Chapter 2: Sword Saint
"Seems like the brat wants his tongue out of his mouth."
The voice was coarse, deep, and laced with menace — like someone who gargled gravel for breakfast and threatened orphans for fun.
The words echoed off the alley walls, low and dangerous.
The dim glow of a single, flickering bulb above cast harsh shadows on their faces.
The first man turned around.
Azel’s breath hitched.
The man was bald, his skull shining under the sickly yellow light.
But what caught the eye wasn’t the lack of hair — it was the network of jagged scars running from temple to jaw.
They crisscrossed his face like lightning etched into skin, remnants of wars, battles, or simply a violent lifestyle.
One eye was milky-white, blind, while the other glinted with cold delight.
He looked like someone who killed people for the sound they made when they begged.