As the train pulled into Marseille's central station, Lucien stepped down onto the platform, adjusting the strap of his travel-worn pack. The salty air from the distant port drifted in through the open hallways, mixed with the noise of crowds and rolling suitcases.
Then a voice cut through the noise... high, energetic, and unmistakably calling for him.
"Lucien de Mireval! Over here!"
Lucien froze.
A man was waving wildly from the edge of the platform, short, no more than one meter sixty-five, dark hair, round glasses, and a smile far too bright for someone greeting a bloodstained Hunter.
Lucien approached with caution.
"How do you know my name?" he asked, hand unconsciously brushing the hilt of his sword.
The man held up a laminated card with a flourish.
"Association of Hunters. I read your report."
Lucien frowned. "I already submitted a report to the Association."
"I know," the man said cheerfully, tucking the badge away. "I was sent here because of it. I'm assigned to accompany and guide you on your trip, by direct request of the Association President."
Lucien blinked."…A guide?"
"Exactly."
A short pause.
"Then let's introduce ourselves properly," Lucien said at last.
The man raised an eyebrow. "I just showed you my ID. And I already know your name…"
"Etiquette requires it," Lucien replied with perfect seriousness.
"Ah. Etiquette. Right." The man cleared his throat dramatically."Well then... Cédric Elessa."
Lucien extended his hand, firm and formal."Lucien de Mireval. A pleasure."
Cédric shook it enthusiastically. "Likewise! Strong grip, by the way. You're definitely a Hunter."
Lucien didn't react.
"Let's head toward the port, Cédric," he said, shifting his bag.
"Sure, but..." Cédric fell into step beside him "...I heard you're traveling to Jerusalem. Why not take a plane? It's faster."
Lucien lifted his gaze to the sky, watching the contrails of departing aircraft with a subtle, almost suspicious expression.
Cédric squinted at him."…Don't tell me you're afraid of flying."
Lucien answered instantly, stiffening."I am not afraid. I simply prefer to travel by sea."
Cédric stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, muttering:
"Right. Definitely not afraid at all."
Lucien ignored him and continued toward the port... toward the next step of his journey, and toward the storm waiting in the Holy Land.
Cédric whistled down a taxi, and the two of them slipped into the backseat. The car pulled away from the station, weaving into Marseille's late-afternoon traffic.
For a while, neither of them spoke.
Then Lucien turned his head toward Cédric, studying him with the same calm, analytical gaze he used in battle.
"Tell me, Cédric," he said, "you are visibly from Africa. From which land do you hail?"
The taxi driver's eyes went wide in the rear-view mirror... surprised and instantly uncomfortable.
Cédric didn't miss a beat.
"Hey, Lucien, I'm as French as you are, my friend," he said with a laugh. "But if you're asking about my origins, my parents came to France from Cameroon."
Lucien nodded once."I see. It is a country I do not know."
A small silence followed, and Cédric tilted his head.
"So… have you traveled a lot before becoming a Hunter?"
Lucien turned his gaze to the window. The city rolled by... cafés, fishermen selling their afternoon catch, a glimpse of the cathedral dome on the hill. His reflection looked distant, almost haunted.
"I have traveled only once," he said quietly."From France… to the Holy Land."
Cédric opened his mouth to ask more, but something in Lucien's expression... a mix of nostalgia and pain, made him stop.
They arrived at the port, the wind carrying the salty scent of the sea. Cédric led Lucien through a large hall filled with echoing footsteps, steel beams, and the distant rumble of cargo cranes. He spoke briefly with a clerk at a ticket counter, then returned to Lucien with a small, satisfied nod.
"Alright, follow me," Cédric said. "There's one leaving for Jaffa today."
"Perfect," Lucien replied. "It is close to the Holy Land."
"Exactly. Let's go," Cédric added, guiding him toward the docks.
The ship waiting for them was no passenger vessel... it was a cargo transport, massive, rust-scarred, and smelling of machine oil. Cédric hesitated for a moment, wondering if Lucien would be offended or disappointed by the humble vessel. But Lucien walked up the gangway without a hint of complaint, stepping onto the deck as if boarding a royal galley.
A few hours later, the crew prepared for departure. The roar of engines filled the air as ropes were cast off. Cédric joined Lucien on the upper deck, the sea stretching endlessly behind them.
"What do you want to do at the Dome, Lucien?" he asked.
Lucien's gaze remained fixed ahead. "I do not know yet," he said quietly. "But I must go…"
One of the sailors shouted Cédric's name from below. "I'll be right back," Cédric said, giving Lucien a quick nod before heading down the stairs.
Left alone at the bow, Lucien placed his hands on the cold railing. The ocean wind brushed against his face, carrying him back, far back.
He remembered his first journey. His only journey.
France to the Holy Land.
Images flickered behind his eyes: his father in the midst of battle, sword flashing beneath a burning sun; his mother falling ill, fevered and fading; the long nights spent watching over her, praying for miracles that never came.
So many memories. So much loss.
Lucien inhaled deeply, the horizon a sharp, endless line before him. The present settled back around him like a cloak.
His mission lay ahead.And whatever awaited him at the Dome, he would face it.
Several days passed aboard the cargo ship, each marked by the steady rhythm of waves slapping against the hull and the distant hum of engines vibrating through steel.
Lucien spent most of his time in the small cabin Cédric had arranged for him, a narrow bed, a porthole overlooking the shifting water, and barely enough room to stand. There, he meditated. Healed. Breathed.
His wounds closed slowly, the silver marks on his skin fading day after day. But the bruises beneath... the ones carved into memory, those lingered.
During the long hours alone, his thoughts kept circling back to the last vision in the rift.The traitor.The Grail.The voice calling his name through a storm of light and blood.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw fragments... flashes of a hooded silhouette, the shattering of reality, a cup glowing. And the knowledge, heavy as iron that it was a brother taht betrayed him.
Yet the days were not only shadows and visions.
Cédric visited often.
He was older...twenty-four, and carried himself with an easy confidence Lucien envied. The young man would knock softly on the cabin door, lean against the frame, and talk to him for hours. Sometimes about the ship, sometimes about life in France, sometimes about things Lucien didn't even understand.
One afternoon, as the ship cut through a blazing sunset, Cédric sat beside him on the narrow bed, pulling out his phone.
"Look," he said, grinning. "These are my nephews. Little monsters."
He showed Lucien pictures: two small boys in superhero costumes, another one with chocolate smeared across his face, one trying to ride a dog far too big for him.
Lucien watched the images with a kind of distant fascination. "They seem… full of life."
"Oh, they are," Cédric laughed. "Too much life, maybe. But they're family."
Lucien nodded, unsure how to respond. Family felt like a word belonging to another century, another man to him.
Cédric picked up on it. He didn't push.
Instead, he stayed, talking easily about nothing and everything, letting the silence between them settle comfortably. Despite himself, Lucien found the man's presence grounding, like a rope tying him gently back to the world.
And somehow, over the slow passage of days, the two grew closer... not in grand gestures, but in shared silences, quiet conversations, and the rare comfort of simply not being alone. They became friends.
Meanwhile, the ship finally arrived in Jaffa.
The ship docked under a blazing afternoon sun. Lucien stepped onto solid ground with quiet purpose, while Cédric rolled his shoulders, relieved to no longer feel the deck swaying beneath him.
"First thing," Cédric said, wiping sweat from his brow, "we find a place to stay. No point wandering the city exhausted."
Lucien agreed with a nod.
They made their way through the narrow streets until they found a small hotel near the coast with faded yellow walls, balconies draped with drying laundry, and an old sign that creaked in the wind. Inside, a tired clerk handed them two keys without asking too many questions.
Once they reached the room, Cédric dropped his backpack on the bed and turned to Lucien.
"Do you need anything? Food? Water? Maybe a shower you look like you've been fighting sea monsters."
Lucien shook his head. "I need to find someone."
Cédric raised an eyebrow. "Someone? Who exactly?"
Lucien reached into his coat and pulled out his phone. He opened a picture... grainy but unmistakable. A severed arm lying on stone, the skin pale, the wound cauterized. But what mattered was the symbol carved into it: the mark of the Templars of Jerusalem.
He turned the screen toward Cédric.
"I need the one who owned this arm," Lucien said. "Or anyone who carries this mark."
Cédric stared at it, stunned. "Mon Dieu… that's... Okay. Send it to me. I'll ask around and see what I can dig up."
Lucien sent the image. Cédric's phone buzzed, confirming the transfer.
"I'll reach out to a few contacts," Cédric said, already typing. "Here in Jaffa… someone's bound to know something."
Lucien nodded, though his expression remained distant and focused, almost haunted.
As Cédric stepped out onto the balcony to make calls, Lucien sat on the edge of the bed. He opened his phone again, scrolling through the sparse list of contacts he had accumulated since he came into this time. A short list but still... it made him smile.
Names on Lucien's phone :
Mr Roger
Léon
Hassan
Cédric