The sun hadn't fully risen when Raen left the sword graveyard, but the weight in the air told him today would not pass quietly.
The whispers were restless.
Dozens of them hummed beneath his skin. Some murmured old regrets. Others warned of traps, ambushes, or techniques long dead. A few screamed about blood. None of them were clear. But Raen understood one thing:
He was being watched.
It wasn't paranoia. The whispers always grew louder near killing intent.
His hand hovered near the hilt of his practice sword—the broken one reforged by Nira and bound with copper threads. It had no edge, no shine, and no formal name. But it had memory.
That would be enough.
---
He reached the village outskirts just past morning bell. Carts creaked under grain. Vendors unwrapped cloth from their stalls. The sky was grey with the smell of approaching rain.
Raen didn't notice any of it.
He only noticed the man leaning casually against a pole near the well—half-smiling, dressed in red-trimmed black.
Crimson Fang.
The man wasn't tall, but his frame was tight, like a coiled spring. He had a scar across his lip and a blade shaped like a needle strapped to his back. The villagers avoided him instinctively, as if their bones remembered something their minds didn't.
Raen stopped walking.
The man straightened. "Raen Vohar?"
Raen didn't answer.
"You've been touching things you shouldn't," the man said, tone light. "Old swords. Forgotten names. We thought you'd die in that graveyard. Pity."
Raen drew his sword.
"You're trespassing."
The assassin smiled. "No. You are."
Then he vanished.
Raen's foot shifted by instinct—Flicker Step.
A whisper shrieked: behind you!
Raen spun as the assassin's blade swept down. Metal met metal with a shriek. Sparks flared. Raen slid back three paces, breath torn from his lungs.
The strike had nearly split him open.
"You're fast," the assassin said, sounding mildly impressed. "One of the Whispered Ones, then? Good. Makes this more fun."
Raen lunged first. His broken sword surged forward, tip flickering once, twice—then twisting upward into an improvised Crescent Feint he'd stolen from an old grave.
The assassin parried easily.
"Sloppy," he said, then ducked and sliced at Raen's knees.
Raen flickered left—barely.
Pain burst in his side where the wind sliced him. Not steel—just air, but sharp enough to sting. The assassin was playing.
Raen gritted his teeth and stepped again.
The world blurred.
He reappeared behind the assassin mid-strike—only for his swing to slice through empty space.
The man had already moved.
"You're not the only one who listens," the assassin said, smiling wider. "Our blades whisper too."
Raen's heart sank. He wasn't the only one hearing voices.
But he was the only one trying to understand them.
That would have to be enough.
Raen focused—not on speed, but rhythm. The whisper in his head—Kavran's voice—echoed:
"Don't move faster. Move first."
Raen didn't wait for the next strike.
He flickered straight in—before the assassin even twitched.
The man reacted too late.
Raen's hilt slammed into his throat.
The assassin gasped, coughing blood, stumbling.
Raen pivoted, twisted his sword, and used Whisper Form One: Silence Breaker.
A heavy, downward arc—not meant to kill, but to force stillness.
The blade smashed across the assassin's shoulder, sending him crashing into a cart of onions.
Villagers screamed and fled.
Raen stood over him, chest heaving.
"You lost," he said, voice hoarse.
The assassin smirked even while bleeding. "No. I stalled."
Raen blinked.
Then a second presence landed behind him.
He turned just in time to see a woman with shattered twin blades stepping from shadow.
Her eyes were deep violet, and her voice sounded like broken glass.
"Hello again, Raen," Asha said. "Let's see if your whispers are louder now."