Chapter 114 - IS 114

Chapter 575: Letting them know

The weight in the room was unbearable.

Lucavion sat there, utterly at ease, while his mana crushed everything around him.

The black starlight that swirled from his body wasn't just powerful—it was dense, overwhelming, consuming. The pitch-black flames that interwove with it carried a force that felt wrong—not in the sense of corruption, but in the sense of sheer, unnatural dominance.

For the first time, the gathered men weren't just assessing him. They were acknowledging him.

Soren exhaled sharply, his usual scowl tightening into something more serious. No more mockery. No more doubt. He wasn't reckless enough to ignore what was right in front of him.

Marciel, ever the composed one, had gone completely still. His calculating eyes flicked between Lucavion and Draven, the gears in his mind turning rapidly. This wasn't just strong. This wasn't just impressive. This was something they hadn't accounted for.

Vyrell's fingers twitched against the table, his cold gaze sharpening. Now it made sense.

At first, when they had met Lucavion, they hadn't been able to feel anything from him. His mana had been completely undetectable, and that was unnatural for an Awakened.

That left them with only two possible conclusions.

Either—

One: He was a non-Awakened using some kind of trickery to make himself seem stronger than he was. But that didn't make sense—Draven wouldn't be foolish enough to stake his credibility on someone like that.

Or—

Two: He had already reached the 6-star realm, and his mana was so far beyond theirs that they had been unable to perceive it properly.

They had discarded that second idea at first.

Because it was insane.

Because it didn't make sense.

Because it shouldn't have been possible.

And yet—

Here they were.

Watching as the air itself bent under the weight of his power.

Feeling as their own mana—mana that should have been **strong enough to defend against anyone in this city—**was pushed back effortlessly.

And for the first time in years, they felt something they hadn't experienced in a long time.

A 6-star Awakened.

A true monster.

Draven leaned forward slightly, his smirk widening. "You starting to believe me now?"

Soren exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Tch… You really found a crazy bastard, huh?"

Marciel sighed, rubbing his temple. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but… it makes sense now." His sharp eyes flicked to Draven. "No wonder we couldn't sense him before."

Vyrell was still staring at Lucavion, silent for a long moment. Then, finally, he exhaled.

Vyrell's gaze hardened, his cold eyes locking onto Lucavion like a predator sizing up an unknown beast. His fingers curled slightly against the wood, but his voice remained smooth, measured.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked. "Where did you come from?"

Lucavion met his stare without hesitation. His smirk remained, lighthearted, almost lazy. "Is that important?"

Vyrell didn't blink. "It is."

Lucavion exhaled softly, tapping a single finger against the table. "We're all working toward the same goal, aren't we? Is it really important who I am?"

Vyrell's expression didn't shift. "It is." His voice was colder now, more pointed. "What if you're just like that Aldric bastard? What if we're replacing one problem with another?"

A fair question.

Soren grunted in agreement, crossing his arms. Marciel was watching carefully, silent, but not dismissing the possibility.

For a moment, Lucavion said nothing.

Then, his smirk widened slightly.

"Do you have a choice, Mister Vyrell?"

His voice was smooth, teasing, carrying that same infuriating ease he had maintained since he entered the room.

But then—

In the span of a breath, it changed.

The air froze.

A pulse of something dark, something suffocating, swept through the space.

Lucavion's eyes, once half-lidded with amusement, became voids of black starlight. The playful flicker in them vanished, replaced by something cold. Empty.

And then came the bloodlust.

Vyrell's entire body stiffened.

The room—once filled with tension, with wariness—became still.

The feeling that washed over them was nothing like before.

This wasn't just mana.

This was something darker.

Vyrell had seen countless killers in his time. Assassins, mercenaries, men who had spent their lives in the shadows of death. He had trained alongside them. Fought beside them. Killed with them.

But this?

This was not the presence of a mere killer.

This was the weight of someone who had already walked through rivers of blood.

Cold sweat formed at the back of Vyrell's neck before he could even register it. His fingers twitched—an instinctive reaction, an unconscious movement that his body made when it felt the need to defend itself.

And then—

Lucavion spoke.

"I am only here to kill that man," he murmured, his voice carrying the same weight as a blade resting against one's throat. "I don't care about anything else."

His tone was even. Not angry. Not forceful.

Just stating a fact.

Vyrell didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

Because for the first time in a long, long time…

He felt that if he did—he would die.

Draven sighed loudly, running a hand down his face. "Alright, alright. That's enough, kid. We get it—you're crazy." He leaned back, smirking. "No need to make it this obvious."

The moment the words left his mouth—

Lucavion's bloodlust vanished.

Completely.

Like it had never been there at all.

One second, the room had been drowning in suffocating killing intent, an invisible blade resting against everyone's throats. The next—calm.

Lucavion smiled.

Not a forced smile, not a sinister one. Just the same damn smirk he always wore, like nothing had happened.

The shift was so unnatural, so instant, that even hardened men like Vyrell and Soren felt their bodies twitch involuntarily.

Soren gritted his teeth, inhaling sharply as he ran a hand over his face. "...Tch. What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Marciel let out a slow, measured breath, his fingers tightening slightly against the edge of the table. He prided himself on keeping a composed demeanor, but this? Even he couldn't hide the flicker of unease that crossed his features.

Vyrell—who had been frozen just moments before—slowly exhaled through his nose, regaining his composure. His mind was still catching up to the fact that his body had reacted before his thoughts could.

That alone told him everything he needed to know.

This man—Lucavion—was dangerous.

Not just because of his strength.

But because of the way he controlled it.

To unleash such overwhelming, suffocating killing intent—only to retract it in an instant, slipping back into that carefree smirk like he had simply been stretching?

It wasn't normal.

It wasn't human.

Draven chuckled, shaking his head. "You're gonna give these poor bastards a heart attack, Lucavion."

Lucavion tilted his head, looking entirely unbothered. "I was just answering his question."

Soren clicked his tongue, looking at Draven. "You're actually trusting this lunatic?"

Draven grinned. "Oh, absolutely."

Silence settled again.

And that was when everyone in the room realized the truth.

They weren't just dealing with some ambitious swordsman.

They were entangled with a man whose mind didn't work like a normal person's.

Soren exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if trying to shake off the lingering unease. Then, he turned to Draven, voice rough with frustration. "I have to ask—what the hell is your reason for putting your faith in this lunatic?"

Marciel nodded, his usual composed demeanor returning, though there was still a sharp glint of caution in his eyes. "We get that he's strong. We get that he's not normal. But strength alone isn't enough to bet everything on, Draven. What's your real reason?"

Vyrell didn't speak, but his cold gaze was fixed on Draven, waiting.

Draven didn't answer immediately.

His smirk faded just a little, his sharp features relaxing—just for a second.

His gray eyes grew distant, lost in something older than the moment they were in now.

Then—

"Word from someone of the past."

The room paused.

For all their suspicion, that was an answer none of them had expected.

Soren groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Tch. Fuck." He shot Draven an annoyed glare. "Don't tell me you're bringing your love life into this."

Draven blinked.

Then, his face twisted in sheer disgust.

"The fuck?" He scowled, sitting up straight. "First of all—never say that shit again."

Marciel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So it's her, then."

Vyrell tilted his head slightly. "Corvina?"

Draven's lips twitched, but he didn't confirm or deny. He simply exhaled through his nose.

Lucavion, who had been watching this entire exchange with mild amusement, finally chuckled. "She does have a way of persuading people."

Draven rolled his eyes, clearly done with the conversation already. "Tch. You people act like I just blindly follow orders. I make my own choices."

Marciel gave him a look. "Do you?"

Soren snorted. "Not when it comes to her."

Draven groaned, rubbing his temple. "You all can shut the fuck up now."

Lucavion smirked, resting his chin on one hand. "It's sweet, really."

Draven turned to glare at him. "Not. Another. Word."

Lucavion simply grinned.

The tension in the room was still there—undeniable, unshaken—but for the first time, it had shifted into something a little lighter.

A temporary moment of ease—before the real war began.

Chapter 576: Artifact

Draven walked beside Lucavion as they stepped out of the meeting room, the heavy doors shutting behind them with a dull thud. The noise lingered for a second before fading into the distant sounds of the city beyond.

The air outside was cool, carrying the distant scent of the sea mixed with the sharper, grittier notes of Varenthia itself—smoke, spice, damp stone. A city that was alive, unpredictable.

Draven glanced at Lucavion, hands tucked in his pockets. "So?" he asked, his voice light but edged with something knowing. "How's this place treating you?"

Lucavion hummed, tilting his head slightly. "This place?" He exhaled, a small smirk curling his lips. "Not bad."

Draven huffed a quiet chuckle. "Not bad," he repeated. "That's all?"

Lucavion's dark eyes flicked toward him, amused. "Should I be more poetic?"

Draven rolled his eyes. "Tch. Don't push it."

The two walked in easy silence for a few more steps, the stone streets of Varenthia stretching ahead in winding, unpredictable paths.

Draven had been monitoring Lucavion these past few days, of course. Caius had made sure of that.

Lucavion, unsurprisingly, hadn't seemed to mind the extra set of eyes on him. If anything, he had treated it like a minor curiosity—something amusing rather than intrusive.

And what had he done during those three days?

Nothing that screamed trouble.

He had wandered.

Through the markets, the trade streets, the back alleys where rare goods were exchanged under whispered deals.

He had eaten—Draven had heard from Caius that the bastard had gone out of his way to taste all sorts of Varenthian dishes. Exotic spiced meats from the southern isles, crispy fried rolls stuffed with minced fish and rare herbs, even the dense, honey-soaked pastries that most hardened mercenaries wouldn't be caught dead eating in public.

And then there were the cultural stops.

Caius had reported seeing him at one of the old shrines in the western district, where people still lit incense for ancestors or prayed for fortune in their bloody line of work.

And then at the Bazaar of Echoes, where relics and artifacts—some real, most fake—were sold to those foolish or wealthy enough to care.

Lucavion hadn't acted like a man preparing for a violent clash.

But Draven wasn't stupid.

This wasn't the behavior of a man who wasn't preparing.

This was the behavior of a man who had already prepared.

Lucavion was simply waiting.

Draven exhaled through his nose. "You don't seem like the type to care about food and culture."

Lucavion chuckled. "Should I be swinging my sword in the streets instead?"

Draven smirked. "I'd prefer if you didn't. This city's got enough problems."

Lucavion hummed in amusement, stretching his arms lazily as they walked. "You can tell a lot about a place by its food, its people, its stories," he mused. "Varenthia is interesting. It's always shifting, always changing hands… but the bones of it are old."

Draven glanced at him, curious. "You get all that from tasting street food?"

Lucavion let out a short chuckle, tilting his head as if amused by his own words. "No, I just made them up." His smirk widened slightly. "Did it sound poetic? Maybe you thought I was some wise old man with insight?"

Draven just shook his head, exhaling through his nose. "Tch. You're a real pain in the ass, you know that?"

"A certain someone likes to talk about food. And I don't like always being lectured."

Draven raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing," Lucavion said smoothly.

Draven narrowed his eyes slightly but let it slide. There was no point digging into whatever nonsense the bastard was spouting. Instead, he turned the conversation back to business.

"Anyway," Draven started, his tone shifting back to something more serious, "the others have agreed to the plan. You'll get your fight."

Lucavion's smirk didn't fade, but there was something sharper beneath it. "That was never in question."

Draven scoffed. "Maybe not. But you'll need this."

From within his coat, Draven pulled out a small, metal case—old, but well-kept. He flipped it open, revealing a dark, polished artifact resting inside.

Lucavion's gaze flicked toward the artifact the moment the case snapped open. His smirk faded just slightly—not out of concern, but out of curiosity.

It wasn't a ring.

It wasn't a weapon, either.

The object inside was strange, exotic. A small, crystalline fragment encased in a frame of dark metal, its edges jagged yet unnaturally smooth. At its core, faint, shifting lights pulsed—colors twisting in slow, hypnotic patterns, as if alive.

Lucavion narrowed his eyes. "What is this?"

Draven exhaled, his smirk still present but his tone far more serious. "An artifact."

Lucavion shot him a flat look. "I can see that. I'm asking—what is its purpose?"

Draven rolled his shoulders. "Its purpose… is to find your target."

Lucavion's gaze sharpened. He didn't speak, waiting for Draven to elaborate.

Draven tapped a finger lightly against the case. "When used, this thing will reveal the location of the person you're searching for. But not in the usual way."

Lucavion's fingers stilled against the case. "...Go on."

Draven smirked, watching his reaction. "It doesn't work in real time. Instead, it shows you their location through your dreams."

For the first time since stepping out of that meeting room—

Lucavion's expression shifted.

His fingers stilled. His dark eyes, always half-lidded with lazy amusement, narrowed ever so slightly as he truly examined the artifact in front of him.

A pause.

Then—

His gaze flicked up. "What?"

Draven chuckled, leaning against the railing of the stone walkway they had stopped on. "Thought that would get your attention."

Lucavion didn't respond immediately. His fingers hovered just above the artifact, feeling the mana ripple from it.

Something like this—this kind of function—

It wasn't just a simple tracking artifact. It wasn't something a mercenary or even a noble would typically possess.

This was something far above that level.

His voice was quieter this time, but sharper. "This should be at least an Epic-rank artifact."

Lucavion's fingers hovered over the artifact, his dark eyes unreadable as he studied the shifting lights within its crystalline core. The slow, rhythmic pulses of color weren't chaotic—they were deliberate, patterned.

This was not something one simply found.

"You can't just access an Epic-rank artifact like this," Lucavion murmured, his voice smooth but edged with suspicion. "Tell me—what's the catch?"

Draven smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Sharp as ever." He exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah, there's a catch."

Lucavion waited, his fingers still just above the artifact, close enough to feel the unstable flickers of mana radiating from it.

Draven gestured toward it with a slight nod. "It used to be an Epic-rank artifact."

Lucavion's eyes flickered slightly, narrowing.

Draven continued, "But it's not anymore. It's a defective product."

Lucavion's lips curled into something resembling amusement. "Defective?"

Draven let out a short chuckle. "Tch. You sound like you're doubting me."

Lucavion leaned back slightly, tilting his head. "Shouldn't I?"

Draven smirked. "Fair." He tapped the case lightly with his finger. "I got it off a smuggler who managed to get into the vault of the Valcroix Family."

Lucavion's expression didn't change, but Draven caught the flicker of calculation behind his eyes.

"...Valcroix?"

Draven waved a hand dismissively. "A noble house from the south. You don't need to concern yourself with them."

Lucavion let the words settle in his mind. He had no ties to the southern noble families, nor did he care for their politics. But even so—an artifact stolen from a noble vault? That meant it wasn't just rare. It was buried history.

"So, what's broken?" Lucavion finally asked.

Draven clicked his tongue, watching Lucavion turn the artifact between his fingers. "That's the tricky part."

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. "Of course it is."

Draven's mouth twitched but didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he tapped the artifact case lightly. "It doesn't work like it used to. I tried testing it before—it doesn't just reveal anyone."

Lucavion tilted his head slightly. "Then what does it reveal?"

Draven leaned against the railing, exhaling through his nose. "It only works on people you have a clear memory of." His voice carried a certain weight now, something less casual than before. "And not just any memory. It has to be... deep. One tied to real emotions."

Lucavion's fingers stilled for a moment, then resumed turning the artifact. His expression didn't change, but something flickered behind his dark eyes. "Hmph. That's inconvenient."

Draven chuckled. "For most people, yeah. Makes it almost useless for tracking down random targets. You can't just think of someone you met once and expect this thing to show you their location."

Lucavion exhaled softly, staring down at the artifact. The slow, rhythmic pulses of light continued to shift in its core, casting faint reflections across his gloves.

Memories. Not just any memory.

A moment, vivid and deep. Something carved into his mind, burned into his bones.

His grip tightened ever so slightly.

Draven watched him carefully. "That a problem?"

Lucavion let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "No. If anything, it makes things easier."

Draven raised an eyebrow. "Easier?"

Lucavion's smirk returned, but there was something different about it now—something quieter, something colder. "Because I don't have to wonder if it'll work."

Chapter 577: Artifact (2)

"Because I don't have to wonder if it'll work."

Draven stared at him for a second longer before scoffing. "Tch. Whatever you say, Sword Demon."

Lucavion turned his head slightly, his usual smirk settling back into place. "Now, when do we start?"

Draven exhaled, rolling his shoulders before reaching into his coat. "Ah, that…" He pulled out a folded piece of parchment, handing it over. "Here. Take this."

Lucavion took the paper, unfolding it with a flick of his wrist. His sharp eyes scanned the surface, and he let out a soft chuckle. "Emberwood Summoning Paper?"

Draven nodded. "Yeah."

A common artifact, but a useful one. Made from the bark of Emberwood trees—one of the few naturally magical flora known to exist—it had a unique property. When one side of the parchment was burned, its twin—no matter how far away—would ignite at the same time. A simple, reliable way to send an urgent summons.

Lucavion twirled the parchment between his fingers. "Convenient."

Draven smirked. "When this burns, you can use that artifact. But you'll need to be quick—we can't waste time once this starts."

Lucavion raised an eyebrow. "Expecting trouble?"

Draven scoffed. "Obviously. Aldric isn't an idiot. He won't move at first—not right away. He'll send his men first, gauge the situation. That's how these types operate."

Lucavion nodded slightly. That much made sense.

"But," Draven continued, his tone growing more serious, "if he realizes the situation is bad—if he sees that this isn't just some minor threat—he'll leave."

Lucavion tapped a finger against the parchment, thoughtful. "So the best thing to do… is to find him before he runs."

Draven's smirk widened. "Exactly."

Lucavion exhaled through his nose, slipping the Emberwood paper into his coat. "Hmph. Then I better make sure I don't keep you waiting too long."

Draven exhaled slowly, tilting his head back to glance at the sky above. The deep gray clouds rolled lazily overhead, the dim glow of the city's torches flickering against the night air.

They were about to take on a damn big problem. Aldric Veltorin wasn't just some thug playing warlord—he was a 6-star Awakened, a former knight, and more than that, a man backed by forces that didn't want him found. This wasn't just another power struggle in Varenthia.

It was something far bigger.

Draven knew the risks. He had pulled the pieces together, gathered allies, mapped out every potential move. But even then—he wasn't stupid enough to think this was going to be simple.

His gaze shifted to the bastard standing beside him.

Lucavion, for all his amusement and easy smirks, was still an unknown.

"Are you sure you can deal with it?" Draven finally asked, his tone deceptively casual.

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening. "Don't trust me?"

Draven scoffed. "Bastard, I just met you."

Lucavion chuckled, tapping the Emberwood parchment against his palm. "Well, let's hope I do. Since I'm your only choice."

Draven's jaw twitched. He hated how fucking right the bastard was.

"...Fuck you."

Lucavion grinned. "Thanks."

*****

The streets of Varenthia stretched ahead, winding and unpredictable, filled with shifting lights and moving shadows. The city never truly slept. Even at this hour, voices drifted through the air—merchants still haggling over last-minute deals, mercenaries gathered in hushed circles, whispers of bets, bounties, and blood.

Lucavion walked with an easy, unhurried stride, hands tucked lazily into his coat pockets. Caius was a step behind, his expression torn between frustration and reluctant acceptance of his current fate.

And then there was her.

[Vitaliara], perched effortlessly on his shoulder, her emerald eyes sharp as they scanned the streets around them. The occasional flick of her tail was the only indication of her thoughts—until she finally spoke.

[Are you sure about this?] Her voice was quiet, but weighty. [He's a 6-star Awakened.]

Lucavion exhaled softly, his smirk barely shifting. "Was."

As Lucavion walked through the uneven streets of Varenthia, the flickering lantern lights casting long, restless shadows, a familiar voice curled into the edges of his thoughts.

['Are you sure about this?']

Vitaliara's voice was soft but firm, threading into his mind like silk wrapped around steel. From the outside, she was merely perched on his shoulder, tail flicking lazily, but inside his head? Her presence was a persistent weight.

Lucavion's smirk barely shifted. 'You're still asking that?'

['I wouldn't if you weren't planning to fight a 6-star Awakened like it was a casual duel.']

Lucavion hummed in amusement, adjusting his coat as he stepped over a loose stone. 'Was a 6-star. Before three years ago, according to Corvina's intel, he was only a 5-star.'

Vitaliara was silent for a moment. Then—

['And? You think that changes anything?']

'It means he recently broke through. Just like I did.'

A flicker of understanding passed between them. Lucavion could feel her considering his words, weighing the logic.

['So, what? You think that because you both advanced recently, it puts you on even ground?'] Her tone was sharp, probing.

Lucavion chuckled under his breath, sidestepping a sluggish drunk who nearly stumbled into him. 'Not quite. It means he hasn't had time to fully settle into his new strength.'

['Neither have you.']

Lucavion's fingers twitched slightly. He had been expecting that.

'That's different.'

Vitaliara scoffed. ['How exactly?']

Lucavion tilted his head, watching the dimly lit alleyways with vague interest. 'Because I had to earn my breakthrough in battle. I had to tear through something stronger than me. When I killed the Kraken, I felt it—the exact moment I shattered my limit.'

A pause.

Vitaliara's tail curled slightly.

['…You're saying he didn't earn his?']

Lucavion's smirk thinned, turning into something quieter. 'I'm saying that Aldric didn't fight his way up—he climbed. Slowly. Steadily. He's a former knight, a trained soldier. Men like that don't take risks unless they have to.' His black eyes glinted under the lantern light. 'Which means, even if he's a 6-star now, he hasn't had time to wield it properly.'

Vitaliara didn't respond right away.

Lucavion could feel her thoughts shifting, calculating.

Then—

['And what about your other core?']

Lucavion's steps didn't falter, but his fingers curled slightly.

'What about it?'

['Don't play dumb. I know you've been feeding it. I know you've been pushing it forward—but it's not at peak 4-star yet, is it?']

Lucavion exhaled slowly. 'No. It's mid 4-star.'

Vitaliara's ears flicked, her voice curling through his mind like a whisper of fire.

['And that's a problem.']

Lucavion smirked. 'For anyone else, maybe.'

['For you too, Lucavion.'] Her voice was sharper now. ['You advanced too fast. Your body kept up, your techniques refined—but your Flame of Equinox is hungry. It needs time to fully stabilize.']

Lucavion's gaze flicked to the rooftops, then back to the winding streets. 'Time I don't have.'

A sigh.

['Tch. You reckless bastard.']

Lucavion chuckled. 'I thought we already established that.'

Vitaliara huffed. ['I'm not joking. You feel it, don't you? Your core isn't moving as fast anymore. The higher you climb, the harder it is. The time it took you to go from 3-star to 4-star was nothing. But from mid to peak 4-star? That's different.']

Lucavion exhaled softly, his gaze flicking toward the distant rooftops before settling on the uneven streets beneath his feet. The truth was simple—advancing his [Flame of Equinox] had always been a matter of taking. Death fueled it, strengthened it, refined it. But the further he climbed, the more selective it became.

The stronger the monster, the richer the essence. The richer the essence, the greater the growth.

It was a cycle he had already expected, a trade-off he had calculated from the beginning. The only issue? Finding prey worthy enough to push him forward.

'Not exactly something I can just pick up on the street,' he mused. 'And unless I feel like making enemies out of half the continent, I can't just go hunting Awakened for their cores.'

[Vitaliara] remained perched on his shoulder, her tail flicking in thought. [You're not concerned?]

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, his smirk remaining faint but ever-present. 'Why would I be?'

She huffed. [Because if your advancement slows, you'll fall behind. You won't reach 5-star before this conflict escalates.]

Lucavion let out a soft chuckle, hands tucking further into his coat pockets. 'It's not about speed, it's about momentum. I don't need to rush my advancement—I just need the right opportunities.'

[And if those opportunities don't come?]

'They will come soon enough, don't worry.'

[….Is that so?...]

'Yep.'

[Whatever.]

Chapter 578: Advice

Vitaliara let out a small breath through her nose, her tail flicking once before settling.

[Fine. I won't nag.]

Lucavion smirked. 'You say that, but I can already hear the next lecture forming in your head.'

[Hah.] She perched more comfortably on his shoulder, stretching her claws lightly against the fabric of his coat. [If I thought you were running in blind, I would lecture you.] Her emerald eyes glinted. [But you're not stupid—just reckless.]

Lucavion chuckled under his breath. 'Reckless? Me? That's harsh.'

[Oh, shut up. You know exactly what I mean.]

Vitaliara had learned something about him over time—he wasn't the type to rush into something without calculating the risks. He played at being reckless, at throwing himself into danger with that damnable smirk, but beneath that?

Everything was measured.

If he was walking into a fight under-leveled, he already had a way out. If he was gambling on an unknown factor, he had at least three countermeasures in place. It wasn't that he avoided danger—no, he invited it. But only when he was certain he could survive it.

At least she hoped so….

*****

Caius sat on the edge of the small bed in the servant's quarters, elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands.

He hated this.

Absolutely fucking hated this.

He had spent years working as a mercenary, surviving in the underbelly of Varenthia, clawing his way up from the filth of the streets to something better. Or at least, something not as shitty.

And now?

Now, he was stuck playing lapdog to some smug bastard with a pretty face and a terrifying sword arm.

His eye twitched as he thought about it.

Draven hadn't technically said, "Caius, you are now Lucavion's personal servant," but fuck, it sure as hell felt that way. Every time Lucavion looked at him with that unreadable smirk, every time he suggested something instead of outright ordering it, Caius knew—he was being fucking played.

"Fuck this," he muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair.

If he had any sense, he'd walk away. Cut his losses, disappear into the city, and pretend he never met Lucavion, Draven, or any of this bullshit.

But he couldn't.

Not with Draven breathing down his neck. Not with the knowledge that, if Lucavion did do something crazy, it would be his ass on the line.

He let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

'How the hell did my life turn into this?'

A low rumble shook the floor beneath Caius's boots.

Then—

BOOM.

The distant roar of an explosion echoed through the city, followed by another—closer this time. The ground trembled slightly, the faint vibrations crawling up his spine like a bad omen.

His head snapped up.

"What the hell?"

He shot to his feet, already moving. His instincts screamed at him—something's wrong.

Bursting out of his small quarters, he rushed down the hall, feet pounding against the wooden floor as he made a beeline for the main residence. He barely noticed the details of the house anymore—the well-kept interior, the fine furniture—none of it mattered.

He needed to get to Lucavion.

His pulse pounded in his ears as another explosion rocked the city, casting an eerie orange glow against the night sky.

Caius gritted his teeth, shoving the door open.

Caius shoved the door open, his pulse hammering in his ears.

The room was dimly lit, shadows stretching along the walls from a single lantern.

And there, sitting with the same damnable ease as always, was Lucavion.

But he wasn't idle.

SCHLINK.

The sound of metal sliding against a whetstone filled the air.

Lucavion's black eyes flicked up toward him, sharp and deliberate.

"You…" His voice was slow, almost bored. "Why did you enter without permission?"

Caius's mouth twitched.

"Seriously?" He gestured wildly toward the window, where the faint glow of fire painted the night sky. "Don't you hear that?"

Lucavion didn't stop sharpening his blade. "I do."

"Then—"

"Then?"

Caius's hands clenched into fists. "Will you not look for it?"

Lucavion finally paused. His gaze settled on Caius fully, his fingers still resting against the blade.

"As you can see," he murmured, his voice carrying that same insufferable amusement, "I will not."

Caius stared at him, completely bewildered. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

Lucavion leaned back slightly, resting his blade on his knee. "Very."

Another explosion shook the city, sending vibrations through the floorboards. The distant echoes of shouting were beginning to rise.

Caius gritted his teeth. "Then what the hell are you going to do?"

Lucavion exhaled lightly, as if mildly entertained by the entire situation.

Then—his lips curled into a smirk.

"If you want to make a name for yourself," he said smoothly, "this is your chance."

Caius blinked. "What?"

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, his black eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

"Leave now," he said, voice calm. "Go to one of the places with those explosions."

Caius stared at Lucavion, frustration mounting.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he snapped. "Why are you acting like this isn't a big deal? The city's burning outside!"

Lucavion exhaled lightly through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching as if Caius's anger amused him.

"You," he said, his voice smooth, "are the one who lives in Varenthia. You must already know the rules of this city." He tilted his head slightly. "Why are you acting like a country bumpkin?"

Caius twitched.

'This fucking—'

Lucavion continued before he could even form a response.

"You should understand this better than anyone else," he mused, running his whetstone against his blade once more. "This city thrives on chaos. And when something like this happens, there are only two choices—" He looked up, his black eyes glinting in the lantern light.

"You move, or you get trampled."

Caius clenched his fists.

He knew that. Of course he knew that. He had lived by that rule for years. In a city like Varenthia—where mercenaries, gangs, and cutthroats ran the streets—there was nothing worse than standing still.

If word got out that, while others were fighting and making their mark, he had just stayed put like some coward waiting for orders…

Things would turn ugly.

Fast.

He ground his teeth together, hating that Lucavion was right. Hating even more that this bastard was saying it like he was giving him a lesson.

Caius let out a sharp breath, rolling his shoulders. "Tch. Fine."

He turned on his heel and stormed toward the door.

Lucavion didn't stop him.

Didn't say anything else.

Lucavion remained seated, his fingers idly turning the paper Draven had given him. The lantern flickered, casting long shadows across the walls.

"Not yet, it seems," he murmured, exhaling lightly.

A voice came from his side, smooth and knowing.

[You sound almost disappointed.]

Lucavion smirked, tilting his head slightly. "Do I?"

Vitaliara's emerald eyes flickered as she adjusted her position, her tail curling lazily. [You do.]

Lucavion exhaled through his nose, folding the paper neatly before setting it aside. "I suppose I was hoping for something… clearer."

[Dreams are rarely clear,] she pointed out. [They are reflections—warped, fleeting.]

Lucavion hummed. "You think it will work?"

Vitaliara's gaze lingered on the artifact resting nearby, its crystalline core pulsing with faint light. [That depends.]

He raised an eyebrow. "On?"

[What you really want to see.]

Lucavion chuckled, leaning back slightly. "And here I thought you were done with lectures."

Vitaliara stretched her claws slightly, her tone unreadable. [It's not a lecture. Just a reminder.]

Lucavion's gaze drifted back to the artifact, watching the slow, rhythmic pulses of color.

A tool that could reveal someone's location through dreams.

But only if the memory was deep enough.

Just then, the Emberwood paper burned.

A faint ember at first—then a sudden, voracious flame, consuming the delicate parchment within seconds. The heat flared unnaturally before vanishing, leaving behind nothing but a wisp of curling smoke.

Lucavion's fingers stilled against the artifact.

The time had come.

The flickering lantern cast jagged shadows along the room's walls as he reached for the crystalline fragment, feeling the familiar pulse of mana shifting within its depths.

His grip tightened just slightly. The rhythmic pulse of light within the artifact quickened, reacting to his touch, the shifting colors becoming more erratic—like something alive, stirring from slumber.

Vitaliara, perched on his shoulder, watched silently.

[This is it, then.] Her voice threaded through his thoughts, calm but laced with something unreadable.

Lucavion tilted his head slightly, his smirk faint but unwavering. "It would seem so."

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a brief moment before channeling his mana into the artifact.

The world around him dimmed.

Chapter 579: Dream

Lucavion's grip tightened around the artifact as the world around him dimmed. The flickering lantern light bled into shadows, stretching unnaturally, devouring the room in creeping darkness. The weight of his own body grew distant, like his limbs were being submerged in thick, unyielding tar.

Down.

And down.

And down.

His breath slowed, each inhale growing heavier, more labored. The edges of his consciousness blurred, thoughts fraying like threads unraveling from an old tapestry.

'So this is how it works, huh?'

The artifact pulsed against his palm, its crystalline core shifting with the colors of a dying ember. A slow, rhythmic beat—like a second heartbeat—syncing with his own.

Lucavion exhaled, sharp and controlled. His fingers twitched against the artifact's frame, but his body—his real body—felt more like a concept than something tangible. The air was thick, almost suffocating. The sensation wasn't entirely unfamiliar. He had walked the edges of magic before, teetered at the brink of unnatural forces, but this—

This was different.

The sensation of falling wasn't external. It wasn't the world slipping away from him.

It was him slipping away from the world.

A distortion in space, a slow unraveling of his presence.

He felt his mind straining against the pull, instinctively resisting the descent. Stay aware. Control the pace. But the weight dragging him down was relentless. His vision twisted, fragmented—pieces of a dream-like haze shifting in and out of his awareness. The lantern light, the desk, the parchment Vitaliara had been reading—they all fractured, bending into the abyss.

This isn't real. This is the artifact's doing.

His fingers curled instinctively. No pain, no sensation—just the growing distance from himself.

Then—

A sharp pulse.

Memory.

Lucavion's breath hitched as a flicker of color bloomed through the void. It wasn't the artifact's glow—it was something deeper, something within him being pulled forth.

A tether.

A single, undeniable thread of memory, one that had long since burrowed into his bones.

A face. A voice.

The past.

'Dream, was it?'

His lips parted, the words barely forming in his mind. If this thing worked by using deep, emotional memories as an anchor, then—

Lucavion exhaled through his nose. A slow, measured breath.

There was no way around it.

If he wanted this artifact to work, if he wanted it to show him the enemy—

He would have to face that memory again.

His vision wavered. The darkness rippled, shifting like liquid silk. The air thickened with something unseen, something crawling beneath his skin.

The past was waiting for him.

And this time, he had no choice but to let it in.

Lucavion's breath hitched as the darkness around him coiled, shifting, rearranging itself. The abyss wasn't empty anymore. The void pulsed, and with a slow, creeping inevitability—

It began to take shape.

First, the sound.

A distant horn. Low. Ominous. Reverberating through his chest.

Then, the scent.

Blood. Charred earth. Metal sharpened to a killing edge.

And then—

The battlefield.

The world snapped into focus, and suddenly, he was there again.

Fifteen years old. Standing among his platoon. Hands clenched around the haft of his spear, knuckles white with tension. His body felt lighter, thinner—not yet honed by the years that followed. His armor sat heavier on his frame, unfamiliar, a weight that had yet to become second nature.

And he knew what was coming.

No. No, no, no—

But the moment had already begun.

The horn blared.

Lucavion's body moved before he could think, instinct overriding consciousness. His fifteen-year-old self surged forward with the rest of his unit, stepping into the chaos, into the slaughter.

'Hold the line!'

Vance's voice rang out over the battlefield, just as it had before. Just as it always had.

Lucavion felt the spear in his hands, the rough texture of the wood digging into his palms. He knew what was about to happen, down to the very moment where blood would soak into the dirt beneath his feet.

He recognized every movement.

Every scream.

Every death.

And yet—

His body moved as if it belonged here, as if it had never left.

'This…'

His thoughts frayed at the edges, unraveling as his fifteen-year-old self engaged the first soldier.

CLANK!

The force of the enemy's blade rattled up his arms. He fought like he had that day—efficient, trained, but not enough. He was still too weak, too slow. Every move was just barely enough to survive.

The enemy fell back—another replaced him.

'This isn't real,' Lucavion thought, yet his body refused to obey any rational sense of detachment. This was real. At least, it was now.

He could feel his muscles burning, the sting of sweat in his eyes, the raw ache of fatigue that he had long since outgrown.

And then, just as before—

That black knight appeared once again.

The moment the memory fully seized him, Lucavion felt it—the unbearable weight of helplessness.

The battlefield unfolded exactly as it had before.

—The Knight of the Wind vanished from his spot.

—Garret fell, his chest run through.

—Mateo's throat was slit open before he even realized death had found him.

—Felix.

—Elias.

—Clara.

All of them.

One by one, they died again.

Their bodies collapsed into the dirt, staining the battlefield red, their final moments repeating with brutal precision. The smirk on the knight's face, the way his spear carved through flesh as if nothing mattered, the effortless, unshaken steps as he moved through the carnage.

It was all the same.

And Lucavion—the fifteen-year-old Lucavion—

Was frozen.

His body refused to move. His muscles locked, every instinct in his being screaming to flee, to escape, to submit to the inevitable.

'MOVE.'

His mind begged, demanded, but his body ignored him.

No, no, not again. I know this. I know how this ends.

And yet, it was happening.

Again.

Again.

Again.

His fingers curled around the shaft of his spear, white-knuckled. The weight of it all pressed against his chest, suffocating.

Then, Clara stepped forward—her stance fierce, defiant. Her mana flared, her hands glowing, her voice shaking but strong.

"Stay back!"

Lucavion knew what would happen next.

She would fall.

She would die.

And he—he would do nothing.

MOVE, DAMN IT.

But his legs wouldn't obey.

He was trapped. Not just in the memory—but in who he had been.

The knight's green mana flared, swallowing Clara's attack like it was nothing. His voice, thick with condescension, slithered through the air like poison.

"Too bad it's such a weakling."

Then—

The spear pierced her abdomen.

Lucavion's stomach twisted violently as the exact moment burned into his mind replayed before his eyes.

Clara—shocked. Her breath catching, her fingers twitching as if reaching for something—anything. The slow, cruel twist of the knight's weapon as he ripped it from her body, watching as she crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath her.

Her eyes—dim, yet still searching.

As if expecting someone to save her.

As if expecting him to save her.

Lucavion's breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling too quickly, too unevenly. His hands trembled.

"Clara, no!"

The words left his mouth before he even realized he had spoken them.

And the knight—he turned toward him, just as before.

"You're still alive. Interesting."

Lucavion clenched his fists.

He remembered what came next.

He would struggle, he would rise—he would be mocked. The knight would carve a scar across his face, leaving him to choke on his own powerlessness.

That had been his fate.

That had been his moment of failure.

And here, inside this memory—

Could he change it?

The thought struck like lightning.

This is a dream.

Lucavion's dark eyes widened.

This is a memory, but I am not that fifteen-year-old anymore.

The realization hit him so suddenly, so violently, that something inside him cracked.

This wasn't reality.

This was his own mind.

And in his own mind—

Lucavion didn't have to be weak.

"MOVE!"

The command wasn't just to himself.

It was to the memory itself.

It shattered.

The battlefield flickered—like ink bleeding in water. The weight holding his limbs evaporated, the suffocating air ruptured—

And for the first time, Lucavion stepped forward.

His spear, gripped in both hands, felt real. His breath steadied. The knight's smirk flickered—briefly, almost imperceptibly.

Lucavion exhaled.

"You," he murmured, voice steady, unwavering. His dark gaze locked onto the Knight of the Wind.

The knight blinked.

That's right. This time, I'm not just reliving this.

Lucavion rolled his shoulders, feeling the old wounds of the past like phantom aches—but nothing more.

"I don't need to find you." His smirk was slow, deliberate, curling at the edges of his lips.

"You're right here."

The wind howled.

The wind howled, a violent, unrelenting force that tore through the battlefield.

But this time—

Lucavion wasn't the one trembling beneath it.

The memory wavered, rippling like a reflection on a disturbed pond. Shadows stretched unnaturally, the crimson-stained earth cracking as if the weight of the past could no longer bear its own existence.

And then—

Everything fractured.

The battlefield collapsed inward, the figures of the dead dissolving into nothingness. The Knight of the Wind's smirk faded, his body flickering like a candle's dying flame. The greenish glow of his mana blurred, warping into streaks of light—before the world itself shifted.

Lucavion barely had time to react before his vision was wrenched into something else entirely.

—Stone walls, lined with aged banners.

—A massive wooden table, its surface covered with scattered documents and a single, intricate map.

—Flickering lanterns casting wavering shadows against the walls.

And standing there, in the dim light—

A man.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with an air of authority that clung to him like a second skin. His presence was as sharp as the blade at his hip, his movements slow, methodical. His dark green cloak draped over polished armor, the faint insignia at his shoulder barely visible beneath the worn fabric.

His back was to Lucavion.

He studied the map before him, fingers tracing over battle lines, city names, and routes with a quiet intensity.

Lucavion's breath hitched.

He didn't need to see the man's face to know.

It was him.

The Knight of the Wind.

Older. Different. But unmistakable.

The vision shifted—pulling outward.

A blur of movement, like drifting through a fast-moving current.

Lucavion was yanked from the dimly lit room, spiraling backward as the scene unfolded beyond the walls.

—A fortress. Weathered stone, reinforced battlements.

—Beyond it, rolling fields, stretching into distant, winding roads.

—And further still, a mountain range, its peaks piercing the horizon like jagged blades.

The vision kept retracting, each layer unfolding with agonizing clarity.

Until—

It came back to him.

Lucavion's dark eyes locked onto the vision of his older enemy—

And the moment their gazes would have met—

Lucavion woke.

"Haaaah…..Haaaaah….."

He was back.

Back in the dim glow of his own room, the flickering lanterns casting jagged shadows across the walls. His fingers were still clenched around the artifact, its crystalline core pulsing faintly, as if it had drained every ounce of its power to show him this.

Lucavion's head swam, his body still trembling from the aftershock of it all.

But through the lingering haze of his own breath—

A smirk curled at the edges of his lips.

"I found you."

Chapter 580: Camp

The night split open with fire and steel.

Draven's men surged forward, shadows against the blaze of the burning warehouse. This was not a negotiation. It was a slaughter.

The Black Veil's guards barely had time to react. The first few dropped before they even realized what was happening—throats slit in the dark, crossbow bolts burying themselves into flesh before alarmed shouts could even escape their lips.

Then, the real fight began.

"Push forward!" Draven barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a whip. "Don't give them time to regroup!"

His men needed no second orders.

They crashed into the Black Veil's defenses like a wave of pure violence, blades flashing under the dim torchlight. Steel met steel, bodies collided, and the warehouse became a battlefield of frantic, brutal combat.

A Black Veil enforcer rushed Draven from the side, a curved dagger gleaming in his grip. Fast. Well-trained.

Too slow.

Draven sidestepped the strike with practiced ease, his dagger already burying itself into the man's ribs. A sharp twist—bone snapped, the enforcer choking on his own blood before crumpling to the floor.

A second one lunged—a war axe, swinging in a deadly arc.

Draven ducked, rolling forward under the strike, coming up behind the attacker before raking his second dagger across his exposed hamstring. The man screamed, collapsing onto one knee—just before a boot to the skull silenced him permanently.

"Take the upper floors!" Draven shouted, pointing toward the catwalks lining the warehouse walls. "Cut off their vantage points!"

A cluster of his men immediately broke off, scaling the wooden structures with practiced efficiency. A crossbowman barely had time to register their presence before a blade sank into his back, his body pitching over the railing.

They were winning.

Draven could feel it.

But this was just one piece of the fight.

Across the city, Vyrell, Soren, and the others were leading their own assaults. This war wasn't being fought in one place—it was spreading, unraveling the Black Veil's hold on Varenthia in a single, decisive night.

Draven just had to make sure his part was flawless.

A heavily armored lieutenant stormed toward him, flanked by two others. More disciplined than the rest. More dangerous.

"Kill him!" one of them snarled.

Draven clicked his tongue. "Tch. You bastards never learn."

The first swung—a broad, heavy cleave that aimed to split him in two.

Draven twisted away, his daggers flashing outward as he slashed across the exposed wrist of the attacker. The man roared in pain, dropping his weapon—but before he could react, Draven was already moving, ducking low and driving his blade up through the man's ribs.

A fatal strike.

The second enemy came in from behind.

Draven sensed it—pivoted. A dagger was already in his grip before the attack could connect. He slammed it into the man's thigh, twisting it viciously.

"Argh—!"

The enforcer stumbled, but Draven wasn't done.

A swift elbow to the jaw—bone crunched. Before the attacker could recover, Draven caught the back of his head and slammed it down onto a nearby crate.

Silence.

The last of them took a hesitant step back, suddenly aware of the carnage around him.

Draven smirked, flicking blood from his blade. "Go on," he taunted. "Run."

The enforcer hesitated.

Then he ran.

Draven exhaled, scanning the battlefield. His men were winning. The warehouse was nearly theirs.

Then—

"Boss!" One of his men sprinted toward him, panting. "One of them is escaping! We spotted movement toward the back alley!"

Draven's eyes narrowed. "Who?"

"Not sure, but they looked important! Could be one of Aldric's top men!"

Draven exhaled sharply, flicking the blood from his dagger before sliding it back into its sheath. His gray eyes followed the direction of the escapee, his expression unreadable.

His men were waiting for orders. Expecting him to give the signal to pursue, to hunt down whoever it was before they disappeared into the alleys of Varenthia.

But instead—Draven simply smirked.

"Let them go."

His men hesitated. "Boss?"

Draven turned slightly, his gaze lingering on the darkened streets beyond. "We could chase them down," he murmured, rolling his shoulders. "Cut them off before they get too far. Maybe even take them out before they reach Aldric."

A pause.

Then, his smirk widened. "But that's not what we want, is it?"

Realization dawned in some of their faces. Aldric needed to know.

This wasn't a small skirmish.

This wasn't just another group trying to muscle in on his operations.

This was war.

Draven exhaled through his nose, already picturing how Aldric would react when word reached him. Would he stay in hiding? Would he try to retaliate immediately? Or would he send more of his men to be cut down?

"Let's hope it works out," he muttered, turning back toward the battlefield.

*****

On another side, Vyrell moved like a shadow through the warehouse district, his men slipping between the gaps of flickering lantern light, weapons drawn but silent.

The Black Veil had set up supply routes here—hidden caches, stockpiles, and bribe-runner trails that ensured no single attack could cripple them completely. That ended tonight.

A silent motion of his fingers, and his men moved.

Crossbows loosed. Silent deaths followed.

Then—

A sudden explosion of fire.

The first warehouse ignited, flames licking across the wooden beams as the crates of smuggled goods became kindling.

The shouts began.

Vyrell watched, his expression calm as the enemy scrambled in disarray.

"Stay on them," he murmured. "Not a single one leaves alive."

****

Unlike Vyrell's precision, Soren brought war.

He came crashing through the front doors of one of the largest Black Veil dens, his warhammer shattering wood and bone alike as he led his men straight into the heart of enemy territory.

"YOU BASTARDS HAVE HAD IT TOO EASY!" he roared, swinging his hammer into the chest of a guard, sending him flying into the back wall.

Chaos erupted.

His men tore into the ranks of the Black Veil, steel flashing, blood spraying against the stone walls.

Soren grinned, his body alight with battle. This? This was what he lived for.

One of the Black Veil lieutenants lunged at him, a pair of curved blades flashing. Fast. Too fast for a normal fighter.

An Awakened.

Soren grinned wider. "Finally."

The two clashed, the entire city now drowned in chaos.

*****

Inside the room, a man sat at the heavy oak table, his gloved fingers pressing against the edges of a map spread across its surface. The dim candlelight flickered, casting shadows over the marked trade routes crisscrossing Varenthia like a spider's web.

Opposite him, a figure leaned against the wooden frame of the window, arms crossed, face unreadable. The scent of ink and aged parchment mixed with the faint hint of cold steel—a quiet reminder of the weapons resting just within reach.

The figure by the window let out a slow, measured breath, his silhouette unmoving against the faint glow of the city beyond. His voice, when it came, was smooth, deliberate—a blade wrapped in silk.

"Six months."

Aldric's fingers tensed against the map, but he said nothing.

"I want these routes finalized," the figure continued, his tone carrying the quiet authority of someone accustomed to obedience. "No delays. No disruptions. The city will be under our control by then—completely."

Aldric's jaw tightened. His gaze flicked up, sharp and cold. "You act as if I'm dragging my feet."

The figure didn't move. "Are you?"

A slow pulse of anger coiled in Aldric's chest. The candlelight danced across his face, catching the faintest twitch in his expression.

"You're looking down on me." His voice was quieter now, but no less dangerous.

The figure finally turned, stepping away from the window, his posture still maddeningly composed. "I'm ensuring results." He moved toward the table, his shadow stretching over the map, over the trade routes Aldric had spent months securing. "Because you, Aldric, understand the stakes better than anyone."

Aldric exhaled sharply, his fingers curling into fists against the table. 'Tch….You arrogant bastard.'

He did understand the stakes.

The moment he had turned his back on the Veltorin name.

The figure tilted his head slightly, watching him with that same unreadable expression. Then—smooth as a dagger sliding between ribs—he spoke.

"We both know you don't care about honor."

Aldric's breath was slow, controlled—but his fingers dug into the table's surface, just slightly.

"Spare me the indignation," the figure continued, stepping closer. "You gave up your honor the moment you turned your back on your family. The moment you accepted my offer." His voice was calm, almost bored. "So let's not pretend you're clinging to some grand ideal."

Aldric exhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself to unclench his hands. 'He thinks he's got me completely leashed, doesn't he?'

The figure tapped the edge of the map. "Fulfill your end of the deal." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze glinting in the dim candlelight. "And this city is yours to rule."

Chapter 581: Camp (2)

"Fulfill your end of the deal." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze glinting in the dim candlelight. "And this city is yours to rule."

Varenthia.

A city where power belonged to those ruthless enough to take it. A city built on ambition, betrayal, and control. And if he played his role perfectly—if he bent to this bastard's will for just a little longer—he would have it.

His own domain. His own rule.

Aldric's fingers pressed harder against the table, his gaze locked on the flickering candlelight as it cast long, shifting shadows over the map.

This city is yours to rule.

That was the sole reason he had betrayed House Veltorin.

Not honor. Not duty. Not the weight of tradition shackled to his name.

Power.

His own.

Not borrowed from some decrepit bloodline. Not handed down by fate or family name.

His own rule, carved out with his own hands.

His lips curled into something that was neither a smirk nor a frown—just a quiet, bitter edge.

He had never liked being a knight. Never liked kneeling before lords whose only claim to power was the sheer dumb luck of their birth. He had spent his youth sharpening his blade, honing his instincts, rising to 5-star Awakened through sheer effort, through battle after battle, while they sat in gilded halls, sipping wine and sneering down at those who actually fought to uphold their name.

And yet, in the end, what had it amounted to?

Serving him.

That arrogant bastard. That pathetic excuse for a noble.

Marquis Elarion Veltorin's son.

A fool who was destined to lose the battle for heir before it had even begun. A man who wore his surname like a badge of untouchable authority, despite possessing neither the skill nor the mind to wield it properly.

Aldric had been his right hand. His sword. His shield.

And for what?

To waste his talents fighting battles orchestrated by men who had never held a blade in their lives? To protect a noble whose victories were only ever written in ink, signed in backroom deals made by old men who feared losing their grasp on power?

Tch.

He had risen on his own merit. A knight feared and respected, not for his name, but for his ability.

And still, they had expected him to bend the knee.

He inhaled sharply, forcing the familiar anger to settle.

No more.

Aldric Veltorin had died the day he walked away from the battlefield.

The day he left behind a crumbling house, a doomed heir, and a legacy that had never meant a damn thing to him.

And in six months, he would have something real. Something earned.

His city.

His rule.

His power.

No gods. No kings. No noble-blooded fools standing above him.

Aldric exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping once against the map before he reached for the dagger at his side.

With a swift, deliberate motion, he stabbed it into the parchment—right over the heart of Varenthia.

This time, he wasn't fighting for someone else.

This time, he wasn't kneeling.

This time, when he won—it would all belong to him.

Aldric inhaled slowly, suppressing the instinct to bare his teeth like a cornered wolf. Instead, he kept his voice even, his expression carefully measured.

"It will be dealt with," he said at last. A statement. A promise. A dismissal.

He met the figure's gaze without hesitation, knowing full well how much the other man enjoyed watching him bristle under the weight of his own choices.

Everything was under control.

The figure's smirk widened ever so slightly. Not amusement—satisfaction.

"I'll hold you to that," he murmured. He gave a final glance at the map before turning away, his steps light, deliberate, and full of that infuriating ease that came with knowing he held the leash. "Six months, Aldric."

He didn't wait for a response. He never did.

Aldric remained still, the air in the room thick with unspoken tension even as the figure disappeared into the halls beyond. The candlelight flickered against the polished steel of his gauntlets, reflecting the faint tremor in his fingers as he pressed them against the table.

Not from fear.

From rage.

A bitter, seething rage that settled deep in his bones like a sickness he had long since stopped trying to cure.

He had traded one master for another.

But at least this one would give him something real in return.

Aldric exhaled, forcing his fingers to relax, forcing his mind to sharpen past the instinct to sink into old wounds. Six months. He would endure this for six more months, and then… Varenthia would be his.

But before he could let the thought settle—

BANG!

The doors to the chamber burst open.

A soldier staggered inside, breathless, his uniform smeared with soot, his chest heaving from exertion.

"Commander—!"

Aldric's head snapped up, his expression instantly sharpening.

"What is it?" he demanded, already knowing it wouldn't be anything good.

The soldier sucked in a desperate breath. "Draven's men—They've—" He swallowed hard. "They're attacking the Black Veil's holdings. Systematically. Warehouses, strongholds, supply routes—it's not a raid. It's a war."

Aldric's pulse remained steady, but his eyes darkened.

His fingers curled into fists as he straightened, his presence towering over the exhausted messenger. "Where are the losses?"

The soldier coughed, then quickly continued. "One of our main warehouses was taken in a single sweep—fire and steel, no survivors. Other key locations have been hit in different parts of the city—coordinated attacks. Vyrell's group set fire to the western supply caches, and Soren…" The man hesitated, grimacing. "Soren went straight through the front door of the Veil's dens. He's tearing through them like a war beast."

Aldric's lips pressed into a thin line.

Not unexpected.

He knew this city well. He knew Draven well. Too well.

This wasn't a show of force.

This was a message.

And if Draven was behind it, then it meant he wasn't planning to stop.

Aldric exhaled sharply. "Send word to

Aldric's fingers twitched against the map, his jaw tight as he processed the information. His men were waiting, breathless, expecting orders. Expecting rage.

Instead, Aldric exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders shifting into something more deliberate, more controlled.

"Call Ryzek. Call Veyrn. Call Saelos."

The room stilled.

His hidden blades. The ones he had kept out of sight for this very reason.

Each of them was a 5-star Awakened. Each of them had survived battles that should have killed them.

And each of them had been waiting—watching—for a reason to be unleashed.

The soldier hesitated before nodding and bolting from the chamber, eager to follow the command.

Aldric rolled his shoulders, his muscles tensing with a familiar, predatory anticipation. "I'm preparing to move out."

The informant paled slightly. "You're—"

"I'm not sitting in this room while the city moves against me," Aldric cut in, his tone sharp, final. "Draven and his bastards think they can dictate the pace of this war? No." His smirk twitched, but there was no amusement in it. "They must think I, Aldric, am a joke."

His fingers tapped once against the table. 'But… something doesn't make sense.'

Where had they found the courage?

Draven wasn't an idiot. Vyrell and Soren weren't reckless. This wasn't the kind of move you made unless you knew you had the means to back it up.

But that was the problem.

They didn't.

Aldric had been tracking every high-level fighter entering the city. He had the artifact—a gift from the very man who had given him his path to power. It ensured that no strong newcomers could slip into Varenthia without his knowledge.

And as of this moment?

No one had entered.

Not a single new 6-star Awakened. Not a single warrior of rank.

So where the hell did they get the confidence to start this fight?

Aldric's smirk twitched wider, a slow breath escaping through his nose.

"Either they've lost their damn minds…" He flexed his fingers, the heat of battle already thrumming in his blood.

His eyes gleamed in the candlelight, the weight of his blade pressing familiar against his hip.

"…or they're shooting their last arrow."

He chuckled, shaking his head.

"If it's the latter…"

A slow, deliberate step forward. The room around him felt smaller now—like the city itself had shrunk, its streets already carved out for the war to come.

"Then this…" He exhaled, a quiet, dangerous amusement slipping into his voice.

"…isn't a bad opportunity to wipe them out completely."

Chapter 582: Who are you ?

"…isn't a bad opportunity to wipe them out completely."

The figure, who had remained silent as Aldric gave his orders, finally spoke. His voice was calm, unreadable.

"Is that the case?" A pause. Then, a slight tilt of the head, as if peering through him. "Are you sure the artifact didn't detect anyone?"

Aldric's smirk didn't waver.

"No, it didn't."

Not a single powerful fighter had entered Varenthia. Not one. The artifact would have picked up even the faintest trace of high-tier energy the moment they crossed into the city's limits.

And yet—

'Hmm?'

A strange sensation crawled over his skin.

Not a presence. Not a killing intent.

Something probing.

Aldric's breath slowed. His muscles tightened instinctively as the feeling dug into him, like a needle threading through his thoughts. It wasn't an attack. It wasn't even something physical.

A gaze?

No—not quite.

Aldric exhaled, his tongue clicking against his teeth as a sharp glint flickered through his eyes. "Oh? An artifact?"

The presence didn't wane.

His lips curled.

"Are you guys trying to see if I left?" His voice dropped slightly, a quiet mockery threading into his words. "Are you guys on the line?"

It wasn't Draven himself. The sensation was too subtle for that.

Which meant one thing.

They were watching.

From a distance.

Trying to track his movement.

Afraid of leaving their stronghold.

Aldric chuckled, low and quiet, his grip tightening over the hilt of his blade.

'Cowards.'

They weren't confident. They were desperate.

"Are we being watched?" The figure's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp yet untouched by emotion.

Aldric exhaled slowly, the smirk still ghosting his lips. "Seems like it."

The figure tapped a gloved finger against his arm, thoughtful. "I heard Draven had an artifact like this."

A pause.

"But it was apparently defective."

Aldric's eyes flickered with amusement. 'So they've been using a broken toy?'

The figure turned away, adjusting his cloak as he stepped toward the door. His movements were slow, deliberate—like a man who had already decided his business here was done.

"Hmm…" A quiet hum, then a slight nod. "You are to do as you please."

The words were casual. But Aldric knew what they meant.

He had full authority now.

As the door clicked shut behind him, silence settled over the chamber.

Aldric remained still for a moment. His smirk faded, his expression unreadable.

Then—

A slow exhale.

"It has been a while…"

His blood had been silent for too long.

For years now, he had lived in Varenthia—built his network, secured his power, played the game of politics and control.

But before that?

Before he was a commander—before he was anything at all—

He had been a soldier.

A killer.

And on the battlefield, his body had never once been idle.

Aldric's fingers twitched, his breath evening out into something steadier. Something sharper.

"Should I just slaughter a little?"

His voice was barely a whisper. But the weight behind it—**the craving, the hunger—**filled the room like a lingering stormcloud.

Slowly, his gaze lowered to his right hand.

A pitch-black bracelet rested there, dull and unassuming—yet deceptively heavy.

His fingers brushed over its surface, a familiar warmth thrumming beneath his touch.

"Yeah…"

The decision had already been made.

His smirk returned, slower this time. More deliberate.

His blood was no longer silent.

And if Draven and his men wanted a war—

Then Aldric Veltorin would give them one.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and stepped toward the door.

Each footstep felt lighter than the last.

As if he had been waiting for this moment.

As if, at long last—

He was finally awake again.

Aldric strode through the dimly lit corridors of his stronghold, the heavy oak doors shutting behind him with a dull thud. The flickering sconces along the stone walls cast long, wavering shadows across his path, but his focus was razor-sharp. The night air outside was thick, carrying the distant scent of fire and blood—a battlefield in bloom.

The moment he stepped into the courtyard, several guards straightened at attention, their gazes snapping toward him with sharp discipline. Their dark uniforms bore the insignia of his command—his true command, the men who had sworn loyalty not to House Veltorin, but to him alone.

They bowed their heads in respect.

"My Lord," one of them spoke first, voice steady but expectant. "Are we to move out with you?"

There was no hesitation in their words, no fear—only readiness.

Aldric's gaze swept over them, assessing. These were seasoned warriors. Not the nameless dogs he used to fill the lower ranks, but men who had fought and bled for him. They wanted orders. They wanted action.

But this?

This was something else.

He exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "No. Stay here." His voice was quiet but firm, the weight behind his words leaving no room for argument. "Hold this place. If anything comes knocking, you know what to do."

The guards exchanged brief glances before nodding in unison. "Understood."

Aldric didn't linger.

He had wasted enough time.

His body shifted, muscles tensing in preparation, and then—

He moved.

In an instant, his figure blurred, vanishing from where he had stood.

The Qinggong technique, a movement art that blurred the line between speed and weightlessness, propelled him forward with inhuman acceleration. The wind roared past his ears as his form became a mere whisper against the cityscape, darting across rooftops, skipping over narrow alleyways, and weaving through the intricate veins of Varenthia like a shadow set free.

To the common eye, he was nothing more than a streak of motion—a fleeting specter against the cold glow of the moon.

But to him?

The battlefield was already alive beneath his senses.

His awareness stretched outward, extending past the walls, past the districts, past the flickering lanterns of the city's sleeping masses.

He could feel everything.

The clash of steel, the sharp crack of splintering wood as barricades were torn down, the brief, agonized gasps of men whose bodies failed them before they even realized they were dying.

Draven's men were pressing forward in multiple locations—he could feel them moving, like scattered threads in an intricate web. Their attacks were swift, tactical, meant to cripple his network before he had the chance to react.

They thought they had the upper hand.

Aldric smirked as he soared past another rooftop, his landing effortless, his body rolling into the next sprint without losing momentum.

He had already reacted.

The night stretched wide before him, and the war had only just begun.

It was the time to show who really owned Varenthia.

The wind howled as Aldric moved, his body a blur against the night. His Qinggong technique carried him swiftly across the rooftops, the city stretching beneath him like a battlefield waiting to be carved into submission. He could feel the threads of conflict weaving through the streets—the clashing of weapons, the shouts of dying men, the raw violence of war erupting in calculated bursts across Varenthia.

And yet—

Something changed.

It was subtle at first. A shift in the air. A feeling, like a ripple cutting through still water.

An intent.

Aldric's instincts flared—danger.

His body reacted before his mind could fully process it, the hairs on his arms standing on edge. In an instant, his spear materialized in his grasp, his muscles coiling as he twisted—

CLANK!

The impact came hard and fast, sending a jolt up his arms. Sparks erupted in the night air as metal clashed against metal, the sheer force of the blow sending him backward.

Aldric's feet barely found purchase as he landed, skidding against the stone with practiced precision.

His crimson eyes sharpened.

"Hmm?"

His grip on his spear tightened, his heartbeat steady—controlled. He lifted his gaze, turning his head toward the source of the strike.

And there—standing beneath the cold glow of the moon—

A young man.

He was poised, his stance balanced, a long estoc resting in his grip like an extension of his very being. His eyes—pitch black, empty as the void—stared into Aldric's own, unreadable.

"What do we have here?" Aldric muttered, his voice low, curious.

His mind was already cycling through names, faces—cataloging every fighter, every assassin, every mercenary worth remembering.

And yet—

This one?

He wasn't anyone Aldric recognized.

Not one of Draven's men. Not one of Soren's butchers. Not one of Vyrell's cold-blooded tacticians.

And that strike just now—

That was not something any of them could do.

Aldric's lips pressed into a thin line, his stance shifting just slightly, testing, calculating.

"Who are you?"

Chapter 583: Who are you ? (2)

Lucavion's breath steadied. His hands, once trembling from the aftershock of the artifact's vision, now felt still. Purposeful.

So this is where you've been hiding.

The image of the fortress burned into his mind. A place even Draven hadn't uncovered. The artifact had done more than just reveal the location—it had linked him, however briefly, to his prey.

Lucavion had felt it.

For just a moment, the faintest pulse of presence—a tether between himself and Aldric Veltorin.

And that was all he needed.

Now, he was here.

The city streets were a blur beneath his feet as he moved, the echo of the past pressing against his ribs, urging him forward. His body was taut with tension, coiled like a blade that had been waiting for years to be unsheathed.

He had waited for this moment.

For this chance.

To cut down the ghost of the past.

The wind howled as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop, his steps weightless, silent. The streets of Varenthia sprawled beneath him, tangled veins of alleyways and narrow roads. But his focus was singular.

Aldric was on the move.

Lucavion could see him now, slipping through the web of conflict with effortless speed.

The war had begun, but Aldric wasn't defending. He wasn't hiding in the fortress that even Draven had failed to uncover.

No—

He was hunting.

And that was fine.

Because so was Lucavion.

He exhaled, feeling the anticipation simmer just beneath his skin. The hunt was over.

And the kill was about to begin.

*****

CLANK!

The moment their weapons clashed, Lucavion knew—Aldric had already sensed him.

But he didn't care.

Didn't care that the man was skilled. Didn't care that he was older, faster, stronger.

Didn't care that this was the same monster who had once left him bleeding in the dirt, unable to fight back.

Because this time, he was here on his own terms.

Aldric slid backward, his expression unreadable. His grip on his spear remained firm, controlled, but there was something else in his stance now—

Interest.

Lucavion barely took a breath before he lunged again, his estoc slicing through the night air with terrifying precision. Fast. Precise. Unrelenting.

Aldric blocked—barely. Sparks flickered between them, the ringing of steel slicing through the city's distant chaos.

Lucavion saw the slight shift in Aldric's expression, the flicker of curiosity in those crimson eyes.

He doesn't recognize me.

Lucavion's grip tightened around the hilt of his estoc.

Aldric's eyes flickered—assessing, calculating—but not recognizing.

Not remembering.

Lucavion felt something crack.

He doesn't remember?

The bastard who had carved a scar across his face. The man who had slaughtered his second family—the only ones who had reached for him when he had nothing.

And he didn't even remember?

Lucavion's breath came slow, deep. Controlled—but barely.

Aldric's stance remained steady, his crimson eyes watching him with calm, unreadable curiosity.

As if Lucavion was just another nameless opponent.

As if their history was meaningless.

As if those lives—the ones stolen, the ones he had carved from existence—were nothing.

Lucavion's blood boiled.

His fingers twitched. His muscles coiled, every nerve in his body screaming for release.

Kill him.

The command in his mind was instant, unfiltered. A raw instinct, a fire consuming everything.

His vision blurred at the edges.

I was the one left behind.

I was the one who buried them.

I was the one who had to crawl forward, piece myself back together.

And you—

"You don't remember?"

Lucavion's voice cut through the air, low and sharp.

Aldric blinked. A flicker of something in his gaze—mild curiosity, like a man studying a puzzle whose pieces didn't quite fit.

Lucavion exhaled.

And then—

His bloodlust surged.

Like a dam breaking, the air around him grew heavy, thick with suffocating pressure.

Aldric's expression finally shifted.

His grip on his spear tightened ever so slightly.

Lucavion barely noticed.

He was already moving.

—SWOOSH!

His estoc struck with terrifying speed, a blur of steel aimed at Aldric's throat. The attack was not precise. Not clean.

It was pure killing intent.

Aldric blocked.

—CLANK!

The force of Aldric's spear sent a shuddering impact through Lucavion's arm. The estoc's blade quivered under the pressure, steel grinding against steel as the raw power behind Aldric's strike forced him to give ground. The wind howled between them, and Lucavion barely had time to react before—

—WHOOSH!

Aldric twisted his spear, using the force of their locked weapons to pivot his body, the air distorting around him as he surged forward. Lucavion's instincts flared—he ducked, the spear's tip whistling past his ear, carving through empty air where his throat had been a heartbeat before.

Fast. Too fast.

Aldric didn't stop. His footwork was flawless, his movements seamless. The moment Lucavion dodged, the spear snapped downward like a viper, aimed at his exposed ribs. He barely managed to parry, but the impact rattled his bones, forcing him backward again.

—THUD!

His back hit the stone railing of the rooftop. The wind affinity was clear in every strike, every movement—Aldric wasn't just strong. He was weightless, swift, untouchable. His spear struck again, and Lucavion had to roll to the side, feeling the force of the attack split the stone behind him.

'Tch.'

"You…."

Lucavion's voice was taut, sharp as the blade in his grip. But Aldric—that bastard—

He was smiling.

No—

He was laughing.

"Those eyes…"

Aldric's crimson gaze locked onto Lucavion's with eerie stillness. His expression, for the first time since the fight began, shifted—not with tension, not with calculation—

But recognition.

Lucavion's breathing hitched.

The scar on his face. His black, empty eyes.

It was sinking in.

Aldric exhaled slowly, his lips curling. A breath—then,

"Ahahahahahaha!"

The sound cut through the night air like a blade.

Lucavion's grip on his estoc tightened as Aldric tilted his head back, his laughter ringing through the empty streets of Varenthia.

A genuine laugh. Deep, full-bodied.

Like this was amusing.

Like this was funny.

Like it wasn't the most important moment of Lucavion's life—

Like it wasn't the culmination of years of suffering, of clawing his way forward, of training until his body broke just to get this chance.

Aldric's laughter slowed, his smirk widening as he finally looked back at Lucavion. His eyes glowed with something unreadable—excitement? Amusement?

Mockery.

"Who would have thought?"

Lucavion's blood burned. His muscles tensed, coiled so tight it felt like he might snap.

Aldric took a step forward, his spear resting lightly in his grip. His grin didn't fade, his voice dripping with mirth.

"You are that kid from the battlefield."

Aldric's voice carried an almost delighted amusement, his smirk widening as he studied Lucavion like a long-lost curiosity.

Lucavion didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't breathe.

The words scraped against his mind like a rusted blade.

That kid.

That kid.

As if he had been nothing.

As if the ones who had died—Garret, Mateo, Felix, Elias, Clara—had been nothing.

As if Aldric had simply stepped over their bodies and forgotten them.

Aldric exhaled through his nose, shifting his spear in his grip. "Hah. I almost feel bad for not remembering." His crimson eyes gleamed, sharp with something wicked.

Aldric chuckled, low and deep, as if he was savoring the moment. His crimson eyes gleamed with something dark—satisfaction, perhaps. Or maybe just cruel amusement.

Then, his lips parted, and the words that had been burned into Lucavion's memory all those years ago slipped free.

"The boy with the scarred eye."

Lucavion's breath stilled.

Aldric tilted his head slightly, as if considering, then continued.

"What is your name?"

Lucavion's grip on his estoc tightened. His gaze was cold. Silent.

But Aldric didn't need him to answer.

Because he already knew.

"Lucavion."

A slow smirk.

"I remember your name."

Lucavion's stomach twisted. A flash of heat crawled under his skin, searing through his veins like wildfire.

That day on the battlefield, Aldric had known his name. He had looked him in the eyes.

And yet, until now, it hadn't mattered.

"You have gotten stronger, really."

Lucavion said nothing.

Aldric's grin widened.

"Are you here to take revenge?"

The question hung in the air, heavy between them.

Lucavion exhaled, slow and measured, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around his weapon.

Aldric chuckled.

"If so, come." His eyes glowed, anticipation threading into his voice. "It has been a while since my blood boiled."

Then—

He lifted his right hand.

His fingers brushed against the pitch-black bracelet encircling his wrist.

And in the next moment—

Darkness erupted.

The armor consumed him.

Black plates, seamless and shifting, wrapped over his body in an instant. The air around him thickened, the sheer weight of his presence suffocating.

Lucavion's heartbeat remained steady.

No hesitation. No fear.

The sight of Aldric standing there, clad in midnight steel, his blood-red eyes glowing beneath his helmet—

It didn't shake him.

It only confirmed what he already knew.

This time—

He wasn't the boy who lost.

This time—

He would kill Aldric Veltorin.