Drago didn't move right away.
The anger that had flared across his face moments ago had dulled, replaced by something far more measured. His eyes stayed locked on Kenta, not with the same careless cruelty as before, but with a quiet, calculating caution. He glanced briefly at the arrows scattered across the ground, then at the two men lying lifeless nearby.
When he spoke again, his tone had changed.
"Do you have any idea who the hell we are?"
Kenta didn't answer.
Drago took a slow step forward, boots pressing into the dirt, his grip tightening slightly around the hilt of his blade.
"I can tell," he continued, voice steady now, "you've had some real training. You're not just some drunk who wandered into the wrong place."
His gaze narrowed.
"Men don't move like that without learning how. Compliments to whoever taught you."
Kenta scratched lightly at the side of his head, like he was only half listening. Drago exhaled through his nose before continuing.
"We belong to the Haven Syndicate," he said, letting the name sit in the air for a moment. "A subgroup under the Hades Alliance sect."
A few of the riders straightened slightly, their earlier hesitation fading as their identity was spoken aloud. It carried weight and authority.
Drago watched Kenta closely for a reaction.
"Looking at you," he went on, "I doubt you're with the Martial Order sect. You don't have the posture for it. Definitely not one of the other two great sects either."
His eyes swept over Kenta's wrinkled robes, loose stance, and overall lack of discipline in his appearance.
"So that leaves one option."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"You're one of ours."
He spread a hand slightly, as if offering something reasonable.
"Seems we just got off on the wrong foot." His tone lightened, almost friendly. "No need to make this messy. We're on the same side."
A few of the men shifted, their grips loosening just a fraction.
"Why don't we fix that?" Drago added. "Join forces. No point in fighting fellow members of the Hades Alliance."
For the first time since the exchange began, Kenta's expression changed.
It wasn't much. Just a slight frown, faint and almost thoughtful.
"Do I look that much like a vagrant," he said slowly, "to make you think I'm part of the shadiest sect of all?"
He glanced down at himself as he spoke, lifting his sleeve slightly, brushing at the wrinkled fabric like he was genuinely inspecting it for the first time. His eyes moved over the dust, the loose fit, the general lack of care.
"Actually," he added after a beat, nodding to himself, "that checks out."
A few of the riders let out short, uncertain breaths, unsure how to take that. Kenta lowered his arm and looked back up at Drago.
"But sadly for you simpletons," he continued, tone still calm, "I'm not affiliated with the Hades Alliance."
He rolled his shoulders once, like he was settling back into place.
"Not part of any sect, really."
A small, easy shrug followed.
"That's just the kind of guy I am."
Drago's brow lifted higher than before, genuine surprise flickering across his face this time.
"Oh," he said. "So you're a factionless wanderer, huh?"
The words carried a different weight now. He let out a short breath through his nose, something between a chuckle and mild disbelief.
"Funny thing," Drago went on, shifting his stance slightly. "I've run into a few like you before."
His grip tightened again around his blade.
"They all had one thing in common."
The faint smile that spread across his face wasn't friendly anymore.
"They were pathetic."
A couple of the men behind him let out quiet, agreeing murmurs.
"Couldn't make it into any sect," Drago continued. "Didn't have the discipline for the Martial Order. Didn't have the connections or skill for the others. Just… drifters."
His eyes hardened.
"People who don't belong anywhere."
He tilted his head slightly, studying Kenta again, as if trying to fit him into that same mold.
"Shame, really."
There was a pause.
Then his smile widened, something darker settling into it.
"But it does make things easier."
He slowly drew his blade, the sound of steel sliding free cutting cleanly through the silence. The weapon caught the light as he lowered it to his side, casual but ready.
"No sect means no protection," Drago said. "No consequences."
His gaze sharpened.
"No one to complain when you disappear."
He lifted the blade slightly, pointing it toward Kenta.
"Bring me the wanderer's head."
The shift was immediate. The riders moved, tightening their formation as weapons came up once more. Steel flashed, boots scraping against dirt as they began to close in from multiple sides.
The villagers, still bound and kneeling, trembled as the tension surged again, heavier than before. Kenta let out a quiet sigh. It wasn't dramatic. Just tired.
"You guys should probably run," he said, glancing around at them. "If you value your lives."
No one stopped. If anything, they moved faster.
One man stepped forward, raising his sword. Another circled to Kenta's side, trying to cut off any escape. The archers behind them began preparing another volley, more cautious this time, spacing their shots.
Kenta watched them for a second, then gave a small nod to himself.
"Alright," he muttered. "So be it."
He straightened slightly, rolling his neck once, the faintest crack sounding as he loosened up.
"May you all rest in peace once this is over."
The words were spoken plainly. No mockery. No heat. Just a statement. Then he paused. His eyes drifted upward for a brief moment, like the thought had only just occurred to him.
"...Wow," Kenta said quietly. "I'm wishing my enemies peace."
A faint grin tugged at his lips. "How odd. How kind of me."
His gaze dropped back down to the men closing in around him, calm and steady.
"But hey," he added, "that's just the kind of guy I am."