The crimson light bathing Kahn’s vision snapped back into a calm, glowing gold, the violent flicker settling as the system finalized its reward.
A soft weight dropped into both of his palms, heavier and colder than the basic short swords had been just a heartbeat ago.
Kahn looked down.
Resting in his grip was a pair of twin daggers, their blades curved slightly inward like a pair of fangs torn straight from some ancient predator.
The metal was a deep, oil-black color that seemed to swallow the flickering lantern light rather than reflect it, and thin, crimson veins pulsed faintly beneath the surface of the steel, almost like the blades themselves were alive and breathing.
He turned one of them slowly in his hand, watching the crimson veins shift and curl in response to his grip.
’Blood fangs,’ he thought, testing the weight. ’Fitting name for a blade found in a room built to drain someone dry.’
The moment his fingers tightened fully around the hilt, a faint, pulsing warmth crawled up his wrist, and a short description flashed silently across his vision.
[Rare Grade Blood Fangs]
[Passive: Wounds inflicted by these blades bleed continuously, resisting natural and Qi-based regeneration. A portion of blood drawn is converted into Qi for the wielder.]
Kahn’s brow lifted slightly at the second line. A weapon that fed him strength from every cut it landed was no small advantage, especially against enemies who relied on raw vitality and brute force the way the Raging Bulls did.
He sheathed the twin blades against his hips, the leather straps of the makeshift harness materializing along with the weapons themselves, molding perfectly to his frame as if they had always belonged there.
Behind him, Ter remained slumped against the doorway, cradling his shattered wrist against his chest, his breathing shallow and ragged.
He watched Kahn arm himself with the daggers, and a fresh wave of dread crept visibly across his pale face.
Kahn ignored him entirely, turning his attention back to the small bed where Sera lay.
Her breathing had steadied further since the healing technique, the faint color returning to her lips, though she remained deep in an exhausted, healing sleep.
’She needs time,’ he thought, pulling the wool blanket a little higher over her shoulder. ’Time I might not get to give her quietly.’
The building had already trembled once from the force of his aura exploding outward when he first saw what had been done to her.
Word would be spreading through every corner of the compound by now, whispered from disciple to disciple like wildfire eating through dry grass.
He doubted the entire sect would simply sit back and accept a stranger executing one of their elders without at least attempting some form of retaliation.
He was proven right within the minute.
The sound of hurried footsteps echoed up through the stairwell outside the chamber, dozens of them, moving with a rigid, purposeful urgency that was entirely different from the terrified scattering of the crowd he had walked through earlier.
Kahn’s eyes narrowed slightly as he stepped toward the doorway, positioning himself directly between the hallway and the bed where his sister lay.
Ter’s head snapped up at the sound, a flicker of something dangerously close to hope crossing his bruised, swollen face.
"You’re finished," he wheezed, forcing a weak, triumphant smile through his obvious pain. "Those are inner disciples. Not scared little outer brats who ran the moment they saw you break my wrist."
Kahn glanced down at him with an expression of pure, unimpressed boredom, the kind reserved for a mildly annoying insect rather than an actual threat.
"Good," he said flatly. "I was getting tired of hitting people who don’t fight back."
He stepped fully into the hallway just as the first group of inner disciples rounded the corner, their blue robes rippling as they skidded to a stop several feet away.
There were seven of them, spread out in a loose, defensive formation, their swords already drawn and gleaming under the corridor’s dim lantern light.
At the front of the group stood a tall, broad-shouldered man with a shaved head and a jagged scar cutting across his left eyebrow.
Kahn recognized him vaguely as one of the more senior inner disciples who used to patrol the outer training grounds, a man the other slaves had once nicknamed Butcher Yao behind his back for how casually he doled out beatings.
Yao’s eyes swept past Kahn and landed on Ter’s crumpled, bloodied form on the floor, his jaw tightening with visible fury.
"So it’s true," Yao growled, his grip flexing around the hilt of his blade. "A slave dared to lay hands on an inner disciple and an elder of the sect."
"Careful how you word that," Kahn said calmly, tilting his head. "I didn’t lay hands on your elder. I put my fist through his heart."
A ripple of unease passed through a couple of the younger disciples standing behind Yao, their sword tips wavering ever so slightly.
But Yao himself didn’t so much as flinch, his scarred face twisting into a snarl of pure, righteous outrage instead.
"The sect leader is away," he spat, "which means the responsibility of order falls to us. I don’t care what kind of cultivator you are, and what your goal is. You will kneel, or you will die screaming in this hallway."
Kahn almost laughed at the absurdity of the statement, a low, humorless huff escaping his throat.
"Kneel," he repeated, testing the word on his tongue like it belonged to a language he barely remembered. "Funny. I spent four years kneeling in a cell so you people could sleep well at night. I think I’m done with that particular hobby."
Yao’s face flushed a deep, furious red, veins bulging visibly along his temple. He didn’t waste another second on words, instead thrusting his free hand forward while roaring out the name of his technique.
"Raging Bull Fist!"
The same ghostly, translucent silhouette Kahn had seen wrapped around Ter earlier materialized violently over Yao’s body, except this one was noticeably larger and denser, its spectral horns curling with jagged, aggressive edges.
The phantom bull let out a silent, furious bellow as Yao charged forward, his fist wreathed in a visible shroud of raw, compressed Qi.
Two more disciples flanking him activated their own techniques in near-perfect unison, clearly having trained and fought alongside each other for years.
A second phantom bull, slightly smaller and leaner, flickered into existence around a wiry woman with a long braid, while a third, hulking bull silhouette wrapped around a stocky man wielding a heavy warhammer instead of a blade.