Antali's instincts screamed at him to flee. But years of discipline overrode fear, and his body moved before his mind could catch up. His wrist flicked, the slender noble flower sword darting forward like a wasp's sting.
A perfect strike. Fast, silent, lethal. The kind of strike that had ended the lives of countless men before they even knew they were dead. But it missed.
Kayvaan sidestepped, his movement almost casual. It wasn't raw speed that saved him but timing—an uncanny, almost preternatural sense of when and where to move. To Antali, it felt as if Kayvaan had anticipated the attack before it even began, as though he was merely guiding a dance he had rehearsed a hundred times before.
Then, before Antali could adjust, Kayvaan's hand moved. It was subtle at first, almost like a twitch. Then it blurred—his arm shifting, twisting, striking. In Antali's eyes, it was no longer a hand but a serpent, lashing forward with impossible precision. He tried to block, raising his arm on instinct, but the 'serpent' coiled around his defense, slipping past his guard and striking His throat.
A sharp, suffocating pain seized him. His breath stopped. His mind screamed, but his body refused to respond. A fraction more force, and Kayvaan could have crushed the man's windpipe, ending the fight—and his life—in an instant. But he wasn't here to kill, only to teach. That didn't mean his lesson would be painless.
As they passed one another, Antali staggered, his weapon clattering to the ground as he dropped to his knees, both hands clutching at his throat. His face turned red as he wheezed, gasping for air like a fish dragged from the depths. Kayvaan didn't spare him a second glance.
Duran, the axe-wielding giant, was next. Kayvaan barely slowed as he flicked his wrist, seizing the haft of the massive weapon in one effortless motion. Before Duran could resist, Kayvaan twisted sharply—dislocating the warrior's wrist with a sickening pop. The axe was his now. Kayvaan shifted his grip and swung the weapon upward in a brutal arc. Blood sprayed. Duran's severed arm spiraled into the air. Before the warrior's scream could even begin, Kayvaan discarded the axe like a broken tool and sprinted toward his next target.
The courtyard became a battlefield of broken bodies. In mere moments, warriors who had carved their names into legend lay sprawled across the ground, gasping, writhing, or unconscious. Kayvaan moved like a specter—his form shifting between impossible speed and crushing weight.
When he was fast, he was like a fleeting shadow, vanishing from sight only to reappear where his foes least expected. When he struck, he was an unstoppable force, his blows landing with the weight of a falling warship. His movements were precise, effortless—instinct honed into art. And most terrifying of all was his awareness. It was as if he had eyes in the back of his head. Blades that should have struck his spine found only air. Axes that should have cleaved his legs met empty space. Javelins aimed at his heart missed by mere inches, as though he had sensed them before they were even thrown.
Sir Tygett barely had time to react before Kayvaan circled around him. He wasn't sure what had happened. One moment he was poised to strike—the next, his body betrayed him. His vision blurred. His limbs gave way. Then he collapsed. When the others checked him later, they found that every bone in his body had been subtly displaced—shoulders, elbows, wrists, knees, even his jaw. He lay sprawled on the ground like a discarded puppet, unable to move. Even the simple act of opening his mouth was beyond him.
Compared to him, the White Knight Lancelot had been lucky. Kayvaan had simply slapped him across the face. Yet the force had been so immense that he had been flung off his feet. When he finally stirred, the entire left side of his face had swollen grotesquely, his once-proud features barely recognizable. It had taken Kayvaan less than five minutes.
Less than five minutes to turn the so-called elite warriors of the Holy See into a pile of broken men. Some suffered minor wounds. Others would take weeks, if not months, to recover. But none of them could stand. With one last sweeping kick, Kayvaan shattered the leg of the final man still struggling to rise. He stepped back, exhaled deeply, and straightened his tunic. Then he glanced around. No one moved. Satisfied, he called out. "Marius!"
The heavy thud of boots echoed as Pastor Marius entered, carrying a medical kit over one broad shoulder. Several young priests in black robes followed, their faces pale at the carnage before them. Marius, however, remained unfazed. The veteran cleric saluted sharply. "Captain. I'm ready."
Kayvaan nodded toward Duran, who lay in a spreading pool of his own blood. The once-mighty axe warrior now groaned weakly, his severed limb twitching on the ground nearby. "Start with him," Kayvaan ordered. "If you don't, he'll bleed out. Would be a shame to waste a good fighter." With a flick of his boot, he nudged the severed arm across the ground. It rolled to a stop at Marius's feet.
The younger priests recoiled, some stepping back in visible horror. Marius scowled at them. "What are you afraid of? It's just an arm. Flesh and blood—nothing more. Open your eyes and watch." He shook his head before turning back to Kayvaan. "You want him put back together?"
"Obviously," Kayvaan replied dryly. "Unless you think he'd prefer a mechanical replacement."
Marius crouched beside Duran, inspecting the cleanly severed stump. "Lucky man," he murmured. "His axe is well-maintained. The cut's clean. Should be able to reattach it without issue." He set to work immediately, administering painkillers, stopping the bleeding, and carefully aligning the bones before beginning the delicate process of stitching veins and nerves back together. All the while, he muttered quiet litanies to the God-Emperor, invoking his blessings as he worked.
Kayvaan lingered only long enough to ensure Marius had things under control before turning away. Unbeknownst to him, a group of figures watched from a two-story building overlooking the courtyard. Sixteen old priests, clad in the crimson robes of the Ecclesiarchy, stood in silent observation. Their eyes, dark and unreadable, followed Kayvaan's every movement. They had seen everything. And they did not look pleased.
The College of Cardinals, the true power behind the Holy See, ruled not just the faith, but the vast machinery of its influence. The immense, sprawling church followed their decrees, and now, they watched from the upper levels of the monastery, their weathered faces etched with tension. "This is outright intimidation," a voice rasped, heavy with discontent. "These are our finest warriors—the next generation of the Holy See's might—and that man butchered them."
"He didn't kill them," another replied, measured yet intrigued. "Look closer. He showed more than just brute force."
"What else?" scoffed an elder cardinal. "Is that so-called Reverend St. Marius kneeling in prayer for the dying?"
"No." There was a hesitant pause. "He appears to be… treating them."
"Treatment? Impossible," another scoffed. "Duran's arm was severed. We all saw it. Even if he somehow survived, that kind of injury would cripple him for life."
"No… look again. The bleeding has stopped. His arm has been reattached."