The Cunning Treasure Hunter

Perhaps because she had been caught staring blankly, Vera shrank her shoulders timidly. Aiden simply smiled, motioning for her to come closer.

"Is there a problem with a disciple observing their master's training?"

"Ah… Thank you, Master," she replied softly.

"You're quite charming in an un-cute way," he teased, though his eyes held nothing but warmth. With a large hand, he ruffled her jet-black hair, the gesture casual but filled with affection.

"But this form of address feels so natural to me," she admitted.

"I don't mind it," Aiden replied, "but they won't like it at Suncrest Sect."

"...I suppose I'll have to call you 'Master' there."

"That's right," he said with a nod.

The term Master was a title that combined the word for teacher with the word for father—a deliberate reminder that a teacher should be regarded with the respect and reverence of a parent.

"In that case," Vera said, her tone playful, "I'll make sure to call you that once we're there."

Aiden didn't scold her for her lightheartedness. Instead, he simply said, "Do as you like."

Though they were master and disciple, there was something else binding them. They were companions sharing the same goals and enemies. Like shipmates on the same vessel, their roles differed only in title: teacher and student.

"Well then," Aiden said, "go and finish dressing. We need to leave early."

"...Of course," Vera replied, nodding.

The fact that the Heavenly Unity Corps hadn't returned all night would surely have raised suspicions by now. If the Thirteenth Division arrived, there would be no escaping a confrontation. The villagers who had once called this place home had already fled into the night.

"Alright, I'll head up and get dressed," Vera said.

"Good," Aiden replied.

"Oh, Master," she hesitated, glancing at him sideways. Her tone was uncertain, as if embarrassed by her request. "I have a small request…"

"Go on, I'll listen," he said calmly.

"...Please don't play hide-and-seek with me," she said at last, her voice quiet. She was likely referring to her earlier shock when he had disappeared without warning. Her sheepish expression and sideways glance were almost endearing.

Aiden chuckled softly and ruffled her hair again. "There's no need to worry. I won't leave your side."

"...Yes, Master," she said, her tone carrying a faint hint of relief.

"Now go, and change your clothes."

Vera nodded and returned to her room.

It didn't take long for her to finish dressing, but old memories had a way of slowing time.

Her father teaching her the basics of martial arts.

Her father transferring all his internal energy to her.

Her father entrusting her with her mother's safety…

"...Father said something similar back then," she murmured, her voice soft, barely audible from inside the room.

Even if Aiden didn't hear her words, he stood silently, staring at the door.

"Perhaps I should have left her a note…" he thought to himself. Her earlier plea for him not to disappear had revealed a profound sadness—a deep fear of abandonment.

Soon, Vera emerged, fully dressed. In her arms, she clutched an antique longsword nearly as tall as she was. The sight made her appear all the more endearing.

"Hand me your sword for a moment," Aiden said.

"...My sword?" she asked, her wide eyes staring at him with hesitation. Her reluctance to part with it was a good sign.

"I'm not going to take it from you," Aiden reassured her.

"Ah," she said softly before handing over the Falling Blossom Sword, a weapon longer and lighter than most longswords.

Aiden gripped the hilt and attempted to draw it, but the blade refused to budge.

'...As I thought,' he mused.

He tied a long strip of cloth to either side of the scabbard, creating a makeshift strap. Once finished, he returned it to her.

"Wear it diagonally across your back, like a bundle. It'll be more comfortable," he instructed.

"Ah… It is more comfortable, Master," Vera admitted after adjusting the sword.

"Good. It'll help for long walks. Let's move," Aiden said, leaping lightly toward the northeast. Vera followed closely behind, her steps swift and sure.

All that remained in the village was the faint scent of Cherry blossoms, quickly carried away by the cold morning wind.

At the center of the burned village, now extinguished by the rain, a group of figures dressed in the uniforms of the Heavenly Unity Corps had gathered.

The most striking among them was Valen Flamestrike, the man known as the Lord of Evil.

His flowing beard, fiery eyebrows, and rugged face exuded an air of dominance. He was an intimidating figure, his very presence commanding silence.

"...Are you alright, Heaven's Sentinel Commander?" one of the subordinates asked tentatively.

"Silence. Be silent…" Valen growled, the sound of his grinding teeth silencing the group instantly.

None dared make a sound.

Under the One Sovereign were the Three Emperors. Below them, the Seven Lords. Valen Flamestrike was one of those Seven Lords—a name that inspired fear throughout the martial world.

And yet, even Valen Flamestrike trembled now. Not with fear, but with fury.

"...Darian," he muttered hoarsely.

At his feet lay a headless corpse—his son.

The body had been cleaved cleanly in half, the wound precise and unmistakable. Blood no longer flowed from the severed neck, as though death itself had claimed every drop. Valen's lips curled into a snarl as he clenched his fists.

The fiery aura of the Blazing Dragon Technique erupted around him, fueled by his fury and inner energy.

"Who… Who would dare to do this?" he demanded, his voice a roar of grief and anger.

He spoke as though addressing his dead son, but there was no answer.

To kill a martial artist of Darian's caliber, the attacker would have to be skilled beyond ordinary measure. The clean wounds on the body were evidence of this.

But…

"Who the hell―!" Valen's voice broke with frustration.

The problem wasn't just that his son was dead. It was the traces left on the body. None of the techniques matched any martial art he knew. Even as the Lord of Evil, he couldn't identify the killer.

"Who… Who could have done this?" he repeated, his voice cracking.

In his grief, Valen Flamestrike was no longer a Lord or a Commander. He was simply a father mourning his son.