Drago scoffed. The sound was sharp and dismissive, like Kenta's warning hadn't reached him in any meaningful way. Whatever caution had crept in earlier was gone now, burned away by anger and wounded pride.
"You talk too much," Drago muttered.
He planted his foot forward again, drawing in a sharp breath as his grip tightened around his blade. The air around him stirred, faint currents spiraling along the edge of the weapon as his energy gathered once more.
Then he swung. One wind blade cut forward. Then another. Then more.
They came in rapid succession this time, not spaced out or measured but a barrage. Crescents of compressed air tore through the space between them, overlapping, crisscrossing, turning the battlefield into a storm of slicing force.
Kenta moved.
He stepped into motion the instant the first one came, his body shifting fluidly as he slipped past the initial strike. The second came from the side. He twisted, letting it pass inches from his shoulder before pushing off the ground.
He leapt as another blade carved through the space beneath him, his body turning midair to avoid the next. His foot touched down for only a fraction of a second before he moved again, rolling low as two more slashes tore through where he'd been standing.
Behind him, what remained of the village took the punishment.
Walls split apart. Wooden beams shattered. The ground itself was carved into shallow trenches where the attacks struck. Dust and debris filled the air, the sharp whistle of each passing blade cutting through the chaos.
Drago didn't let up. He advanced through his own storm, closing the distance behind the barrage, his steps steady despite the destruction around him.
Kenta saw him coming. Another slash cut low. Kenta stepped over it. Another came high. He dipped under. Then Drago was there. The blade came fast.
Faster than before. Kenta shifted, but not quite fast enough. The edge grazed his cheek. A thin line opened across his skin, a bead of blood forming instantly before trailing down.
Kenta's eyes sharpened as Drago's lips curled.
"Got you."
But he didn't get a second strike. Kenta was already inside his reach.
Frost spread across Kenta's right palm in an instant, a thin layer of ice forming over his skin as cold radiated outward.
Then he struck. The first palm hit Drago square in the abdomen. A sharp burst of force drove into him, the cold biting through his armor as his body folded slightly. The second came immediately after. Then a third.
Each strike landed in rapid succession, precise and controlled, driving deeper into his core. The frost spread with each impact, creeping across fabric and metal alike.
Drago's breath hitched violently as the blows stacked, his body buckling under the pressure. Kenta stepped in one final time. His leg came up and then he punted upward.
His foot connected cleanly under Drago's jaw.
The impact snapped his head back, a tooth flying free into the air as his entire body lifted off the ground. He was launched upward, limbs flailing for a split second before gravity took hold.
He crashed back down hard, the dirt cracking beneath him as he hit. A ragged gasp tore from his throat. He tried to move. Tried to push himself up.
His arms trembled as they struggled to support his weight, his body refusing to cooperate. Kenta didn't give him the chance. His leg swept low.
Drago's support vanished. He crashed back into the ground with a heavy thud, air leaving him in a broken exhale.
Kenta stepped forward before he stomped. The first kick drove into Drago's side, a dull crack echoing as something gave way. The second landed lower, folding him further. The third struck his chest, forcing another gasp from his lungs.
Each movement was precise. There was no wasted motion. No wild aggression. Just controlled, deliberate force. Drago's body jerked with each impact.
Then, slowly—
He stopped moving. Silence fell again as Drago lay there, sprawled in the dirt, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. His grip on his blade had loosened completely, the weapon lying just out of reach.
Behind the ice wall, a few villagers dared to peek out.
Shaking hands gripped the edges as they looked past the frozen barrier, eyes wide as they took in the scene. Kenta stepped closer.
He bent down, grabbing Drago by the collar, and lifted him up just enough to force him upright. Drago's head lolled for a moment before he managed to focus, blood trailing from his mouth, breath ragged. Kenta studied him for a second.
"I wasn't really paying attention before," he said calmly. "Who are you, exactly?"
Drago spat weakly to the side.
"Piss off."
Kenta's hand moved. The strike landed clean across Drago's face. The crack echoed. Another tooth flew free, spinning through the air before hitting the dirt.
Drago's head snapped to the side, a choked sound escaping him.
Kenta tightened his grip slightly.
"If you hate pain," he said, voice even, "you should probably start talking."
His gaze didn't waver.
"Who are you? And where do you belong?"
Drago swallowed hard, fear finally breaking through the remnants of his defiance.
"I—I'm a lieutenant," he stammered. "Of the Haven Syndicate…"
Kenta nodded once.
"Where is the Haven Syndicate located?"
Drago hesitated. Kenta's hand lifted slightly.
"...Hamone City," Drago said in a defeated tone. "To the south. That's where we're based."
Kenta held his gaze for a moment longer, as if weighing the answer. Then Drago spoke again, his voice cracking.
"I don't want to die," he said. "Just—just let me go. I won't come back. I swear."
Kenta didn't respond immediately. His grip loosened just enough that Drago could breathe easier, though he didn't let go. For a moment, Kenta seemed to actually think about it.
Then his eyes shifted. Past Drago. Toward the village. Toward the bodies.
They were scattered across the dirt, unmoving. The same people who had been going about their morning not long ago. The same people who had been dragged, beaten, and cut down without hesitation. Kenta looked at them in silence. Then his gaze returned to Drago.
"You must've heard a lot of people beg like that," he said.
Drago opened his mouth, but Kenta cut him off.
"Don't," he said flatly. "I'm not in the mood to hear it. Whatever bullshit you were about to spew, keep it to yourself."
His grip tightened again, just slightly.
"People like you are annoying," Kenta continued. "You kill without thinking. Take whatever you want from people who can't fight back."
His eyes narrowed just a fraction.
"Sell human beings like they're goods."
His tone didn't rise. If anything, it got quieter.
"That kind of thing," he added, "is what makes this world so irritating."
Drago trembled in his grip, unable to meet his eyes.
Kenta paused. He then tilted his head slightly.
"You know," he said, almost thoughtfully, "I never even asked for your name."
A faint, almost amused breath left him.
"And you know what? I don't think I will."
His gaze settled, calm and steady.
"I think I'll keep it that way."
A small pause.
"Because that's just the kind of guy I am."
Before Drago could react, Kenta let go. His hand shifted. He pulled Drago forward and drove his knee up. The impact slammed into Drago's face with brutal force, snapping his head back. There was a sickening crack as bone gave way, his body going limp almost instantly.
Kenta didn't stop. His hand caught Drago's shoulder as he came down, and with a sharp, controlled motion he twisted Drago's neck.
A clean snap echoed. Then silence. Kenta released him. Drago's body hit the ground with a dull thud, unmoving. Laying there dead on the ground.