There was a long pause—long enough that the grains of sand falling through the broken cracks of the wall sounded like ticking seconds, scraping against the air's tense silence.

Then, the deep, gravelly voice echoed again, unshaken, as if time itself had paused to give space for his words.

"I see," said the Sand Man, voice like rust over stone, slow yet laced with growing amusement. "Now I understand. Why you, boy… why your arrogance burns so bright." He let out a dry chuckle, barely audible, like dust slipping between teeth. "It is earned. Yes. It is earned! Earned by the talented and strong ones like you!"

Vonjo tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowed, and gave a half-smirk. "Huh. I don't know if that's supposed to be a compliment or an insult. But you didn't sound like you were going to compliment me earlier. What made you change your mind, old relic?"

The Sand Man's laughter deepened, low and guttural. "Boy," he said, dragging the word out like he was tasting it, "in my time, back when the skies bled stars and kingdoms still rose and fell overnight, it was rare to see someone master even one discipline." He stepped forward, the sand beneath him responding like it was alive, coiling up around his feet like loyal hounds. "Rare. Very rare."

He began to pace slowly, each movement dragging the sand in circles around him. "Back then, we had swordsmen, true ones. They honed their blades until they could split lightning in half. We had archers who could shoot down a phoenix mid-flight from a hundred skies away. We had spearmen, brawlers, even soul dancers—men and women who wove death into rhythm. But—" he held up a crooked, sand-covered finger, "—we also had sorcerers. Enlightened. Bound to the threads of fate and destruction."

He turned toward Vonjo again, his skeletal mask of sand curling into something resembling a grin. "But very, very few… mastered more than one path. Especially with your age. What age did you say you were?"

"Twenty seven years old."

The old man would mutter, "Right."

Vonjo didn't speak. He listened, eyes never blinking, pulse steady, yet his hands clenched just slightly.

"I recall a man," continued the Sand Man, the air trembling faintly with his memory, "who tried. He sought to master the sword, the bow, and the flame. They called him ambitious. I called him a fool. He died at forty-five—his body shattered, not by battle, but by the weight of his own aspirations."

He took another step. "To master one path to the limits takes decades. Half a lifetime, at least. Most men, even those we called geniuses, only reached the summit of their art by the time their hair had long turned grey and their fingers stiff with age. Fifty, sometimes sixty."

The air had thickened, denser now, like something was rising unseen beneath their feet.

"But you… boy," the Sand Man's voice sharpened, pride and mockery laced together, "you carry the flame of swordsmanship in your spirit, the precision of the archer in your blood, and the footwork of a battle dancer. You are not a boy. You are a contradiction."

He began to laugh. "And I never expected it. Never thought the Era of Prophecy would birth such a creature! Twenty seven years old only but has complete mastery of Archery! What a talented individual! And yet—" he raised his arms, sand peeling from his cloak like dead skin, "—such talent, fated to be slain by me! What cruel comedy!"

Vonjo narrowed his eyes, lowering his stance slightly. "It's a pleasure to be admired," he said coolly, "but let me correct you—" He pointed directly at the sand-cloaked being. "I, the strongest, won't die here."

There was a pause.

"You will."

He stepped forward, chin raised.

"Since, I am the strongest between us, I decide who dies or who lives," he added with a confident tone.

"And it depends on me, whether an old relic like you manages to amuse me or not. For short, if you don't amuse me, you are dead!"

The Sand Man's laugh this time was wild—borderline euphoric, like he was unraveling with every second. "Yes! YES!" he howled. "Speak! Let me feel the fury of your youth!"

The ground trembled, and then suddenly, Vonjo's senses flared.

Curse energy.

An enormous, festering, corrupted tide of it surged like a wave, spiraling outward from the Sand Man's body in all directions. The wooden floor groaned. The walls cracked. The torches sputtered as if gasping for breath.

It was not just pressure—it was desecration, the air twisting and blackening with rot and unnatural life.

Vonjo didn't move, but his muscles tightened instinctively.

"I'll turn this entire place," the Sand Man declared, arms raised as the room filled with spiraling streams of black sand and spiritual bile, "into a shrine of death. A home for my children!"

He turned sharply, voice rising in pitch. "You see, boy… this place is filled with corpses, isn't it? Your doing. All these unfortunate souls—robbers, killers, cowards—they shall be given purpose."

The sand twisted violently, dancing toward the piles of bodies sprawled across the chamber. The smell of blood intensified. Then—

One of them moved.

A twitch. A jerk of the arm. A dislocated neck cracked itself back into place.

Then another.

Then a third.

The corpses began to rise.

One by one.

Slow, spasmodic movements as if invisible strings were tugging them upright. The groans were sickening, their eyes void of light—yet something else pulsed inside them now. Something far stronger.

The Sand Man extended one clawed finger toward the first corpse. "This one," he said, his tone ceremonial, "was weak. Couldn't even use a basic curse technique. But now, his skin is reinforced with spirit-hardened sand. Blades won't even scratch him."

He turned to the next. "And this man, a common thug—he now possesses six times his original speed. Enough to catch an arrow mid-flight."

Another. "Ah, her? She died too quickly. But now she has venom flowing through her veins. One touch will paralyze."

He walked among them as if introducing old friends. "That man? He was a coward. Now? He can explode into a storm of razor dust on command. That one over there has a voice that disrupts spirit energy. That one's bones are wrapped in iron sand. That one can climb ceilings like a spider…"

The horde of reanimated corpses fully stood now, lined like soldiers from a nightmare.

The Sand Man grinned wide beneath his veil of grit and decay. "Each one of them… empowered. Refined. Strengthened. Cursed. Now…" He paused, arms open like a maestro about to unleash a final performance. "Each of them stands at Danger Level Sixteen."

The temperature in the building dropped.

Vonjo felt the weight of dozens of eyes settle upon him—unfeeling, unwavering. The corpses hissed in perfect sync, like the sound of wind through broken teeth.

But Vonjo?

He smiled.

Not a mocking smile. Not one of madness.

A smile of someone who had danced with death, tasted blood, and still found joy in battle.

"Then let's see," he whispered, bow slung across his shoulder, eyes shining with quiet fire, "how dangerous sixteen really is."