For a few moments, no one spoke.
The village square, once filled with cries and chaos, fell into a strange, suffocating silence. Dust still hung faintly in the air where the two bodies had landed, drifting lazily as if nothing had happened. The bound villagers stayed frozen where they were, heads low, too afraid to move, too afraid to even look up.
All eyes, however, had shifted.
Toward him.
Drago stared at the man standing at the mouth of the alley, his earlier confidence thinning into something sharper, more irritated. His gaze flicked briefly to the two unconscious men sprawled in the dirt, then back to the stranger who had walked out like he didn't have a care in the world.
His jaw tightened.
"Who the hell," Drago muttered, his voice low at first, before rising, "do you think you are?"
Kenta didn't answer immediately.
He rolled his wrist slightly, the empty bottle still dangling loosely from his fingers, then tilted his head as if considering the question more seriously than it deserved. His eyes were half-lidded, unfocused in that lazy way, though there was something faintly aware beneath it.
Finally, he let out a small breath.
"I'm just a man," Kenta said, his voice calm, rough with the remnants of sleep. "That had way too much to drink."
He gave the bottle a light shake, as if that proved his point.
"That's just the kind of guy I am."
A faint murmur rippled through the gathered riders, confusion mixing with disbelief. One of them scoffed under his breath. Drago didn't laugh.
Instead, one of his brows lifted slowly, his expression shifting into something almost curious, though the irritation never left his eyes.
"The kind of guy you are," Drago repeated, tasting the words like they might mean something more than they did.
Kenta's lips curled slightly.
"That's what I said."
The grin that followed was small. Calm. Almost lazy. For a second, nothing happened.
Then a few of the riders shifted uncomfortably, unsure whether they were supposed to laugh or be offended. Drago's eye twitched ever so slightly.
"Right," he said flatly.
He took a step forward, boots pressing into the dirt with a quiet crunch, his presence once again pushing down on the space around him.
"Does this kind of guy," Drago continued, tone sharpening, "have a name?"
Kenta hummed softly, like he was actually thinking about it.
"Oh, yeah," he said after a moment. "He does have one."
But he didn't offer it.
Instead, his gaze drifted past Drago, slow and unhurried, taking in the scene behind him. The villagers bound together. The bodies scattered across the ground. The dark patches of blood soaking into the dirt.
The faint grin on his face didn't disappear, but it faded into something quieter. Harder to read.
"So," Kenta said, eyes still wandering, "why'd you kill all those people?"
The question landed without weight, spoken like idle curiosity. Drago stared at him for a beat. Then he smiled. It wasn't the amused grin from before. This one was much colder.
"The same reason I'm going to kill you," he replied.
His eyes darkened slightly.
"They annoyed me."
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't need to. Instead, he lifted a hand and gave a small, lazy motion with his fingers.
Two of the nearby riders stepped forward immediately, swords already drawn. Their expressions hardened as they approached, boots crunching against the dirt, weapons catching the light.
Kenta glanced at them, then back at Drago, as if mildly inconvenienced.
"You might wanna rethink that," he said.
No one listened. The first man swung. Fast. Direct. A clean horizontal cut meant to end things in one motion. Kenta moved just enough.
The blade passed inches from his chest as his hand came up, catching the attacker's wrist mid-swing. There was a brief pause, a moment where confusion flickered across the man's face.
Then Kenta twisted.
A sharp crack echoed as the man's arm bent the wrong way, the sword slipping from his grasp before he could even react. Kenta stepped in, fluid, almost lazy, his other hand coming up to the man's neck.
Another quick motion. A dull snap. The body went limp instantly. The second man barely had time to process it before Kenta turned.
He tried to pull back, to raise his weapon, but Kenta was already there. A hand caught his arm, stopping the strike before it began. The movement was small. Efficient.
Another twist. Another crack. Then silence.
Both bodies hit the ground seconds apart.
Kenta let out a quiet breath, rolling his shoulder slightly like he'd just finished something mildly tiring. He didn't even look down at them.
"Yeah," he muttered. "They probably should've rethought that."
An angry Drago's expression snapped.
"Archers!" he barked. "Fire!"
The response was immediate. Bows lifted. Strings pulled taut. Then—
Release.
A volley of arrows tore through the air, sharp and fast, cutting toward Kenta from multiple angles. He didn't rush.
Kenta exhaled lightly, shoulders loosening as the first arrow closed in. Then his hand moved.
His palm met the shaft mid-flight with a sharp smack, knocking it off course as if it weighed nothing. Another came from his left. His other hand rose, brushing it aside just as easily. The next followed, then another, then three more in quick succession.
Each one was met with a precise motion. A slap, a deflection, a slight redirection of force.
Thwack. Crack. Thud.
Arrows splintered or spun harmlessly into the dirt around him, some embedding into the ground, others snapping apart from the impact of his strikes. His movements were tight, efficient, almost lazy at a glance, yet impossibly fast. Not one touched him.
Kenta lowered his hands, flexing his fingers once like he'd just finished something mildly annoying. A faint exhale slipped past his lips as he glanced at the scattered arrows around his feet.
Then his gaze lifted back to the riders.
"You guys really seem to enjoy violence," he said.
There was no urgency in his voice. Just a calm observation. He paused for a moment, eyes settling on Drago. Something in his expression shifted subtly.
"I really don't like your type."