a group that size?"
Sané crouched by the leader's corpse, checking his belt pouch. His fingers paused.
Mark coins.
Fifty of them.....quite a fortune.
He straightened and held them up. 111's expression changed instantly.
"Now that makes sense."
He also took the gold rings that the leader was wearing.
They shared the spoils without argument.
Then Sané found something else.
A small black cube—smooth, cold, and unnervingly heavy for its size. No markings. No visible seams.
He frowned.
"I don't know what this is," he said, slipping it into his pouch. "But it's not ordinary."
123 laughed lightly. "Seems robbery is a profession after all."
The others smiled.
As they resumed walking, Sané spoke again. "We should return briefly to Dravenloch city....in order to get Supplies and mounts to make out journey easier."
They agreed without hesitation.
Somewhere along the road, without ceremony or declaration, they had begun following him.
And Sané knew—
That was not the only reason he wanted to go back.