Chapter thirty-one
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Sadeem…
It is not merely a tangible extension of the Jowf, nor merely a tool to suppress opponents or terrorize commoners into nausea.
Sadeem is the pride of a Qaz Lord. It is the imprint that cannot be forged, the language that does not know how to lie. Just like a fingerprint, no two souls can release the same frequency.
It is the presence that precedes the body, the existence that carves itself into the minds of opponents and beasts alike.
When one releases their Sadeem, they are not merely fighting—they are spreading their dominion over the place. And if none rises to repel it with an equal Sadeem, then the battle has ended before the swords are drawn.
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At the edge that separated the noise of the City of Adventurers from the silence of the great dying forest, two men stood.
It was not a passing encounter. It was a clash between two third-level wills.
Fargas was pouring his Sadeem with all the force he possessed, trying to break the returning wave coming from the depths of the trees. The air between them trembled, and the atmospheric pressure nearly crushed the insects resting in the grass.
And suddenly—the thread snapped.
The flow of Sadeem from the forest stopped as abruptly as a pulse giving out.
Fargas felt his Sadeem surge forward without resistance, like someone pushing against an iron door that suddenly swung open. The momentum of his energy stumbled for a moment. He reined in his Sadeem immediately, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword like a hunter.
A trick… or surrender?
His feet did not stop moving. He watched the distorted shadow that began to take shape with the first threads of dawn.
From within the fog and ash, features appeared.
Loose black trousers. A white shirt soaked with sweat, clinging to a solid body. Unruly black hair covering eyes that gleamed with deadly coldness.
It was not the "Lord of Threads" with his terrifying presence.
It was Karsu—with his real face. Standing face to face before the most vigilant man.
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Fargas did not move.
He did not raise his sword. He did not retreat. He did not charge toward the man before him. He only stood. Watching.
His blue eyes were wider than they should be. Not surprise. Not fear. It was—recognition. Recognition forming slowly, like an image appearing on still water after it ripples for a moment and then settles. Like a face he knew he had seen before, but had never lingered on. Like a thread connecting two points he had believed were far apart.
"Karsu…"
He whispered the name. Not a question. A confirmation. Everything in that moment—the Sadeem that had withdrawn suddenly, the shadow that had emerged from the forest slowly, those eyes that were not the cold eyes of the Lord of Threads, yet could belong to no one but Karsu.
Karsu did not answer. He did not move. He stood there, a few steps away, looking at Fargas with eyes that hid nothing. They were not the sharp, piercing eyes of the Lord of Threads. They were not the eyes of someone concealing something. They were his eyes. Karsu's eyes. The eyes of the young man who had entered the city days ago, who had sat in a cheap tavern, who had challenged Aynnd with cold indifference, who had disappeared on the same day the Lord of Threads first appeared.
Fargas felt it. In his chest. In his head. In that part of his awareness that is not easily deceived. Karsu's Sadeem was different. He had seen it with his eyes, felt it in his body, knew it the way a man knows the sound of water after living long in the desert.
The Sadeem of the Lord of Threads had been suffocating, dense, as if it wanted to swallow everything in its path. That was how the reports described it.
But the Sadeem before him—was different. It was deeper. Calmer. Like night covering the earth without smothering it.
The same.
There was no doubt. No need to ask. The man before him was Karsu. Yet he asked:
"Identify yourself."
Fargas's voice was not angry. It was—different. It carried something of exhaustion, something of weariness that was not physical. It carried a question he did not want answered.
Karsu took a step forward. Then another. He did not walk like someone attacking. He walked like someone walking his own path. Like someone who had somewhere to go, and no time to stand here.
"I am Karsu."
He said it calmly. He did not shout. He did not threaten. He simply—said it. As if it were a truth that needed no proof. As if it were a truth everyone knew, but chose to forget.
Then—he passed him.
He walked beside him. An arm's length away. The distance in which any ordinary man could be killed. The distance in which Fargas could have struck him with his sword before he completed his step.
But Fargas did not. He stood in place, his sword in his hand, watching the man pass him as if he did not see him. As if he were merely a shadow on his path.
"Wait."
It was not a shout. It was an order. A word that left his mouth without thought. A word that came from that part of him still trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
Arrogance? Or a natural stance—he had always given orders, never received them.
Karsu stopped, his back to Fargas. He turned to him calmly.
"I am a busy man. I don't have time to waste with you. If you want to continue, fine—I will draw my sword as well…"
Fargas's eyes changed. From the gaze of an analyst into something else. Something closer to a predator that had caught the scent of blood.
A battle of dominance had begun before the battle of swords.
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Elsewhere
The night had not fully ended.
In one of the abandoned houses at the edge of the city, light seeped through the cracks of the sealed windows. The light of a single candle. No more.
The Lord of Mist was sitting on the ground, his back against a dirty wall, his silver eyes fixed on the ceiling. He was not thinking. He was not planning. He was simply—waiting.
Beside him, on the ground, there was a body. It looked like an assassin. He was not dead. He was breathing with difficulty, his face pale, a wound in his shoulder still bleeding slowly. His eyes were closed, his lips moving with words that could not be heard.
The Lord of Mist looked at him. A long look. Unreadable.
"I could have killed you."
He said it in a calm voice. To himself. To the body. To the void.
"I could have left you to die there. In the forest. Beneath the rubble. No one would have asked. No one would have cared."
Silence.
"But I didn't."
The body did not move. The breathing was still strained, uneven.
"Do you know why?"
A question that did not wait for an answer. Because he knew the assassin could not hear him.
"Because I want you to know."
He raised his hand. A faint mist began to gather around it. Dense. Cold.
"I want you to know that I am the one who saved you. I want you to know that your life is in my hands. I want you to know that if you open your mouth with a single word about what you saw…"
He stopped. The mist in his hand faded.
He looked at the assassin writhing in pain like an insect exhaling its last breaths.
"Tell me… I do not recall having a personal enmity with anyone of influence…"
No answer came. He did not expect one.
He stood. Walked toward the window. Looked outside. Dawn had begun to light the horizon.
"Rest. We will need you later."
He opened the door. And left.
In the room, the assassin remained alone. Breathing with difficulty. Not moving. Not opening his eyes.
But his lips—had stopped moving.
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Outside the room, there was a very long corridor, very dark, with no torches.
The Lord of Mist walked. Only forward. He did not look at any room, though the corridor contained many entrances and paths. He ignored them and continued.
Until he finally arrived. The ground beneath him was muddy stone. And before him—a massive rock. Not a wooden or stone door, but a rock exactly like the rocks of mountains.
The Lord of Mist formed a mist arm. He used it to open a narrow space for himself. He passed through it. Then the rock returned to its place—or rather, it returned the moment the force acting upon it disappeared.
He was now standing on a steep slope, atop a mountain so high above the ground that mist filled the entire place.
His silver eyes locked onto the capital below, though it was tens of kilometers away.
Specifically, they locked onto a tall tower. The tallest in the capital. It appeared to consist of fifteen floors.
The Supreme Council of the city. Perfectly centered within it. It divided the city with precision, forming the exact center of a circle.
He recorded the observations in his mind.
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