The next time he was conscious, he was feeling way better. This time he was met with both the blue eyes and the silver-haired man.

“Right”, started the silver-haired man.”Let me put you on track right away. I am Cevi of Keslar Monastery. He said with a proud face.

” You are now resting inside the Keslar Monastery, and when Feblestan found you, you were half dead”. He nodded towards the young monk standing quietly beside him.

Feblestan smiled softly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. In his right hand, hung a sword of 36 inch long, its hilt resting securely in his grip. The blade was sheathed in blackened leather, the scabbard clinging to it as if molded to its form. Intricate stitching ran along the side, reinforced by silver rivets that caught the dim light of the room. The steel mouth of the scabbard was polished and firm, fitting neatly around the crossguard, with only the leather-wrapped hilt exposed.

Kastiel sat up, this time there was no hand barring him and he was rather comfortable moving his body. he sat at the edge of the pallet and looked sharply at both the figures in front of him.

“I think it’s time for your story” Cevi said.

Kastiel without answering his questing turned his head towards Feblestan and spoke in a low, gravelly voice, “Thank you, Monk.”He bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment.

“So, this is the famed Keslar Monastery” began Kastiel, his voice still hoarse but gaining strength.

The silver-haired man nodded. “Indeed. A sanctuary for some, a place of answers for others. But few come here by accident.”

Kastiel’s gaze lingered on Feblestan for a moment before returning to the man before him.

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“And which am I?”

“You tell me swordsman”

“Kastiel,” he corrected with a slight smirk, “or Kas, if you prefer.”

“Listen here, Kastiel, or Kas, this monastery has it’s own rules and giving refuge to a renegade swordsman ain’t one” the silver-haired man said, his voice firm and unyielding.

That words pierced through the air and punched through all his internals and hurting more than his injuries.

“You don’t know what you are talking about monk” Kastiel snorted, the bitterness rising in his throat.

“I am merely stating fact, youngling, your mark on that right arm is not a medal for honor, right? Save it, I don’t want to know about your spineless tale.” he said with an inscrutable look

“Listen here you old….”

Kastiel began, his voice brimming with frustration, but the words were abruptly cut off by Feblestan, who had remained silent up until that moment.

“We just want to know the story,” he interjected calmly, his expression revealing nothing of the tension in the air.

“Is this guy really a warrior monk” Kastiel asked, skepticism dripping from his voice as he eyed the silver-haired man.

“Oh, he’s a warrior, a skilled one at that,” Feblestan replied, a mischievous smile creeping onto his lips.

“But oldie here isn’t a monk. He didn’t complete his training. Now he just loafs around here, and the Abbot let him be. Seems like to be a monk, you need more than just a sword—you gotta have a brain.”

He raised an eyebrow, a playful glint shining in his eyes, clearly enjoying the banter.

“You little snot,” Kastiel shot back, his voice laced with defiance. “Just because you’re that old man’s favorite doesn’t mean you can say anything you like. One day, I’ll give you a good hiding, and then we’ll see which is more essential—a sword or a brain.”

“So, Kas” Feblestan began, ignoring Cevi, his tone shifting to one of genuine curiosity, “let us hear your story. At least you owe me that, right?”

Kastiel rubbed his wrist absentmindedly, feeling the faint sting of the tattoo under his sleeve.

“Fine”, his voice devoid of any real emotion, as if the word itself had lost its meaning.

"I was on my journey to find some job, for, as you can see, I am a swordsman—a hired thug," he said, his face twisting slightly, betraying a flicker of distaste, as though the very words left a bitter taste in his mouth. It was clear he didn’t much care for what he had become.

“Oh, look what we have here,” Cevi cackled, a glint of mockery in his eyes. “A sell-sword, a man with no loyalty, I suppose? Wait—” He paused, a grimace twisting his features as understanding dawned. “That explains the mark.”

“Okay, you old cock, I’m tired of your shit…”

Feblestan interjected, his voice sharp and unwavering.

“Kas, calm down. Don’t make me regret saving you,” he continued, his tone softening just a fraction. “Let’s move on to why you’re here. And you, oldie—shut up.”