Chapter 559: Varenthia
The morning air was crisp, cool against Lucavion's skin as he rode through the gates of Stormhaven. The towering walls loomed behind him, their familiar presence fading into the distance as Aether's hooves struck against the dirt road in a steady rhythm.
Stormhaven. The city that had—briefly—been his playground.
Now, just another place he was leaving behind.
Lucavion exhaled, adjusting his grip on the reins, his dark coat billowing slightly as the wind carried the scent of damp earth and fresh foliage. Ahead of him, the road stretched long and open, leading toward the borderlands and, eventually—
Varenthia.
[Hah. You really made a mess back there,] Vitaliara's voice echoed in his head, smooth and bemused. [Three days, and you managed to break the adventuring economy.]
Lucavion chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "I was efficient."
[You were excessive.]
"Ah, but isn't that part of my charm?"
[No.]
Lucavion smirked, unbothered, as Aether picked up speed beneath him.
Vitaliara let out a low, exaggerated sigh. [You really don't know how to leave a place quietly, do you?]
Lucavion scoffed, his grip on the reins tightening slightly. "Where's the fun in that?"
[Right, right. The great Lucavion can't possibly exit a place without causing a scene. It's against your nature.]
"Exactly."
Vitaliara's voice remained dry, but then—just as the wind shifted—her tone did as well.
[Still…]
Lucavion raised an eyebrow at the sudden change.
[You didn't stay. Even after that girl confessed to you.]
His fingers twitched slightly against the reins.
Vitaliara hummed knowingly. [If I were a betting spirit, I would've said she'd try to tie you down. But she didn't.] A pause. [And you left anyway.]
Lucavion exhaled slowly. "You expected me to stay?"
[No,] she admitted. [But I did wonder if you'd hesitate.]
Lucavion didn't respond.
Because he had hesitated.
Not long enough to stop him. Not long enough to change his path.
But just enough to linger.
And he hated that.
Aeliana had shattered something in him. Not completely—but enough to leave cracks he wasn't sure how to mend. Enough to make him second-guess, if only for a breath, if leaving was the right thing to do.
But he had left. That was what mattered.
And now—
[So,] Vitaliara continued, her voice shifting. [This man you're looking for.]
Lucavion's smirk twitched slightly, the humor fading from his face.
[What exactly are you after?]
Lucavion's voice was smooth when he answered, but there was an edge to it. "An unfinished business from the past."
Vitaliara didn't let up.
[That's what I'm asking. What business?]
Lucavion exhaled sharply, tilting his head toward the sky as if the answer might be hiding somewhere in the drifting clouds.
Lucavion's fingers traced the scar along his right eye, his touch slow, deliberate. The memory was etched into him, not just in flesh but in something deeper—something far beneath skin and blood, beneath even rage itself.
The scar was old. He had carried it for years. And yet, every time he ran his fingers over it, he could still feel the sharp bite of that blade, the cold amusement in the knight's voice, the weight of his own helplessness pressing him into the dirt.
That was the day he learned what true powerlessness was.
That was the day he swore he would never feel it again.
[Lucavion.]
Vitaliara's voice was quieter this time, lacking her usual playfulness.
[Lucavion.]
A call. Faint. Distant.
[Lucavion.]
Sharper this time. Closer.
[Lucavion.]
His fingers stilled against his scar. His breath, slow and steady, pulled him back from the depths of his memories.
"…What?"
Vitaliara exhaled through her nose. [You dozed out.]
Lucavion clicked his tongue, adjusting his grip on the reins. "Did I?"
[Obviously.] She huffed, tail flicking in irritation. [You looked like you were about to sink into some tragic monologue. Again.]
Lucavion chuckled, shaking his head. "Wouldn't dream of it."
Vitaliara narrowed her golden eyes at him, unimpressed. [Right. Because you never have dramatic moments.]
He smirked, but didn't take the bait. Instead, he leaned forward slightly, guiding Aether along the winding road. "When we meet him," he said smoothly, "I'll tell you the story behind it."
A pause. Then—
[Sigh…]
Vitaliara flopped onto her side, looking thoroughly exasperated. [Why do you always choose the most dramatic moments?]
Lucavion only grinned, his fingers tightening slightly around the reins.
Because he wasn't ready.
Not yet.
Not until that man was dead.
His mind drifted back to the battlefield, to the suffocating weight of powerlessness—
And yet, this time, he was smiling.
One ghost of the past…
One by one…
******
The sun was a vengeful god, beating down on the sandstone streets of Varenthia with an unrelenting fervor. Caius had long since stopped wiping the sweat from his brow—there was no point. The heat soaked into his leathers, into his skin, until it felt like he was wearing the damn sun itself. And yet, somehow, the fat bastard in front of him wasn't sweating nearly enough.
"Pick up the pace, mercenary," groaned Halvor, the merchant Caius had been unfortunate enough to be hired by. "I'm paying you to protect me, not to drag your feet like some peasant in the fields."
Caius tightened his grip on the pommel of his sword, resisting the overwhelming urge to stab the man in the back of his thick, bejeweled neck. The only thing stopping him was the fact that Halvor had yet to pay him for this job. And coin, as much as Caius hated to admit it, was the only reason he was here.
They trudged through the winding market streets, past spice vendors who shouted in foreign tongues, past mercenaries sizing each other up like wolves in a narrow den. The scent of grilled meat, sweat, and sea salt hung thick in the air. Caius had been to a dozen cities across the continent, but Varenthia had a pulse unlike any other.
It wasn't lawless, but it was damn close. And if Halvor thought his fat purse was enough to keep him safe, he was a bigger fool than Caius had assumed.
"Watch the left," Caius muttered.
Halvor scoffed, but he did as he was told. A group of street urchins had been circling them for the past five minutes, slipping between stalls, their dark eyes tracking the merchant's heavy coin pouch like jackals eyeing a wounded deer. Caius caught one of them staring too long and gave him a sharp glare. The kid vanished into the crowd.
Halvor, oblivious as ever, huffed. "Thieves. Pests, all of them." He patted his coin purse. "Let them try. My new bodyguard will be happy to remove their little hands if they so much as think about it."
Caius gave him a slow, flat look. "I'm here to stop trouble, not start it."
The merchant snorted. "That's what I'm paying you for."
No, you're paying me to keep you alive, Caius thought grimly. If it weren't for the contract, I'd leave you to the vultures.
They reached a spice stall, where a wiry man with tattoos curling up his arms leaned lazily against a wooden beam, chewing on something pungent. "Halvor," he drawled, spitting a seed into the dirt. "Thought you were still licking your wounds from that deal gone bad in Othra."
Halvor's smile was a greasy thing, like oil floating on stagnant water. "Bastards tried to cheat me. I came out richer for it in the end." He flicked a coin onto the table. "A pound of redfire pepper. And a vial of sand viper venom."
Caius tensed. "Venom?"
Halvor shot him a smug glance. "A merchant must always be prepared for treachery, dear mercenary. You of all people should understand that."
Caius said nothing, but his fingers twitched near the hilt of his blade. If there was one thing he hated more than arrogant merchants, it was merchants who dabbled in poison.
The deal was struck, and they moved on, Halvor practically humming to himself as if he hadn't just purchased enough venom to kill a dozen men.
Then Caius heard it—the slight change in the crowd, the subtle shift in movement, like a ripple on still water. He knew the signs. Someone was coming for them.
He caught a glimpse of dark leather moving too quickly through the throng. A hand reaching toward Halvor's belt.
Caius moved before he could think.
His sword came free in a whisper of steel, catching the would-be thief's wrist mid-motion. The man hissed, jerking back, but it was too late. Caius had him by the throat in an instant, dragging him into the narrow alley beside the market.
"Mercenary!" Halvor barked in protest. "What are you—"
Caius slammed the thief against the wall. The man—young, lean, and reeking of sea brine—gasped, his eyes darting between Caius and the blade pressed against his ribs.
"You're not some street rat," Caius murmured, studying him. No, this one moved with too much purpose. "Who sent you?"
The thief only grinned, showing a row of sharp, gold-capped teeth. "Does it matter?"
Caius twisted the blade just enough to bite.
The thief gasped, but his grin didn't fade. "You might want to turn around, mercenary."
Caius barely had time to register the words before he felt it—a shift in the air, the presence of more bodies moving toward the alley's entrance.
Damn it.
He turned his head slightly, just enough to see them. Three figures, blocking the way out. One had an axe slung over his shoulder. Another twirled a curved dagger between his fingers. The last one, taller than the rest, simply cracked his knuckles.
Caius exhaled sharply through his nose.
Halvor, the fool, was still standing there at the mouth of the alley, gawking. "Mercenary, deal with them."
Caius glanced at the gold-toothed thief still pinned against the wall. "Is this really worth your trouble?"
The thief's grin widened. "In Varenthia? Trouble is how we get paid."
Caius sighed.
He really, really hated this city.
Chapter 560: Caius
The alley closed in around him like a vice, the scent of sweat, sunbaked stone, and impending violence thick in the air.
Caius let out a slow breath, rolling his shoulders. 'Four of them. At least one knows how to use that axe. The others? Probably quick. Probably mean. This is going to be a pain in the ass.'
The gold-toothed thief smirked at him. "You going to stand there all day, mercenary? Or are we doing this?"
Caius ignored him. He flicked his gaze toward the alley's entrance. Halvor was still standing there, looking like a pig who had wandered into a wolf den.
'Stupid bastard. You should've run by now.'
The axe-wielder stepped forward first, rolling his thick wrists. "Hand over the merchant, and maybe we won't break all your bones."
Caius scoffed. "That's cute. You think I'm just some nameless sword?"
The thug tilted his head, amused.
Caius tightened his grip on his blade. "Are you Vyrell's men? Or Fennick's?" He let the words snap out like a whip, sharp and accusing. "You know who I work for, don't you?"
The tallest of them, the one cracking his knuckles, finally spoke. His voice was smooth, measured—someone used to command. "Oh, we know exactly who you work for." He stepped forward, watching Caius like a wolf eyeing a wounded rival. "Draven's dogs are everywhere these days. You thought wearing his leash would keep you safe?"
Caius's blood went cold.
'Shit.'
Draven wasn't just some gang leader. He was Varenthia's underworld. His mercenaries ran half the city's smuggling routes, and his enforcers kept the balance between those who had power and those who wanted it. Caius had worked for him for years—just another blade in Draven's endless supply.
And these bastards? They weren't common thugs.
Caius's eyes flicked over them, reassessing. Their stances were too confident, their mana signatures barely restrained. These weren't gutter scum. They were at least three-star warriors. Maybe even four-star.
His stomach clenched.
'This is bad.'
The gold-toothed thief chuckled. "Draven doesn't own this city, you know."
Caius met his grin with a hard glare. "Doesn't stop him from trying."
Then he moved.
Steel flashed, his blade sweeping toward the gold-toothed thief's ribs in a swift, practiced motion. The thief twisted at the last second, barely avoiding the cut, but Caius was already pivoting, using the momentum to drive his boot into the man's chest.
The thief staggered back with a sharp oof, but before Caius could press the advantage—
The axe came down.
Caius threw himself sideways as the heavy steel blade smashed into the ground where he had just been standing, splitting the stone with a sickening crack.
'Godsdamn. That would've broken every bone in my body.'
He rolled to his feet just in time to block a dagger strike, his sword catching the thin, glinting steel at an awkward angle. His arms shook from the impact, but he forced his opponent back with a rough shove.
The knuckle-cracker was already moving. His hands glowed with mana—reinforcement magic, strong reinforcement magic—and in the next instant, his fist was coming straight for Caius's face.
Caius barely got his sword up in time. The man's punch collided with the flat of the blade, and even with the block, the force sent Caius skidding backward, his boots scraping against the stone.
'Shit. Shit. These bastards are faster than I thought.'
He risked a glance at Halvor.
The merchant had finally gotten some sense in his thick skull and had backed up toward the alley's exit, eyes wide with horror. "Mercenary! Do your job!"
Caius grit his teeth.
'Oh, I am doing my job, you idiot. And right now, my job is not dying.'
The axe-wielder swung again, and this time, Caius ducked under it, rolling to the side before slashing upward in a brutal arc. His blade bit deep into the man's thigh—
A normal thug would've gone down.
This bastard barely flinched.
Caius had a half-second to register the mistake before a boot caught him square in the ribs.
The air rushed from his lungs, and he slammed into the alley wall, pain flaring through his side.
He staggered to his feet just in time to see the dagger-wielder lunging—too fast, too precise.
'Four-star,' Caius realized, panic jolting through him. 'At least one of them is a four-star.'
His sword barely caught the strike, but the force of it sent him stumbling. He had fought three-star warriors before, but four-star? That was another realm. That was someone who could kill him if he slipped even once.
And he had already slipped.
A sharp laugh echoed through the alley. The knuckle-cracker grinned at him, flexing his mana-infused fingers. "What's wrong, Draven's dog? Thought you'd get out of this alive?"
Caius spat blood onto the ground.
'Maybe I won't. But if I'm going down, I'm taking one of you bastards with me.'
His grip tightened on his sword. His heart pounded in his ears.
The alley pulsed with danger, the heat of bodies, blood, and mana thickening the air. Caius steadied his breathing, tightening his grip on his sword. His ribs ached, his muscles burned, but his mind remained sharp. He wasn't dead yet.
Then—
A shadow flickered at the alley's mouth.
A figure emerged, slow, deliberate. A long cloak draped over his shoulders, the hood obscuring most of his face. But Caius saw the glint of steel—the thin, elegant line of a long blade strapped to his wrist.
The axe-wielder noticed too. He turned slightly, glaring. "Who the hell are you?"
The cloaked man didn't answer. Not immediately. Instead, he shifted, his head tilting ever so slightly as his gaze landed on Caius.
Caius tensed.
Then, the man spoke.
"Did you say Draven?" His voice was smooth, almost lazy. "Is his full name Kael Draven?"
Caius's mind blanked. 'What the hell is this?'
Everything about the situation was absurd—the gang trying to kill him, Halvor standing there like a useless sack of coin, and now this mysterious bastard casually asking about Draven like they were discussing a mutual acquaintance over drinks.
And yet—
"…Yeah," Caius found himself saying, his voice automatic. "Kael Draven."
For a moment, silence settled over the alley. The cloaked man remained still, his head dipping slightly in thought.
Then—
The axe-wielder growled. "Bastard! You think you can walk in here and—"
He surged forward, his massive frame a blur of muscle and rage, his axe swinging toward the stranger's head.
Bad move.
Before Caius could even shout a warning, the cloaked man moved.
His wrist flicked—swift, effortless. A long, thin blade flashed into existence, its edge gleaming with an unnatural, black flame.
The moment the axe came down—
CLANG!
The estoc met the strike at an angle, deflecting the heavy weapon with such precision that the axe-wielder stumbled, his balance completely thrown off.
The cloaked man chuckled.
"Now, now…" His voice carried the faintest hint of amusement. "Why are you interrupting two gentlemen talking? That's a bit rude, don't you think?"
He stepped forward, his estoc lowering to his side, the black flame licking at its edge like a living thing.
Caius stared.
'What the hell am I looking at?'
The gang members weren't laughing anymore. The dagger-wielder's grip tightened, his stance shifting slightly. The knuckle-cracker flexed his fingers, his mana flaring up, more cautious now.
Caius's mind worked fast.
This guy wasn't just some bystander. That blade—the way it moved—this was someone dangerous.
And yet, as the cloaked man turned his gaze back to him, there was nothing but lazy amusement in his expression.
"It appears," the robed guy muttered, exhaling sharply, "that my luck is on point today."
The cloaked man twirled his estoc lazily, the black flame clinging to the blade like a living thing, licking at the air but never consuming. His stance was relaxed—too relaxed for a man standing in the middle of an imminent bloodbath.
Then, his hooded gaze settled fully on Caius.
"Now," he murmured, almost conversationally, "I'll give you a chance."
Caius stiffened.
"You live," the cloaked man continued, tilting his head slightly, "if you take me to Kael Draven."
The words hung in the air, pressing against Caius's already strained nerves.
"And if I don't?" Caius asked, his voice coming out rough.
The man smiled.
"Well…" His shoulders lifted in a careless shrug. "Then I'll simply go on my own way." His gaze flicked to the thugs still surrounding them. "And these gentlemen appear to have some business left with you."
Chapter 561: Savior
"And these gentlemen appear to have some business left with you."
A slow ripple of tension ran through the gang.
The axe-wielder, having regained his footing, let out a harsh breath. "You think you can just walk away after drawing your blade on me?"
The cloaked man let out a long, exaggerated sigh, tilting his head.
"Man… just read the room, will you?" His voice was laced with something close to disappointment, like a teacher scolding an underperforming student. Then, he turned his full attention to the axe-wielder and his men.
"I'm really leaving you a way out," he continued, almost lazily. "And yet, here you are—acting arrogant." His black-flamed estoc flickered, reflecting the torchlight in eerie patterns. "Do you really want to die that much?"
The gang leader sneered. "Hah! Bluffing won't save you, bastard!"
Caius could see it—the twitch in their muscles, the brief shift in weight that came before an attack. They were done talking. They were going to strike.
And yet—
The cloaked man wasn't moving.
Not shifting into a stance. Not even tightening his grip. He just stood there, calm.
And then—he turned his head.
Toward Caius.
"Your answer?" he asked.
Caius's blood ran cold.
The gang was already lunging for him—steel flashing, mana crackling. Yet this guy? He was waiting?
'What the hell is wrong with this bastard?'
Caius could feel the air shift as the first strike came—
And still, the cloaked man didn't move.
'He's insane. If I don't answer, we both die here!'
Gritting his teeth, Caius spat, "Fine! I'll take you to Kael Draven!"
The moment the words left his mouth—
The robed man moved.
No—he didn't move.
He vanished.
A sudden rush of air, and then—
The cloak hit the ground.
And Caius saw him.
Black hair. Black eyes. A scar running over his right eye, jagged and deep.
His grin was sharp, teasing. "Had you been a second later, you'd be dead," he mused. "Took you long enough. Survival instincts lacking."
"Bastard, just move!" Caius shouted.
The man smirked.
Then—
The world blurred.
Caius barely registered what happened. One second, the axe-wielder was swinging down—
The next, his arm was severed at the elbow.
A scream.
A dagger thrust forward—
A flash of black steel—
A leg sliced clean through, the man crumpling with a strangled cry.
The knuckle-cracker's eyes widened in horror. He barely had time to react before—
A single, effortless pierce straight to the heart.
The man gasped. Then, his body went rigid—
As the black flame consumed him.
Not just him.
All of them.
Their wounds ignited first—then the fire spread, devouring flesh, curling up their bodies like living shadows until there was nothing left but ash.
Caius stood frozen, barely breathing.
The fight had lasted mere seconds.
And the bastard in front of him? He barely looked winded.
The black flames on his sword dimmed as he turned back to Caius, utterly nonchalant.
"Well," he said, stepping over the pile of smoldering ash. "Now that that's done…" He clapped a hand on Caius's shoulder, grinning. "Shall we go meet Draven?"
Caius felt like he was dying.
Not from wounds—no, he'd taken worse hits before. It was his soul that felt like it was curling up and withering away inside him.
'How the hell did I get entangled with a bastard like this?'
His pulse still hadn't settled. His brain was still trying to catch up to what had just happened. The fight had barely lasted a heartbeat, and yet, in that instant, the cloaked man had wiped out all of them—ruthless, precise, and completely unfazed.
Caius swallowed hard. He should've run. He should've never opened his damn mouth.
And just as he was about to get his bearings—
A loud, self-important huff shattered the tension.
"Unacceptable!" Halvor shouted, waddling toward them with the furious dignity of an overfed noble. His plump face was red, his thick fingers jabbing aggressively at the scorched ground where his goods had fallen during the chaos.
Caius felt a headache forming.
'No. No. Gods, please. Not now.'
"This is an outrage!" Halvor continued, flinging his arms in the air. "Do you have any idea how much these products cost? Ruined! Ruined! Do you plan to compensate me for this?"
A long silence followed.
Then—
The black-haired man blinked, looking to his side, as if confirming something. Then, with an almost theatrical slowness, he tilted his head.
"…Talking to me?"
"Yes, you!" Halvor snapped, jabbing a sausage-like finger in his direction. "You think you can just waltz in here, cause a ruckus, and destroy my merchandise without consequences? That's money out of my pocket, and I demand reparations!"
Caius felt his soul actively trying to leave his body.
'Oh, you stupid, blind bastard. You didn't see what just happened, did you? You didn't even register that those men are nothing but ash now, did you?'
Caius could not believe what he was witnessing.
The gang had died in the blink of an eye. He had nearly died. And now this merchant was demanding compensation from the guy who had just butchered three-star warriors like they were nothing?
Caius took a sharp step forward, panic clawing up his throat. "Halvor, don't—"
A hand shot up, stopping him.
Caius froze.
The black-haired man didn't even look at him—he just raised a single finger, casually halting Caius in place. As if he already knew what he was about to do.
Caius's stomach twisted. He could feel it—an unspoken warning, a quiet don't interfere.
'Shit. Shit.'
Halvor, oblivious, continued blustering. "Well? Say something! I won't stand for this insult! You owe me, you reckless—"
The black-haired man exhaled, long and slow. Then, finally, he turned his head fully toward Halvor.
The black-haired man's lips curled, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. He turned his full attention to Halvor, as if actually considering his complaint.
"So," he mused, gesturing lazily at the scattered remains of the merchant's goods, "you're saying this was my fault?"
"Yes!" Halvor snapped, his jowls shaking with indignation. "Do you have any idea where these products came from? The finest spices, hand-picked from the southern isles! Enchanted silks woven by the artisans of Vashaar! And now—now!—half of my stock is gone!"
The black-haired man hummed, rubbing his chin as if deep in thought.
"So," he said slowly, pointing toward what remained of the merchant's carriage. "You seek compensation… for the missing half?"
"Yes!" Halvor huffed, crossing his thick arms. "At once!"
Caius clenched his teeth.
'Oh no.'
He had seen that look before—the way the man's amusement deepened, the glint of mischief beneath his half-lidded stare. This bastard was up to something.
The black-haired man raised a hand, gesturing toward Halvor's ruined carriage.
"Well then," he said smoothly, "I will restore it to an equal state."
Halvor, ever the fool, stretched out a greedy hand, palm open, expecting coin.
The black-haired man merely flicked his fingers.
FWOOSH.
The remaining half of the carriage burst into black flames.
The fire ignited in an instant, devouring wood, silk, and spice with unnatural hunger. The scent of burning fabric and exotic seasonings filled the air, thick and acrid. The fire made no sound—no crackling, no roaring—just an eerie, consuming hush.
Within seconds, the entire carriage had been reduced to smoldering nothing.
The black-haired man turned back to Halvor with a pleasant smile.
"There," he said. "No half parts left."
Caius felt Halvor's soul leave his body.
The merchant stood frozen, his mouth working soundlessly as he stared at the pile of blackened ash that used to be his fortune. His face contorted—first into disbelief, then into rage.
"Y-you—you wretched son of a—"
Caius grabbed him before he could finish that sentence.
"Shut. Up." He hissed into the merchant's ear, dragging him back before he got himself killed. "If you value your life, you will not finish that sentence."
Halvor made a strangled noise, still trembling with fury, but Caius wasn't about to let this idiot get them both obliterated.
The black-haired man only chuckled, watching the whole scene unfold like an amused spectator. "Hmph. Ungrateful, aren't we?" He gestured toward the ashes. "I did exactly what you asked."
Halvor wheezed, his fat fingers clawing at his balding scalp. "I—I meant—compensation, you lunatic!"
The man tilted his head. "Oh, that was compensation." He smirked. "I compensated for the imbalance by making everything equal."
Caius wanted to die. Right there. On the spot.
'Why am I here? Why am I dealing with this?'
But deep down, beneath all the exasperation, he knew one thing for certain.
He was never getting paid for this job.
Chapter 562: The Bar
The streets of Varenthia stretched ahead, winding and unpredictable, much like the situation Caius found himself in.
He walked with measured steps beside the black-haired bastard, his nerves coiled tight. His mind was a battlefield of conflicting thoughts.
'What the hell am I doing? This guy is strong. Crazy, too. Is it really a good idea to take him to Kael Draven?'
His instincts screamed no. Draven wasn't the kind of man who appreciated surprises, and bringing this lunatic to him felt like walking a rabid beast straight into the heart of a den of wolves.
'But at the same time… can I really stop him?'
That was the real question, wasn't it? If Caius refused, what would happen? He had seen what this man was capable of. One way or another, he would find Draven.
Was there any need for Caius to risk his life trying to stop the inevitable?
He exhaled slowly.
'Yeah, yeah… Let's just put my faith in him. If he wanted me dead, he would've done it already.'
Beside him, the black-haired man walked at a leisurely pace, his hands tucked into the folds of his long coat. His eyes roamed the city, sharp and intent, taking in every detail like a traveler seeing a foreign land for the first time.
Caius narrowed his gaze.
"…You're looking around a lot," he noted.
The man hummed in response, his lips curving slightly.
"I am."
Caius tilted his head. "Why?"
The man's dark eyes flicked toward him, considering for a moment before answering.
"Someone I know told me to find him."
Caius frowned. "Someone you know? Who?"
The man's expression didn't change. "Have you ever been outside of this city?"
"I have," Caius said slowly.
"To the Arcanis Empire?"
"Yes."
The man's gaze sharpened slightly. "Stormhaven?"
Caius hesitated. "...Not that far." He exhaled through his nose. "It's at least three months of riding on horseback from here."
The black-haired man nodded absently, as if filing that information away. His fingers tapped against his coat, thoughtful.
'Stormhaven? What does that place have to do with Draven?'
Caius had heard of it, of course. A city in the heart of the empire, far beyond the reach of Varenthia's mercenary-run chaos. But what business did this guy have that connected both places?
The black-haired man waved a hand dismissively. "If that's the case, then you probably haven't met her."
Caius frowned. 'What kind of reasoning is that?' Just because he hadn't been to Stormhaven didn't mean he hadn't met this mystery woman somewhere else.
Also—her?
His curiosity sharpened. "Her?" he asked, glancing at the man. "So, it's a woman?"
The man didn't stop walking, but his lips quirked in the faintest hint of amusement. "Corvina," he said casually. "Heard of that name?"
Caius thought for a moment, searching his memory. "Corvina… No."
The black-haired man clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "See? Don't try to act smart too much." He shot Caius a sidelong glance, his tone light, but edged with something sharper. "Some people may not like it, and you never know when your head might be rolling on the ground."
Caius felt his stomach drop.
'Crazy bastard! Are you saying you will kill me?!'
His hands instinctively twitched toward his sword, but he forced himself to remain calm.
This guy enjoyed playing with people. That much was clear. He said it as if it were just casual advice—like he wasn't casually implying be careful or you might die.
Caius exhaled through his nose, swallowing down the curse rising in his throat.
The black-haired man glanced at Caius and smirked.
"Why do you look so pale?" he mused. "Should I get you some orange juice? I heard it's good for the skin."
Caius's mouth twitched.
'Orange juice? What the hell is this guy on about?!'
He clenched his jaw, resisting the overwhelming urge to deck this bastard. Not that it would accomplish anything besides getting himself killed.
Before Caius could even attempt a response, the black-haired man suddenly burst into laughter.
Not a chuckle. Not an amused snort. Full-bodied laughter.
"AHAHAHA! Maan… you're funny!" He clutched his stomach, his voice still shaking with amusement. "Did I scare you too much?"
Caius exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to keep walking. Ignore him. Ignore him.
He had been around all kinds of mercenaries, killers, and criminals in his time. But this bastard? He was something else.
By the time the two of them reached their destination, Caius had fully decided—he was never getting involved in anything like this ever again.
They stopped in front of The Rusted Fang, a bar tucked away in one of Varenthia's less chaotic districts. It wasn't the biggest or loudest establishment in the city, but it was known to those who needed to know.
Caius pushed the door open, stepping inside. The dimly lit interior was filled with the low murmur of voices, the clinking of tankards, and the faint scent of spiced rum and old wood.
Several mercenaries and smugglers occupied the bar, some throwing dice in the corner, others engaged in hushed discussions over maps and coin purses. The kind of people who weren't looking for attention but would slit your throat if you gave them a reason.
Caius approached the counter, catching the eye of a rough-looking bartender—a man with a thick beard and a scar running down his left cheek.
"Need to see Draven," Caius said, keeping his voice low.
The bartender raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "That so?"
Caius nodded. "It's important." He hesitated, then gestured toward the black-haired bastard beside him. "And, uh… he needs to see him too."
The bartender's gaze flicked toward the black-haired man, narrowing slightly.
The man simply smiled.
"Tell him it's a friendly visit," the black-haired man said smoothly. "I just want to have a little chat."
The bartender snorted, shaking his head. "No such thing as a friendly visit when it comes to Draven."
Still, he didn't dismiss them outright. Instead, he muttered something to a younger worker behind the bar, who quickly disappeared into the back.
Caius exhaled, feeling the tension coiling in his chest.
'Here we go.'
The bar fell into a tense silence.
Caius could feel it—the slow shift in the air, the weight of too many stares settling on them.
Then—
A chair scraped against the floor.
One of the mercenaries near the back, a broad-shouldered man with a jagged scar running across his forehead, leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His gaze fixed on Caius with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.
"Well, well… Since when did Caius become such a coward?"
A few others chuckled, low and taunting.
Caius's eye twitched. Oh, for fuck's sake.
'Coward?' He wanted to laugh. If any of these idiots had been in his shoes, they wouldn't just be standing here pretending to be tough. No, they'd be groveling on the floor—maybe even licking this fucker's boots while they were at it—just to make sure they didn't end up ash.
But instead of pointing that out, Caius forced a grin, tilting his head toward the mercenary. "Oh yeah? Why don't you switch places with me, then?"
The man smirked. "Gladly."
Then his gaze shifted to the black-haired man.
Caius immediately regretted everything.
"Oi," another mercenary called out, stepping closer to their table. He was a wiry man, with a thin mustache and the kind of sneer that made you want to punch him on sight. "Don't you know where you are?"
The black-haired man blinked, genuinely curious. "No. That's why I came with a guide."
There was a beat of silence.
Then the room erupted into laughter.
The mustached man slapped his knee, practically wheezing. "Hah! Came with a guide!"
"Oh, this one's a real gem!" another added, grinning.
Caius felt his headache worsen.
'You're all going to die.'
The black-haired man didn't react to the mocking. If anything, he looked mildly entertained. "Well," he mused, resting a hand on the hilt of his estoc. "Seems like you all find something amusing."
The mercenary with the scar stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "Yeah, I do." His grin widened. "You."
Caius tensed. No. No, don't do this, you dumb fuck—
The scarred mercenary swung.
And that was it.
The moment his fist moved, the black-haired man disappeared.
One second he was standing there, casual and loose—the next, he was a blur.
A fist struck air.
A crack of steel against bone.
The mercenary screamed as his arm twisted at an unnatural angle, his elbow shattering from a single well-placed blow.
The laughter stopped.
The entire room shifted.
Chairs scraped. Weapons were drawn.
The black-haired man straightened, his black eyes glinting with something dangerous beneath the flickering candlelight.
"Ah," he exhaled, shaking his head. "And here I thought this would be civil."
He turned slightly, glancing at Caius. "You know, I really don't see why you hesitated so much."
Caius pinched the bridge of his nose.
'Because unlike you, I wanted to live quietly, you lunatic.'
Too late now.
The bar exploded into chaos.
Chapter 563: Kael Draven
The Rusted Fang had descended into absolute chaos.
The sound of steel clashing, bodies hitting the ground, and men screaming filled the once-lively bar. Tables were overturned, shattered tankards spilled ale across the floor, and the thick, acrid scent of burning flesh tainted the air.
And at the center of it all—
The black-haired bastard stood untouched.
His expression was calm, almost bored, as if the fight had barely required his attention. Around him, the mercenaries who had been so eager to challenge him were now writhing on the ground, howling in agony.
Some clutched their severed limbs—legs, hands, even chests split open—while others simply trembled, too shocked to comprehend what had happened in those few fleeting seconds.
Caius stared at the carnage, his body rigid. He hadn't even seen half of those attacks.
Then—
A voice roared over the chaos.
"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!"
The air in the bar shifted.
Caius felt it immediately—the sheer weight of that voice.
And just like that—everything stopped.
Even the wounded mercenaries—those who could still move—froze in place, their whimpers dying in their throats.
Footsteps rang out, firm and unhurried.
And then, he appeared.
Kael Draven.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His coat, long and dark, carried the weight of a man who had built an empire out of the blood of others. A thick scar ran along his jaw, disappearing beneath his collar. His presence alone commanded attention, demanded respect.
His sharp eyes swept over the scene, taking in the devastation—the broken men, the ruined bar, the lingering scent of black flame still burning on some of the bodies.
His expression twisted into one of cold fury. "What the fuck happened here?"
And then—
The black-haired man turned to look at him.
His dark eyes flickered with vague curiosity as if he had just found something interesting.
Then—his lips curved into a small, knowing smile.
"Hmm…" He tilted his head slightly, his black hair falling into his face. "Are you Kael Draven?"
The entire bar held its breath.
Caius felt it—the invisible tension thickening between them, like the moment before a blade was drawn.
Draven's eyes narrowed. His jaw tensed.
Caius swallowed hard.
This was about to get very, very bad.
Kael Draven's eyes flicked over the room, his sharp gaze drinking in every detail—the overturned tables, the blood pooling across the wooden floorboards, the pained groans of his men as they clutched their wounds.
And then his eyes settled on the black-haired stranger standing in the center of it all.
Calm. Unbothered. Smirking like this was all just some mild amusement to him.
Draven exhaled slowly. Trouble. He could already tell.
Still, he wasn't about to let this bastard dictate the pace of the conversation.
"So what if I am?" Draven said coolly, his expression unreadable.
The black-haired man tilted his head slightly, almost thoughtfully.
"You should educate your men better," he mused, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as if he weren't surrounded by injured mercenaries. "They're quite savage."
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
"YOU'RE THE SAVAGE, YOU FUCKER!"
The collective roar of the wounded men filled the air, their voices a mix of agony and outrage. Some clutched their severed limbs, others struggled to even sit up, glaring daggers at the man who had reduced them to this.
Draven's lips twitched slightly. Not in amusement—just irritation. He slowly turned his gaze toward his men, then back to the black-haired bastard.
And then—to Caius.
Caius, for his part, looked done.
Draven raised a brow. "You involved in this mess, Caius?"
Caius sighed through his nose. "Not willingly."
Draven exhaled. Figures.
But his focus quickly returned to the stranger.
Something about this wasn't adding up. If this guy wanted to make a statement, if he was here to send a message—then why weren't his men dead?
Draven's gaze sharpened. He crouched down slightly, inspecting the nearest wounded mercenary. His man groaned in pain, clutching his bleeding leg. The wound was clean. Deep, yes, but not fatal.
The same pattern repeated with every other mercenary on the floor. Arms, legs, shoulders, even a few ribs—cut, broken, shattered. But not a single one was dead.
Draven's fingers drummed once against his knee as he stood back up, his mind whirring.
'Fought all these men without killing a single one?'
It wasn't just restraint—it was mastery. Precision. Every cut was deliberate, every strike calculated to incapacitate without crossing that final, irreversible threshold.
This man had the skill to butcher every one of them effortlessly.
And yet—he hadn't.
Draven's expression didn't change, but his posture shifted just slightly—something more cautious, more measured.
This bastard wasn't here just to start a fight.
Draven could already envision how this all started.
His men had likely taunted the bastard first, sizing him up, testing him like they did with any outsider who walked in with an air of confidence. A few drinks, a few insults thrown back and forth—and then steel was drawn.
That was just how things worked in this part of Varenthia.
It wasn't about right or wrong.
It was about who was left standing.
And judging by the bodies rolling on the ground, that question had been answered.
Draven exhaled through his nose, rubbing his jaw.
'Tch. If I met every asshole who came here claiming they needed to see me, I'd never get a fucking moment of peace.'
It wasn't uncommon for people to seek him out. Information brokers, smugglers, mercenaries looking for work—half the city knew his name, and a fair number wanted either business or blood.
But this?
This wasn't just another desperate thug trying to make an impression.
This one had walked in, destroyed half his men, and still looked relaxed enough to ask for a drink.
Draven clicked his tongue.
Draven clicked his tongue, his irritation mounting.
What the hell did this guy want?
Did he really think that after causing a scene like this, after tearing through his men like they were street thugs, he'd just waltz in and get whatever the fuck he came for?
Draven crossed his arms, his sharp gaze locked onto the black-haired bastard. "And what exactly do you want?"
The man exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly as if he were the one dealing with an annoyance. "I came here with civil intentions," he said smoothly. Then, he gestured to the groaning men on the floor. "It was your men who couldn't keep their pants on."
Draven's eye twitched. His nostrils flared slightly.
"So what?" he said bluntly, his tone shameless.
The black-haired man sighed, rubbing his temple. "Sigh… People in this city are all muscle-brains, aren't they?"
Draven let out a short, humorless chuckle. "You come to Varenthia and expect what, exactly?"
But the stranger didn't rise to the bait. Instead, his expression turned bored. Then, casually—too casually—he spoke the next words.
"Corvina. Name ring any bells?"
Draven's breath hitched.
His expression didn't change, but his pupils contracted.
He hadn't heard that name in a long while.
And the fact that this bastard had just walked into his territory and spoken it so casually—
The black-haired man watched Draven's reaction carefully. He wasn't expecting an immediate answer, but the sharp glint in Draven's eyes—the slightest shift in his posture—was enough.
He had struck something.
A slow smirk curved his lips. "Well," he mused, tilting his head. "It seems it rings some bells."
Draven said nothing. His expression was still as stone, but his fingers tapped against his arm, betraying the thoughts running through his head.
The black-haired man continued, his voice light. "She was the one who told me to find you when I came to this city."
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then—
Draven let out a low chuckle.
It was quiet at first, but then it grew—a deep, rough laugh that carried both amusement and something else. Something old.
He shook his head, lips quirking into a smirk. "Hah… I guess she's still playing big as ever."
Caius watched the exchange with narrowed eyes, feeling more and more like he had walked into something way over his head.
Draven exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his dark hair before finally turning toward the back of the bar. He gestured with a jerk of his chin.
"Come," he said, his voice carrying no hesitation. "Let's talk."
The black-haired man gave him an easy smile, as if this had been the outcome he'd been expecting all along.
Caius, on the other hand, just inwardly groaned.
'Great. More insanity.'
Chapter 564: Kael Draven (2)
Draven exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders before gesturing toward the back. "Follow me."
He didn't wait for a response—just turned on his heel and strode toward the private rooms at the rear of the bar. His footsteps were slow, measured. The kind that made it clear he wasn't retreating, but rather leading because he chose to.
Caius followed, his nerves still coiled tight. He stole a glance at the black-haired bastard beside him, expecting some sign of tension, some shift in his posture—anything that showed he understood he was stepping into Draven's domain.
But—nothing.
The bastard walked with the same unhurried ease as before, as if he were simply taking a casual evening stroll.
Caius felt a shudder creep up his spine.
'Does this guy not even register danger?'
Draven, on the other hand, was different. Caius could see the minute shifts in his posture, the subtle way his gaze flicked toward the man at his side—calculating, wary.
And beneath that sharp exterior, something else lingered.
'Corvina.'
The name sat heavy in his mind, like a weight pressing down on his ribs.
He hadn't heard it in years—hadn't thought about it in even longer. And yet, the moment it had left this bastard's mouth, something in Draven's gut had twisted.
'So she's still playing her little games, huh?'
Corvina had always been like that—pulling strings in the background, weaving plans within plans, making moves long before anyone even realized the game had started.
But what the fuck did this guy have to do with her?
Draven's gaze flicked sideways, taking in the bastard's face again—calm, unreadable.
'Who are you?'
And more importantly—
'What the hell are you doing in my city?'
They reached the door to the backroom, and Draven pushed it open without hesitation. The room was dimly lit, a long wooden table in the center, scattered with old maps, ledgers, and half-empty bottles of rum. A few chairs stood against the walls, some occupied by Draven's lieutenants—men who had, until moments ago, been relaxing.
Now, they were watching.
And not just watching—assessing.
Caius saw it immediately. The way their eyes darted toward the black-haired bastard, their hands inching toward their weapons—not aggressively, but ready.
They had heard the commotion outside. They had seen Draven's expression when he walked in. And they weren't idiots.
Something was off.
Draven walked to the head of the table, leaning against it with a slow exhale before turning his full attention back to the newcomer.
And still—that fucker was calm.
Not relaxed, not arrogant—just calm.
As if none of this mattered. As if he had already decided the outcome before stepping into the room.
Caius swallowed hard.
'Gods, what have I dragged Draven into?'
Draven tilted his head slightly, rubbing his jaw. His sharp, gray eyes never left the man before him.
"So," he said, voice casual, but carrying a very clear edge. "You came all this way, dropped Corvina's name, tore through my men like they were nothing—" He let his words hang for a moment before continuing. "Now tell me. Why the fuck shouldn't I kill you where you stand?"
Caius tensed.
The lieutenants tensed.
And the black-haired bastard?
He smirked.
Not wide, not mocking—just a small, knowing curve of the lips. The kind that said he had already considered this outcome.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"Because," he said, voice smooth, effortless, "you wouldn't like the consequences."
Silence.
Draven's fingers tapped against the table once, slow and deliberate.
His men were waiting. Waiting to see if they needed to move, waiting to see if Draven would signal an execution.
But Draven?
Draven was looking at him.
At that smirk.
At those pitch-black eyes.
And at the way not once—not even for a second—had this man looked worried.
The silence in the room stretched, thick and unyielding, pressing down on every man present. Draven met the black-haired bastard's gaze with the same unwavering intensity, his sharp eyes scanning, peeling back layers, searching for cracks in that maddening calm. But there were none.
The man didn't fidget, didn't shift his weight, didn't do a damn thing. He just stood there, utterly composed, watching Draven with an unreadable expression, as if he were merely observing rather than participating in this tense standoff.
Caius felt the air grow heavier with each passing second, his own pulse pounding against his ribs. He could feel the lieutenants stiffening beside him, their hands itching toward their weapons, waiting for a signal. Waiting for the moment things exploded.
And still, the bastard didn't react. Didn't tense, didn't shift into a stance, didn't even blink as Draven studied him with the scrutiny of a man who had spent his entire life knowing when someone was lying.
The tension reached its peak—stretched so taut that Caius thought it might snap like a drawn bowstring—
And then—
A loud, booming laugh shattered it.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Caius nearly jumped out of his damn skin.
Draven threw his head back, his laughter raw and genuine, shaking the air around them. The sudden shift was so jarring that even his men looked momentarily stunned. One second, he had been staring the bastard down like he was deciding whether to gut him or let him live, and the next—this.
"Bring something strong!" Draven barked, still chuckling as he ran a hand through his dark hair, shaking his head as if he couldn't believe what had just happened.
One of the men immediately snapped into motion, moving toward a cabinet at the far end of the room, pulling out a dark, aged bottle. The scent of potent liquor already began to fill the space as the cork was popped.
Draven turned back to the bastard, his smirk widening into something almost admiring. "I like you," he admitted, voice carrying a touch of amusement.
Caius had barely begun processing the whiplash of Draven's sudden mood swing when the bastard actually responded.
"Same," the black-haired man said smoothly, tilting his head slightly. "You're quite good at controlling your expressions. I heard about the southern border, but this is my first time seeing it firsthand."
Caius blinked. What?
Draven's expression didn't shift, but something flickered in his eyes. "What do you think about here?" he asked, voice casual, but with a sharp undercurrent.
The man exhaled softly, glancing around the room, taking in the rough-cut wooden walls, the dim lantern light flickering against stained maps and old battle-scarred furniture. "Not bad," he said after a moment. "People are quite hotheaded here. I guess this is pretty similar to the north."
Draven's lips curled slightly, but the amusement dropped. His gaze hardened just a fraction, though he still smirked. "Don't compare us with those northern barbarians."
A long, steady silence.
The black-haired man didn't reply. Didn't flinch. Didn't react at all. He just looked at Draven with that same unreadable expression, as if silently measuring something.
Caius was losing his mind.
What the hell was happening?
Just a second ago, they were on the verge of a fight to the death, and now they were trading words like two old mercenaries reminiscing over war stories. And this guy? He was talking like he knew Draven—like he had already figured him out, like he understood something no one else in this damn room did.
Caius felt his jaw tighten. This wasn't normal. Nothing about this was normal.
Draven let out a short breath before gesturing toward the chairs around the table.
"Ahem." He cleared his throat, then smirked again, though it was a shade lighter this time. "Come. Sit."
Draven exhaled through his nose and pulled out a chair, settling into it with the ease of a man who owned the room. His fingers drummed against the tabletop as he watched the young man move—unhurried, smooth, too damn comfortable for someone who had just cut through a group of trained men like they were nothing.
The bastard took his seat with the same casual grace, leaning back slightly, his posture neither stiff nor careless. Just… balanced.
Draven tilted his head slightly, the flickering lantern light catching the sharp lines of his face. "So," he said, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair, "what should I call you?"
The young man smiled—not wide, not forced, just a small, knowing curve of the lips. "Lucavion."
Draven's eyes narrowed slightly. He rolled the name over in his mind, tasting the weight of it. It wasn't a local name. And now that he heard it clearly, he could already tell—
"Lucavion," Draven repeated, slow and deliberate. "Are you a foreigner?"
Lucavion chuckled softly, his black eyes glinting. "You guessed it right."
Chapter 565: Drink
"You guessed it right."
He said easily. Then, tilting his head slightly, he added, "Can you guess where I'm from?"
Draven didn't answer immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, letting his gaze roam over the young man before him.
Lucavion looked to be in his early twenties—young, but not inexperienced. His body was sleek, lean, built for speed and precision rather than brute force. The way he carried himself, the way he fought… it all pointed to someone who relied on control, not strength.
His face? Not bad. Better than most of the fuckers in this city, at least. But not the best Draven had ever seen. A little too sharp, a little too unreadable.
But the scar—that jagged line running over his right eye—that, Draven liked. It added something to him, something that kept his otherwise smooth features from being forgettable.
But what really gave it away wasn't the name. It wasn't the face.
It was the accent. Subtle, just a hint of something refined, something just barely different from the speech patterns of Varenthia's locals. And when Draven lined that up with the name, the features, the way the bastard carried himself…
Draven exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "Loria Empire."
Lucavion's smirk widened just a fraction. He tapped his fingers lightly against the table. "Not bad," he admitted. "You're quick."
Draven's expression didn't shift, but his mind was already working, already piecing things together.
A Lorican. Here. Alone. With that level of skill. And Corvina's name on his lips.
'What the hell are you, Lucavion?'
Draven reached for the bottle that had been set on the table, pouring himself a glass before sliding it across to Lucavion.
"Then tell me," he said, voice casual, but his eyes sharp. "What's a Lorican doing in my city?"
Lucavion met Draven's stare with an easy, almost amused look before letting out a quiet chuckle. "Is this how you show hospitality to your guest?" he mused, tilting his head slightly. "I thought southern people were more candid?"
Draven exhaled sharply through his nose, lips twitching into a faint smirk. This guy. He wasn't just skilled; he had personality. He knew how to push without provoking, how to test the waters before diving in. And Draven? He liked that.
Most people who walked into this room—especially foreigners—tried one of two things. Fear, or arrogance. Either they groveled and begged, or they came in swinging, thinking bravado would win them respect. But Lucavion? He played things his own way. Not diving straight into business, not rushing to explain himself—just easing in, watching, waiting.
Draven could respect that.
He grabbed the bottle again, this time filling a second glass before sliding it toward Lucavion. "You want candid? Fine. Drink."
Lucavion glanced at the amber liquid, the thick scent of something strong hitting the air immediately. He picked up the glass, swirling it slightly before looking back at Draven. "I've heard of this," he admitted. "But never had the opportunity to try it."
Draven's smirk widened just a fraction. "Kierza Fire."
Lucavion raised an eyebrow, waiting.
Draven leaned back, tapping a finger against the wooden table. "Brewed in the western deserts, aged in charred oak barrels, infused with embersilk peppers from the volcanic plains. Strong as hell, burns going down, but it's got a good bite." He smirked slightly. "One glass'll keep you warm through a blizzard. Two'll put an average man on the floor."
Lucavion hummed, lifting the glass to his lips. He took a small sip first, testing. Then another, deeper one. He set the glass down, exhaling softly.
"...Good burn," he admitted, tapping his fingers against the wood. "Spicy, but smoother than I expected."
Draven chuckled. "Yeah. That's what lulls people into drinking a second glass. By the third, they don't remember their own damn name."
Lucavion's smirk didn't fade. "I'll keep that in mind."
Draven took another sip of his own drink before setting the glass down with a soft clink. Then, finally, he leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table. "Alright. Enough small talk." His gray eyes sharpened. "Corvina."
Lucavion nodded, swirling his drink lazily in his hand. "She's doing good."
Draven huffed. "That's all?"
Lucavion exhaled softly, as if considering. Then, finally, he said, "She became quite a successful woman."
Draven raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
Lucavion took another sip before setting his glass down. "She's the Guild Master of an adventurer's guild branch."
Draven blinked. Then, he laughed. A deep, genuine laugh, shaking his head as he rubbed his jaw. "Guild Master…" He leaned back, eyes glinting with something between amusement and disbelief. "Man, I knew she had it in her, but who would've guessed she'd become a member of the dogs?"
Lucavion chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "Dogs?"
Draven scoffed. "That's what we call 'em down here. The Guild's everywhere, always sniffing around, poking into places they don't belong." He smirked slightly. "Not surprising that Corvina managed to climb her way to the top of them."
Lucavion rested his chin on one hand, swirling the drink in his glass as his gaze flicked over Draven with idle curiosity. "How did you two know each other?"
Draven raised a brow. "She didn't tell you?"
Lucavion exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "She could have. Maybe. But she didn't have much time. Neither did I."
Draven scoffed, leaning back in his chair. "So it was an instant decision to come here?"
"Yep."
"I see."
He set his drink down with a soft clink, fingers idly tapping against the rim of the glass as his eyes darkened with thought. "It's not a complicated story," he murmured, exhaling slowly. "Corvina and I were from the same place. A quiet little village. Peaceful, self-sufficient… isolated. The kind of place where people were born, lived, and died without ever stepping beyond the valley."
Lucavion studied him, his sharp eyes observing, weighing.
"And that wasn't enough for you two," he guessed.
Draven chuckled, though there was something in it—a trace of old memory, old frustration. "No, it wasn't." He ran a hand through his dark hair, sighing. "Corvina was always smart. Smarter than most. Too smart for that little place, honestly. And me?" He smirked. "I didn't give a damn about reading books or learning things the way she did. But I hated being trapped. Hated the idea that I'd wake up one day and realize I never left."
Lucavion leaned back slightly, watching him. "So you left together?"
Draven nodded. "We were kids. Thought we were bigger than the world. Thought we'd make something of ourselves the moment we hit the cities." He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "Turns out, the world's a lot bigger than two brats from a nowhere village."
Lucavion took another sip of his drink, letting the burn settle in his throat as he observed Draven. The way he spoke, the slight roughness in his accent—it wasn't purely southern. Not completely.
"You're not from the South," Lucavion murmured.
Draven's eyes flicked to him, a small grin tugging at his lips. "Tch. Took you long enough."
Lucavion smirked slightly. "Loria's not the only place with people who know how to read between the lines."
Draven snorted. "Yeah. I'm from Arcanis. Southern side." He tapped a finger against the table. "Under the Daycott household's lands."
Lucavion exhaled softly, nodding to himself. It made sense. Arcanis, while known for its rigid nobility and military structure, had a vast, untamed southern region. Unlike the capital, where bloodlines dictated power, the South had its own rules. Strength mattered more than birthright. Survival wasn't a privilege—it was a necessity.
"You were a noble's son?" Lucavion mused.
Draven barked out a laugh. "Hell no. My parents worked the land. Not slaves, not peasants, but not nobles, either. Just… people. But the Daycotts? They were the kind of lords who liked to remind you exactly who owned the dirt you walked on."
Lucavion hummed, processing. "So you and Corvina left that all behind."
Draven exhaled. "Yeah. Thought we were chasing freedom. Instead, we ran straight into the cities thinking we'd carve out a place for ourselves overnight. But the city? It's bigger than any damn valley. It swallows people whole."
His fingers traced the rim of his glass, eyes distant. "At first, we tried to play it clean. Tried to do things right. Thought hard work would get us somewhere." He scoffed. "It didn't."
Lucavion watched him carefully. "And then?"
Draven smirked. "Then we figured out the truth." He lifted his glass, swirling the drink inside. "The city doesn't care about effort. Doesn't care about dreams, doesn't care about talent. What it cares about? Power. Who you know. What you're willing to do."
Lucavion stayed silent, waiting.
Draven exhaled, shaking his head slightly. "Corvina, though… she figured it out even faster than I did. She saw the cracks before I did. And unlike me, she knew how to play the long game."
Lucavion smirked faintly. "So she worked her way up. And you?"
Draven chuckled. "I took a different route." His gray eyes gleamed with something sharp as he lifted his glass in a mock toast. "And here we are."
Lucavion took a slow sip, letting the warmth settle before setting his glass down. "And now she's a Guild Master," he mused. "While you're running one of the most feared mercenary syndicates in Varenthia."
Draven grinned. "Guess we both made something of ourselves after all."
Lucavion chuckled, tapping a finger against his glass. "Not bad."
Draven raised a brow. "That all you have to say?"
Lucavion smirked. "You expected applause?"
Draven snorted. "Tch. You're an ass."
Lucavion only chuckled, taking another slow sip of Kierza Fire.
Chapter 566: Lucevian
Draven swirled the last remnants of his drink in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light of the lanterns. His gray eyes flicked back to Lucavion, sharp and curious.
"You know," he mused, tilting his head slightly, "I haven't heard the name Lucavion before."
Lucavion chuckled softly, as if the statement amused him. "Haven't you?"
Draven scoffed. "If I had, I'd remember it. I make it a habit to keep track of people who might be important later."
Lucavion leaned back, lazily tilting his glass before taking another sip. "Well," he said, voice smooth, "I'm just a wandering swordsman."
Draven let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Tch. It's always the 'wandering' ones," he muttered, resting his chin against his knuckles, "that end up shaking the foundations of a place."
Lucavion smirked, lifting his glass slightly in acknowledgment before downing the rest in one smooth gulp. He set the empty glass down with a soft clink. "You're right on that," he admitted.
Draven studied him for a moment longer. He had met all kinds in this city—mercenaries, assassins, exiles, fugitives. Some hid their pasts out of shame. Others, because they were running from something bigger than themselves.
But Lucavion?
Lucavion wasn't hiding.
No hesitation in his words, no anxious shift in his body language, no telltale flicker of unease. He wasn't dodging the question because he was afraid of the answer—he was dodging it because he simply didn't feel like giving one.
That, more than anything, made Draven curious.
But he wasn't going to push. Not yet.
Instead, he exhaled through his nose and leaned back in his chair, reaching for the bottle of Kierza Fire again. "Fair enough," he muttered, pouring himself another drink. "Everyone's got their own business."
Lucavion watched him, silent.
Still, something nagged at the back of Draven's mind.
The name. Lucavion.
It sounded… familiar. Not common, not something he had heard in passing—but somewhere, at some point, he was sure he had come across it.
He drummed his fingers against the wood, thinking.
Where?
Where the hell had he heard that name before?
Draven was still lost in thought, fingers tapping absently against the wooden table, when one of his men suddenly spoke.
"You… are you that Lucevian?"
The pronunciation was off, thick with a southern accent that twisted the syllables, making the name sound clumsy and unfamiliar.
Lucavion blinked once, then exhaled softly through his nose. He didn't look offended—just mildly amused. "It's Lucavion."
A short, awkward silence followed.
Draven's gaze flicked toward the man who had spoken, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. "You know him?"
The mercenary shifted in his seat, glancing briefly at Lucavion before looking back to Draven. "Boss, you remember our last escort job? The one in Mirewood?"
Draven rolled his jaw, thinking for a moment. "Mirewood…" He exhaled through his nose. "Yeah, what about it?"
The mercenary nodded quickly. "While we were there, we came across some rumors."
Draven raised a brow. "Rumors?"
"Yeah. Remember the Vendor Martial Tournament?"
Draven's brows knitted together in mild confusion. "Vendor Martial Tournament?" He scoffed, shaking his head. "What the hell is that supposed to be?"
The mercenary cleared his throat, looking just a little hesitant. "Ahem… boss… remember that envoy that came to hire assassins a while back?"
Draven's eyes narrowed, the memory clicking into place. "Envoy?" His expression darkened slightly. "Ah. Those arrogant bitches from—what sect was it? Cloud Heavens?"
"Yes, them."
Draven leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the side of his glass. "Tch. What about it?"
The mercenary hesitated for a brief moment, then exhaled. "Boss… remember the person they wanted us to kill?"
Draven's eyes flicked up, his gaze sharp.
Then—realization.
Draven leaned back in his chair, the smirk on his lips deepening as he repeated the name.
"Sword Demon, was it?"
His men nodded. The air in the room shifted, thick with unspoken tension.
Draven exhaled sharply, rubbing his jaw. "Tch… now that's a name I haven't heard in a while." He glanced at the mercenary who had spoken, his voice laced with curiosity. "What's the connection?"
The man hesitated for only a second before continuing. "At the time, boss, you remember—the Cloud Heavens Sect was in deep shit. Their reputation had hit rock bottom, and they were scrambling to save face." He paused, then added with a slight chuckle, "Hell, a lot of assassin organizations refused their requests outright."
Draven nodded slowly, memories aligning. "Yeah… I remember seeing that request myself." He tapped his fingers against the table. "Normally, we wouldn't hesitate to take a job on an Awakened 4-star. But that Sword Demon? He wasn't normal."
Lucavion remained silent, his gaze steady, but Draven caught the faint glint of interest in his black eyes.
Draven continued, "The bastard stirred up a lot of trouble for the Cloud Heavens Sect. Exposed some of their filth, ruined some of their deals—" He exhaled through his nose. "If he was just some lone swordsman, they wouldn't have been so desperate. Which meant one thing—"
"He had backing," one of the men finished.
"Or," Draven corrected, smirking, "he was someone's pawn."
Lucavion took another sip of his drink, his expression unreadable.
"A lot of assassin organizations went after him," the mercenary added, shaking his head. "And not a single one of them succeeded. The bastard vanished after causing havoc in Andelheim."
Draven scoffed. "Yeah. Left the city burning behind him, and no one could track him down." He poured himself another drink, his gray eyes narrowing slightly. "That is… until the stories about Thornridge surfaced."
Lucavion exhaled softly, tilting his head as if amused. "Thornridge?"
Draven nodded, watching him carefully. "Word spread about a black-haired swordsman with a scar over his right eye. Said he tore through the Crimson Serpent Sect like they were nothing."
Lucavion tapped his fingers against the table, his smirk lazy. "Is that so?"
Draven narrowed his eyes.
"Yeah," he muttered. "That's what the stories say."
Draven leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table as he studied the man in front of him.
"So," he mused, his voice dipping into something quieter, sharper, "what is this Sword Demon doing here?"
Lucavion smirked, lifting his glass once more, but this time he didn't drink right away. He swirled the liquor, watching the amber liquid shift against the light before his gaze flicked back to Draven.
"It seems," he said smoothly, "your habit needs an examination."
Draven's brow twitched.
Lucavion's smirk widened just a fraction, his voice carrying that same easy amusement. "I believe you said, 'If I had, I'd remember it. I make it a habit to keep track of people who might be important later.'"
Draven blinked. Then, suddenly—
He threw his head back and laughed.
"HAHAHAHA!"
His men flinched slightly at the abrupt shift, exchanging wary glances, but Draven didn't care. He let the laughter roll out freely, his shoulders shaking as he smacked the table with his palm.
"Tch—ha…hah… You got me there," he admitted, exhaling through his nose. He picked up his drink, taking a slow sip before setting it back down with a soft clink. His sharp gray eyes settled on Lucavion once more, but this time, the playfulness had faded.
The smirk was still there, the amusement lingering, but beneath it—
Business.
Draven straightened in his seat, tilting his head slightly. "Alright, enough games." His voice lost its casual edge, dipping into something steadier, more weighted. "You're here in my city, sitting at my table. You've got my attention, but I don't entertain ghosts."
The room felt different now. Tighter. The air, heavier.
Draven let the silence stretch for a moment, letting the weight of his words settle before finally leaning back.
"So," he continued, voice smooth but edged with intent, "what exactly do you want, Lucavion?"
Lucavion's smirk faded just a little, the light amusement in his eyes dimming as his expression grew more deliberate. His fingers tapped against the wooden table once—slow, measured—before he lifted his gaze to meet Draven's directly.
"I'm here to find someone," he said.
Draven didn't blink, waiting.
Lucavion exhaled softly, then spoke the name.
"Aldric Veltorin."