The rift collapsed behind him in a silent implosion of blue light.The air cracked and then went still.
Lucien stumbled forward, his left hand clutching the broken remains of his sword, the right still gripping Orc Cleaver, its edge dripping with the blood of the slain werewolves. His body swayed under the weight of exhaustion and pain. Deep gashes tore across his arm and shoulder, and a jagged bite mark bled through his trousers.
The Hunters on site froze, wide-eyed, as the glowing remnants of the portal vanished into nothing.
"Get a healer! Now!"The field officer's voice snapped them back to motion. Two support Hunters rushed to Lucien's side, one trying to steady him while the other began chanting a minor healing spell.
But Lucien didn't hear them.Their words, questions, voices... they all faded into a dull resonnance.
He stared blankly at the ground, his breathing uneven. The images from the vision still burned behind his eyelids.
The Grail...He had seen it... clear as day, carried away by that shadowed rider. But how could he have forgotten something so sacred? Something he had sworn to protect with his life?
His knuckles whitened around the broken hilt of his sword.
It doesn't make sense. Unless...
The thought took shape like a whisper in the back of his mind.Someone... or something had tampered with my memories.
He raised his gaze toward the horizon, where the first rays of dawn broke through the mist.
Lucien pushed himself up, his knees trembling. Each step felt heavier than the last, but he started walking toward the train platform in the distance... the same one he had arrived from hours earlier.
He ignored the voices around him, the distant murmurs, the questions. His thoughts were still tangled in the remnants of the vision, replaying it over and over. The sound of galloping hooves. The flames. The Grail.
He didn't notice the man stepping in front of him until a firm hand caught his arm.
Lucien's instincts flared.
In a split second, he spun around, blade raised and ready to strike. The sudden motion sent the onlookers flinching back, the air tense and electric.
"Whoa, easy!" the field officer said, both hands raised. "You're safe, Hunter."
Lucien froze, then blinked. Reality caught up. The blood, the cold air, the group of Hunters watching him cautiously.He slowly lowered his sword, realization dawning on his face.
"My apologies," he said quietly, forcing his breath to steady. "Reflex... Again, my apologies."
The officer exhaled and nodded. "Understandable, after what you've just been through. But I'll need to ask you a few questions and I'll need to see your Hunter ID."
Lucien gave a short nod, turning away to retrieve his belongings. His bag was right where he'd left it... next to the collapsed boundary marker at the rift's entrance. The leather was still damp from the earlier mist.
He crouched, unzipped it, and reached inside for his wallet.The familiar plastic card caught the light as he handed it over.
"Lucien de Mireval. Rank: E-Class Blacksmith. Cleared for solo rift entry," the officer read aloud, scanning the embedded mana seal. Everything matched. Everybody around was surprised including the officer.
But something else in the bag caught Lucien's attention.
Two envelopes.Plain, unmarked... one sealed with red wax, the other black. Both placed neatly on top of his spare clothes.
He frowned. He did not see them before he entered the rift.
The officer noticed his hesitation. "Something wrong?"
Lucien didn't answer. His gaze stayed locked on the two envelopes, a faint chill crawling up his spine.
The red one bore a faint sigil pressed into the wax... one he recognized instantly.
The Blades of Lyon.
Lucien stayed silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the two envelopes inside his pack before slowly zipping it shut.
The Association officer handed him back his Hunter ID, voice clipped and professional.
"Alright, Hunter de Mireval. I just need a few details for the record before you leave."
Lucien nodded absently.
"Environment type?""Dense forest. Nighttime.""Creatures encountered?""Wolves… and a lycanthrope. Rank C."The officer blinked. "Alone?"Lucien gave a short nod."Any unusual mana activity or distortions inside the rift?""Yes. Two moons. And…" Lucien's gaze drifted, "the beasts moved with coordination."The man frowned, jotting notes quickly. "Coordination? That's… rare.""Yes," Lucien replied simply.
The questioning ended there. The officer thanked him and moved off to report, while Lucien adjusted the strap of his pack and began walking toward the railway line. His pace was steady but heavy with each step echoing the exhaustion and pain hidden beneath his calm.
The bandages the healer had wrapped around his leg were already soaked through, but he barely felt it. His mind was still trapped in the vision... the Grail… how could I forget…
"Hunter de Mireval!" the officer called again. Lucien turned slightly, half his face in shadow.
"Where are you headed now?"
Lucien's reply came flat, almost detached."Marseille."
The officer frowned. "There's no active rift in Marseille right now."
Lucien looked him straight in the eye."I know."
"Then why go there?"
Lucien adjusted Orc Cleaver on his back. His tone turned low, resolute.
"Because from there, I'll take a ship."
"A ship? To where?"
Lucien's eyes hardened, glinting with the faint reflection of the vanished rift behind him.
"To the Holy Land."
For a moment, no one spoke. The air still crackled faintly with the residue of mana, and dust swirled around his boots.
The officer opened his mouth to ask something else... but Lucien was already walking away, silent and unshaken, the wind tugging at his coat as the train whistle echoed in the distance.
When Lucien boarded the train, a wave of applause rose from the passengers. Some stood, others clapped quietly, but all eyes were on him... the lone Hunter who had just walked out of a rift alive.
Lucien froze for a moment, uncertain what to do. A member of the train staff approached him with a warm smile."This way, sir. Please, in first class. You need to rest."
He hesitated, glancing around."I… appreciate it. Thank you."
The attendant shook his head."No, Hunter. It's us who should thank you. For risking your life to protect ours."
Lucien didn't know what to say. He simply nodded, expression neutral, and followed the man to the quiet car at the front.
Soon, a small tray was brought to him with bread, hot tea, and a flask of clean water. The staff left him alone with a respectful bow. The train jolted softly as it resumed its course toward Marseille.
Lucien sat back, his battered frame sinking into the seat. His left hand still trembled faintly, the muscles twitching from strain. Slowly, he reached for his pack.
Inside were the two envelopes. He stared at them a long moment before opening the first.
It was a letter from Mr. Roger.Neatly folded documents spilled out... a bank form, a checkbook, and a card embossed with his name.
Lucien exhaled softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips."Thank you, Mr. Roger…" he murmured, tucking the papers back with care.
Then his eyes fell on the second envelope.The wax seal bore the insignia of the Blades of Lyon.And the faint, unmistakable scent of perfume... Mira's perfume, lingered on it.
Lucien's fingers froze midair. He stared at it for several seconds before finally breaking the seal.
The handwriting was elegant, deliberate... each stroke controlled, yet trembling with emotion.
Lucien,
I can't look at you without seeing the night my family died.It breaks me to admit that. I know you're not their murderer… but the mark you carry ties you to the ones who are.
I want to believe you. I truly do. But every time I see you I think of that symbol, my heart refuses to listen to reason. I can't separate you from them... not yet.
So this isn't goodbye. It's farewell, for now. Until I find those responsible… and until I can face you without hate in my heart.
Mira de Beaumont
Lucien lowered the letter slowly, eyes unfocused.Outside, the fields rolled by under the fading sun, painted gold and crimson through the train's window.
After a long silence, he whispered to himself... half-smiling, half-sad."…I understand now… why Mr. Roger said we were alike."
He leaned his head against the glass, the rhythmic clatter of the train blending with the ache in his chest, and let the scenery carry him south... toward Marseille, toward the Holy Land, and toward the answers buried in his forgotten past.