The Fallen One

Lucius crossed his arms tightly, frustration clear in his tone as he snapped at her, "You should've woken me up." Sia didn't even spare him a full glance. Her face, calm as ever, remained turned away as she walked. After he had dozed off, she had apparently finished her side of the interrogation. Yet instead of waking him up, she had chosen to carry him home, like a baby. The act felt unnecessarily dramatic to him, even if it was in line with her frustrating habit of doing things her own way.

"I tried, you know," she said, as she strolled ahead of him. "But you're quite the deep sleeper. Besides, it made no difference. You were exhausted and would've dragged our walk out another thirty minutes at least."

Lucius couldn't deny that. She had said something similar before. Still, in his eyes, that didn't justify carrying him back like a child. It wasn't the point. What mattered was that she hadn't given him the choice.

As they continued walking along the quiet path, Sia began to explain what had happened after the two of them were separated. From what she told him, it turned out she hadn't been questioned at all. Their separation had been deliberate—a tactic meant to isolate him, increase the psychological pressure, and make him crack under the weight of it. It might have worked, too, if not for Jhansi's unexpected interference.

"I also know you met Lady Jhansi Raigath," Sia said, her tone remaining carefully neutral. "Don't worry. She's a friend of mine and a close acquaintance of Captain Mercy."

The statement clicked a few things into place. No wonder Jhansi had looked at him with that trace of hostility. He had been the reason her friends had put themselves at risk. This realisation sat uncomfortably in his chest. Then another thought surfaced, pulling his brows into a frown.

"Raigath?" he asked slowly. "She never mentioned a surname." Sia's steps slowed slightly as she lifted her gaze toward the horizon. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of gold and crimson, casting long shadows across the road ahead. The wind blew softly against them, cool against her skin, while her dark hair drifted with the breeze. Her voice carried a quiet weight as she finally responded.

"Because a few years ago, the noble House of Raigath—one of the strongest and most influential in the East—fell. Internal conflict within their ranks. The consequences were… severe for the survivors." Lucius frowned, piecing together the implications behind her words. "So she hides it?"

Sia gave a small nod of confirmation, offering no further explanation. Then her gaze shifted toward him once more, her eyes sharp yet contemplative. "You've noticed, haven't you?" she said. "Of all the people you've met, only a handful have surnames." Lucius hadn't consciously thought about it before, but now that she brought it up, he realised she was right. Other than her, no one he had encountered had introduced themselves with a surname.

"Commoners don't have them," Sia explained. "Only nobles, royals, and those who have earned one, either through innovation, contribution, or sacrifice. I carry a surname because my husband was bestowed one after single-handedly saving his battalion during an expedition in the Middle Rim."

The statement brought clarity to a lot of things he had observed—the way people seemed to look at her with a mixture of reverence and caution. He had assumed it was because of her strength or her reputation, but perhaps it had been because of her husband. Lucius looked at her face, trying to read her expression, but Sia had already shifted her focus ahead, giving him no opportunity to linger on the thought.

The recurring mentions of nobles and royals were beginning to press against the edge of his curiosity. If he was going to navigate this empire, survive within it, and uncover the truth about himself, then understanding these power structures was no longer optional—it was essential.

"The royal families," he began, keeping his voice measured. "Who are they exactly? I want to understand the power structure of the empire."

Sia gave a thoughtful hum, as if approving the question. She looked ahead again, her eyes narrowing slightly as she organised her thoughts before speaking.

"The highest authority in our empire is the Imperial Family. Our ruler, Emperor Ashoka Verdun, is its current head. He is a descendant of the empire's founder, Emperor Verdun."

Lucius's brow lifted slightly at that. "So the guy named the empire after himself?" he asked with a touch of scepticism. Sia allowed herself a rare chuckle. "Yes. A simple approach, but an effective one." He had to admit, fair enough.

"The Imperial Family governs only the capital city, Arengard, which lies at the empire's centre," she continued. "The rest of the empire is divided into four territories, each ruled by a Duke of Verdun. These dukes are the empire's second-highest authority."

"Four sides… so one duke per region?" he asked, now beginning to piece it together.

Sia nodded. "The Eastern Region—where we are now—has been ruled by the Dukedom of Dredagon since the empire's founding. The Dredagon family has always been the most loyal backer of the Imperial Family, unwavering in their support for thousands of years." He frowned again, this time not in confusion, but disbelief. "Thousands of years? That's… excessive loyalty."

"It is said," she mused, her tone carrying the weight of old stories, "that the ancestors of the Dredagons swore eternal allegiance to Emperor Verdun even before the empire was formed." The thought caught him off guard. Eternal allegiance before the empire even existed? That level of devotion bordered on legend.

But something else tugged at his thoughts, a detail she had mentioned earlier that didn't sit quite right. "You called the Duke's family a royal family," Lucius said, his voice firm. "Isn't the emperor's family the only 'royal' one?" A small, knowing smile curled at the edge of Sia's lips as she responded.

"That's where many get confused," she said. "The Imperial Family is also a Royal Family. But they are called Imperial because they rule the entire empire. Meanwhile, the four Duke Families are also Royal Families, because they are direct descendants of the first emperor. They govern their regions under imperial rule."

He blinked, surprised at the intricacies woven into what he had assumed would be a simple hierarchy. So it was a single bloodline—Emperor Verdun's—that had held the reins of power across the entire empire for generations. "So the empire is ruled only by Emperor Verdun's bloodline?" he asked, needing the confirmation.

"Precisely," Sia affirmed. "Only those of royal descent—meaning Verdun's bloodline—are allowed to govern." He exhaled slowly, letting the information sink in. The emperor. Four dukes. One bloodline rules every region. This wasn't just a monarchy—it was a dynasty, fortified through generations and millennia of control.

"…I see," he murmured, the pieces beginning to fall into place.

And in that moment, another realisation struck him. If House Raigath had once been one of the strongest in the East, then Lady Jhansi had once stood as part of that powerful structure. Now, she was a soldier. A knight. No surname. That fall must have been catastrophic.

His eyes drifted toward Sia once again as they walked, the weight of everything she'd said still settling in his mind. This empire was far more structured and intricate than he had first believed. If Lucius wanted to survive, to thrive, and to uncover the truth buried in his past, then learning names and titles wouldn't be enough. He needed to understand the game itself.

***

"Out with it," Sia said, barely glancing at Lucius. "Whatever's on your mind." He was like an open book to her. Even when he stayed silent, it was easy to read when something weighed on him—whether it was a thought, a sight, or someone he had encountered earlier. Her mind might have been occupied elsewhere, but that didn't mean she ignored him. Not his questions, not even the annoying little ones.

"Classes," he answered, curiosity laced in his voice.

Of course. She sighed, already knowing where it had come from. Dargan must have mentioned something—perhaps Dawn or June—and it had stirred the memory. Lucius had nearly forgotten about the Class system until now. She had hoped to delay this conversation, to avoid it for as long as possible. But like many things lately, that hope had already slipped from her grasp.

"A class is like an affinity," she began, her voice even. "They have similarities, but they're different at the same time. Just like affinities, classes come in different types, and like affinities, they can't be earned. You're either born with one or you're not."

His expression tightened, but he didn't speak. "Unlike affinities, Classes don't have detailed descriptions or histories," she continued. "In fact, we only discovered this power system a thousand years ago, during the Great War."

"They have types, don't they?" Lucius asked, piecing it together. "Like healers." He's sharp. That much, at least, made things easier. "Correct," she confirmed. "There are different types of Classes, and their purposes vary greatly—even contradicting each other at times. You already know about healers. Their special ability allows them to restore their comrades' health, making them invaluable in battle."

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Lucius nodded slowly. "June… she was a healer."

"Yes. A childish girl, with no attack or defensive capabilities—yet her class made her indispensable." Sia paused for a moment before adding, "Then there was Dawn. She was a Spellcaster, an uncommon class."

"Spellcaster?"

"That class allows mages to cast spells more efficiently. The difference between me and Dawn, despite both of us having a fire affinity, was simple—she could cast spells naturally, while I had to work for it. Her class allowed her to learn, control, and adapt spells far more easily than I ever could."

"But… you still made your own spells, like that huge mana arc of yours."

Sia almost laughed. "That?" she said, shaking her head. "That's a basic 'technique', Lucius. Limited in power. But that's a discussion for another day." Without giving him time to press further, she shifted the conversation forward. "Then there are Berserkers. Their class allows them to push their attack and defence to the absolute limit—sometimes beyond it—for a short time. After that, there's a backlash."

By now, Lucius was completely focused, his attention fixed solely on her. "Next is the Assassin Class." She didn't miss the subtle stiffness in his posture, the slight shift in his demeanour.

"Assassins gain the ability to stealth their presence," she continued evenly. "When Ragnar and his team first saw you, they assumed you were an assassin—because assassins are the best at hiding their mana presence and signature. They can blend into their surroundings and strike when you least expect it."

Lucius remained silent. Not a single word left his lips. But she knew exactly where his thoughts had gone.

She exhaled quietly. "...I'm sorry, Lucius."

"Don't be," he muttered. His voice was quiet, steady—though beneath it, something trembled. "You saved me. And for that, I'll always be grateful." But then, the steadiness wavered.

"It's just… not fair, you know? I—I…" He immediately cut himself off, shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the weight of it all. "Never mind. Goodnight, Sia."

He turned away, moving toward the door. For a moment, she thought he might slam it in frustration. He was about to, but instead, he hesitated. Then, slowly and deliberately, he closed it behind him.

Sia exhaled, her gaze drifting upward to the darkened ceiling overhead. 'It has never been fair. Nor will it ever be. That is the will of mana, little one.'

The following days passed with relative peace, yet beneath the quiet surface, a certain tension lingered—one that Lucius carried with him. He didn't voice his frustrations aloud, not anymore, but they echoed through his silence. The way he moved during training, the way he studied her every motion, the way his eyes seemed to record each flicker of her stance—he was preparing. For something.

At first, she had assumed the wooden sword she gave him would be little more than a distraction. A child his age would usually run around, swinging it at invisible enemies, playing the role of a brave hero in some imaginary war. But thankfully, Lucius wasn't like most children.

He didn't treat the sword like a toy. He studied it. Just as he studied her. Whenever she trained, he was there—his sharp brown eyes tracking every motion, every angle, every subtle shift of weight and balance. And it wasn't mere observation. He memorised, analysed, and tested.

The early days had been mildly amusing. His stances were all wrong, his swings wild and poorly timed, his grip unsteady. She had expected him to grow frustrated and toss the wooden weapon aside. That was what most children did when faced with repeated failure... But not this one, as every misstep only seemed to fuel him. Each failure hardened his focus.

By the end of the first week, his footwork had begun to steady. His grip adjusted instinctively. His swings lost their chaotic energy and became tighter, more controlled. He wasn't just mimicking anymore—he was learning. Refining. His mind was a forge, and every error only sharpened the blade he carried.

'That speed… that adaptability… Could it be?'

***

On one fateful evening, as the sky was painted in fading hues of crimson and violet, Sia lowered her sword after finishing her session. But Lucius didn't stop. He remained where he was, frozen mid-movement, lost in an imaginary battle. His lips moved in quiet murmurs, as if whispering the thoughts he couldn't yet voice aloud.

Lucius muttered under his breath again, eyes narrowed as he adjusted his stance in the grass. His thoughts raced faster than his limbs could move, mentally cycling through potential combat patterns. 'One step back before thrusting forward—no, that leaves a two-second window for counterattack. Unless… I throw something to create a distraction... but what? A projectile? No, not enough force… maybe if I—' Before he could finish the thought, Sia cut in sharply, calling his name. Lucius flinched, visibly jolted from his spiralling analysis, and groaned as he turned to face her. He responded with a short, irritated, "What?"

Sia smirked as she tapped her wooden sword with her foot, sending it into the air before catching it effortlessly and spinning it into a ready grip. Without hesitation, she told him, "Let's spar." Lucius blinked, clearly not expecting that, and repeated her words in disbelief. "What?" Sia's tone remained casual, but the glint in her eyes made it clear she wasn't playing around.

"You heard me. Do you accept my challenge?" She levelled her sword at him with the same firm gesture she had once used in a real fight against the Ghost Bear. Lucius hesitated for a breath before his pride kicked in. "But why? I've only been training for seven days," he said, though it was less protest and more genuine confusion. Sia cocked her head and replied smoothly, "Why not? Are you scared?" That jab landed as intended—he stiffened, shoulders rising in defiance. "No! I'm not scared. Fine, I accept. Any rules?" She nodded once and outlined the conditions. "You use all your strength. I'll restrict my mana use and regulate my strength. The match ends when you can no longer raise your sword." Lucius narrowed his eyes but nodded. "Fair enough." He lifted the wooden blade and dropped into a ready stance. Sia responded evenly, "Whenever you're ready," planting her feet with quiet patience as she observed him.

Lucius remained still for a moment, narrowing his gaze further as he began thinking through his first move. That, Sia noted internally, was his mistake. Without giving him the luxury of a proper windup, she burst forward, crossing the gap in an instant. Her sword sliced downward through the air with speed and precision, and though Lucius reacted faster than expected, he barely managed to avoid the blow by pushing off his left leg and launching himself backwards with a strong leap. "What the hell, Sia?!" he shouted, clearly startled by the sudden aggression. She smirked, resting the tip of her blade on the ground and reminding him coldly, "Rule number one: never trust your enemy's words."

Lucius clenched his teeth and steadied himself. The look he wore now—determined, calculating, and quietly intentful. He wouldn't complain. He would adapt. A moment later, she felt it: his mana flared to life—not refined or disciplined, but raw, full of intent. It sparked from within his core, and she immediately recognised the surge. He had been practising. His body reinforcement was still loose and uncertain, but it was there, more stable than before. His movements had grown faster, his balance firmer. Rather than retreating, Lucius suddenly lunged forward, meeting her advance with his own.

The moment their weapons collided, the sharp ring of contact rang through the air. Lucius strained visibly against her force, his smaller frame overwhelmed immediately, even though she had barely exerted herself. He was sent skidding backwards from the clash, but instead of showing frustration, he grinned. Sia narrowed her eyes slightly, recognising the look in him—he was studying her, processing every motion. He redirected his mana again, this time focusing it through his arm and into his blade.

The wooden weapon flickered with faint light as he attempted a basic mana coating, and while it was unstable and showed cracks in his control, the intent was unmistakable. It was something most trainees wouldn't dare attempt until well into their formal education, and yet here he was—seven days in and already applying principles many struggled to understand even after months.

Sia shifted into a defensive stance, choosing to test him instead of overwhelming him. Lucius struck again. Then again. And again. His pattern lacked rhythm, but not purpose. Each strike came from a different direction—low, then high, feint left, then arc right. He wasn't just flailing. He was experimenting, adjusting with every pass. She met his blade with deflections and redirections, refusing to counter until she saw what else he could do. He moved erratically at first, but gradually, he improved. Each mistake became a correction. Each misstep turned into a refined manoeuvre.

Sia knew she was regulating herself, but still, it wasn't something she had expected. He was adapting mid-fight at a rate she rarely saw in commoners. His mana surged again as he poured more of it into his blade, eyes locking on her as he prepared one last strike. She recognised the buildup and steeled herself. This would be the final exchange.

Their weapons collided with explosive force. A deep crack split the air as both blades shattered from the pressure. Splinters flew, and Lucius was thrown backwards by the backlash. Sia reacted instantly, catching him by the arm before he could crash into the fence. His body hung limp in her grip, completely drained of mana and strength. She sighed and lowered him gently to the grass, kneeling beside him without urgency. Placing her hand just over his core, she transferred a thin stream of mana into him—just enough to stimulate recovery. His eyelids fluttered a few moments later.

...

Lucius stirred with a groan, hand rubbing his temple. "What happened?" he mumbled, his voice groggy. Sia offered a small smirk, her expression unreadable. "Your sword broke under the pressure. You passed out from mana exhaustion." He blinked slowly and glanced around, piecing things together. "Then why am I lying on the ground?" She rolled her eyes and replied flatly, "Because you nearly flew into the next district. I caught you and gave you some of my mana to wake you up. You're welcome, by the way." He sat up and stretched his aching limbs, jaw clenched tight until he loosened with a half-playful grin. "So? How was my performance? Did I impress you?"

Sia scoffed without hesitation. "What performance? Those little tricks of yours?" Despite her words, she couldn't deny it—she was impressed. His instincts, creativity, and sheer adaptability were well beyond what she had anticipated. But she wasn't about to let him know that yet. Praise now could inflate his ego or make him reckless, and she wouldn't risk that. When he pushed again, asking for at least a hint, she crossed her arms and pretended to think, then gave him a simple, "Not bad."

Lucius groaned, falling back onto the grass with exaggerated frustration. "That's it?" he muttered, staring up at the sky. She didn't respond, but the smirk on her lips remained as her thoughts drifted to something she had noticed during the fight. He had used only his left arm. Not once had he switched hands. His dominant leg had also been the left—every pivot, every lead, every subtle motion coordinated with his left side. That wasn't just left-handedness. It was total left-dominance. Most fighters, even left-handers, trained for ambidexterity. Lucius, however, hadn't shown a trace of it.

She wasn't yet sure whether that would be a strength or a hindrance in the long run. Only time would reveal the answer. Still watching him, Sia exhaled and said his name. He turned his head lazily in her direction. "Yeah?" he replied, voice still tinged with lingering fatigue. She met his gaze directly and spoke without pretence. "You're unique. I believe you're entirely left-dominated in combat. That's… rare." Lucius sat up again, curiosity returning to his eyes. "I'm listening," he said, and Sia could already see the wheels turning in his head.