The Fallen One

Nine and a half years had passed—nearly a decade of blood, struggle, and growth. A stretch of time that had forged Lucius through endless trials, victories, and defeats. He had changed, become sharper, colder perhaps—but never aimless. He wouldn't change a thing about that journey. Except, maybe, one thing. But that thought—he knew better than to entertain it. That path was buried, dangerous to unearth. Not now. Not tonight.

What Lucius hadn't expected during those years was companionship—real companionship. Lavya and Sara. At first, their team had been bound by law, standard protocol for adventurers under fifteen. Training, survival, and basic field experience. Then came the greed. They were efficient, they profited well, and the system worked. But at some point, that greed quietly transformed into loyalty. They stopped being just allies. They became a unit, then a team, and somewhere in the cracks, they became family.

And now, that family was somewhere else. Safe. Because Lucius had walked away from them again. But not without purpose. He stood alone beneath the shadows of the Outer Rim, driven by vengeance for those who couldn't stand again... A week ago, a report had reached them—two small battalions of Verdun's Battleknights ambushed and slaughtered. And the cause? Not regular beasts. Not A-ranks or wild aberrations. No, this was the work of something worse.

Terror Beasts. Unlike common beasts that hunted for food or instinctive dominance, Terror Beasts were unnatural. Their actions lacked ecological logic. Their intent—sharp, deliberate. Some, like the Ghost Bears, were killed to clash with strength. To test themselves, or to die gloriously, if it came to that. But these weren't Ghost Bears. These were Knightcrawlers. And Knightcrawlers weren't just killers. They were something far more disturbing. Butchers. Executioners with a grotesque method.

Lucius still remembered the scene. Corpses mutilated beyond recognition, mana cores either shattered or simply discarded. Some still glowed faintly, untouched. The Knightcrawlers hadn't hunted them for absorption. They hadn't needed the mana. They weren't feeding. It was as if they had killed on purpose, out of design. No ritual—but no reason as well. Just efficient eradication. Not even a predator's instinct. Just pure, cold slaughter.

Now, it was their turn. Alone, cloaked in the Outer Rim's darkness, Lucius moved with precise silence, his breath measured, his pulse slowed to an unnatural rhythm through sheer mastery over his body. He'd spent months conditioning himself for moments like this. He knew the battlefield. Knew its weight. It's silent. The forest held its breath as he advanced, steps absorbed by soil and moss. This was not bravery. This was a necessity.

And then, he saw them. The Knightcrawlers were just as hideous as the stories had always warned. Standing on four elongated limbs, towering and stretched, their bare, leathery skin absorbed light as if it fed on it. They didn't have faces in the traditional sense—no eyes, no mouths. No nose. Instead, their entire head was an ear. Not a metaphor. A physical, pulsing, deformed auditory organ, mutating with every breath of air it consumed.

Their massive skulls weren't just grotesque—they were deadly. Designed to detect the slightest shift in mana, the faintest tremor in the air. Even a whisper of magical intent, and they would react. No eyes meant no visual distractions. No scent, no movement—just pure mana-listening evolution. That was their strength. But in that same strength lay their greatest flaw. Because once you understood how they detected their prey, you could learn how to hide from them.

Lucius had spent days memorising about them. Their routines. Their behaviour. The way their heads pulsed with sonar-like sensitivity. First, they'd spread out. Isolate the silence. Detect disturbances. Then they'd swarm, overwhelming their target with sheer speed and coordination. Then, finally, the kill. It was systematic. Efficient. Deadly. But predictable. And Lucius? He didn't need unpredictability. He just needed patience and timing.

There were nearly two hundred of them. 167. Then 179. Then 195. He didn't stop counting. His eyes narrowed. 'Wait. One of them… no, not just one... 195 and a half.' One knightcrawler was carrying a parasite, pregnant. Good. That was one more abomination he'd kill before it even got the chance to cry out. Lucius adjusted the grip on his blade. His eyes were cold. Unblinking. Then, without ceremony or declaration, he moved. Just like that, it began.

The first Knightcrawler died before it even sensed death or his blade, which brought it. A clean decapitation—one smooth motion as Lucius' blade cut through cartilage and bone. No sound. The second fell seconds later, his dagger piercing the skull's nerve-laced core with ruthless precision. The creature didn't get a chance to twitch. Before the others could process what was happening, Lucius had already vanished into the brush again. Not even the air trembled behind him.

Eight down. One hundred eighty-seven and a half to go.

The rest twitched violently. Their ear-lined skulls spasmed, searching for a trace—anything. Mana, air disturbance, vibration. But Lucius had been trained too well. Or maybe he was born for this. His mana presence was null. His body pressure, controlled. His movement, quieter than the wind. He was their natural enemy. A predator perfectly engineered to hunt creatures like them. And by the time they realised it...

They would already be dead.

***

A whisper sliced through the forest's stillness. "Boo!"

Lavya's body reacted before his mind did, instincts taking control as his weapon half-swung through the air. His fingers gripped tightly, ready to strike, before his brain caught up and forced his muscles to stop mid-motion. His shoulders twitched, eyes narrowing in irritation more than fear. Standing between them now, arms draped lazily over both their shoulders, was Lucius, grinning like he hadn't just nearly earned a blade through the chest.

Sara didn't flinch. She simply paused, glancing sidelong at him with a neutral expression that bordered on boredom. 'She's used to it,' Lucius thought, smirking to himself at the lack of reaction from the only person who could probably read his intentions better than anyone else.

"See? Told ya I'd be back within an hour—"

"Four hours, twenty minutes," Lavya interrupted, his tone calm but laced with exasperation. His smile was tight, pulled taut between amusement and restrained annoyance. 'Don't test my patience, genius.' Lav's internal thought must have sounded something along those words.

Lucius blinked. 'How does he always know the exact time?'

Sara didn't join the banter. Her eyes locked on Lucius, assessing him. She gripped his right arm gently, but her concern was anything but subtle. "Where were you? What happened? You look… exhausted." Her words carried the kind of weight that came from experience. She'd seen him like this before—but only after severe battles. Her tone wasn't scolding, but the tension behind her calm voice spoke volumes.

Lucius hadn't even noticed how drained he was until she pointed it out. His limbs were heavy, his mana core throbbed, and his reserves scraped dangerously low. It was the kind of exhaustion that crept in only when the adrenaline had worn off, the kind that settled in the bones like lead.

Lavya didn't move at first, but one glance from Sara made him step in on Lucius's other side. He wasn't happy about it, but he wasn't going to argue. They both knew Lucius wouldn't say anything unless prompted—and sometimes, even then, he wouldn't. But before either of them could ask another question, Lucius raised his left hand, crossing his index and middle fingers.

The gesture stopped them in their tracks. A signal—a promise, an agreement. 'No more questions.' Not now.

It was an old agreement, forged during the early years of their time together. When that sign was made, it meant something unspoken had happened, and that Lucius wasn't ready—or willing—to talk about it. Lavya exhaled through his nose, shoulders slumping slightly. He hated it, but he respected it. Sara's lips pressed into a thin line, her jaw tensing, but she too stayed quiet.

"Come on," Lucius muttered, brushing past them with slow steps. "We're late. And I don't want Sia to worry about me—us."

The three of them walked on, the silence slowly thawing as Sara took the lead in conversation. Always one to break tension, she shared the latest gossip from Arengard, her voice steady and rhythmic. Apparently, Andromeda Skydagger had won the Warrior's Championship, solidifying her family's position in the upcoming Saintess election, a contest more dangerous than most conflicts. It wasn't just about politics anymore. These titles held real power—mythical, terrifying, institutional power.

Lucius listened quietly, every detail sinking into his memory like ink into parchment. The Saintess and the Saint of Verdun were rumoured to be strong enough to rival even the Emperor himself. These weren't just rulers—they were living weapons. Beings of divine reputation and unmatched strength. It wasn't just gossip. It was a sort of intelligence and Lucius never wasted information.

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Lavya chuckled at the update. "That chick sounds strong. Like… really strong." His approval was simple, but genuine. Lavya always admired strength, so long as it wasn't used to dominate those weaker than oneself. That was one of the many differences between him and Lucius. Lavya could follow a powerful leader. Lucius probably couldn't—wouldn't, maybe. Rank meant nothing to him. Only actions did.

Lucius glanced at Sara. She didn't respond to Lavya's comment, but he knew—she agreed with him. She always had. Their silence wasn't empty; it was layered. Built on countless battles fought together, countless choices that had built their bond. Lucius said little as the group walked. He just observed. Because in six months, his time would come. His restrictions would lift. His freedom would be absolute.

But somewhere inside, buried beneath his plans and schemes, a thought lingered. A whisper of sentiment. He'd miss this. The banter. The warmth of companionship. The quiet loyalty in Lavya's grip. The worried gentleness in Sara's hand. He wasn't foolish enough to say it aloud—but he knew. These moments were fleeting...

The walls of Varis finally loomed ahead, pale against the darkening skies. As they approached the entrance, a familiar voice rang out from atop the guard station.

"Younglings! You're late!" the man called, before softening with a chuckle. "But I'm glad you returned… in one piece, haha!" Sir Edward. Always watching. Always waiting. Sara offered a polite nod, her tone lightly teasing. "Good morning, Sir Edward. Yes, we're back—and still alive. Thankfully."

Lucius caught the brief flicker of a smile across Edward's face. He respected decorum almost as much as he respected loyalty. But Lucius saw more than just a smile. There was recognition there. A flicker of understanding passed between them, quiet and unquestionable.

Edward knew something, because he had been watching Lucius's steps far too long not to. Edward checked the ledger and their entry logs, then waved them through the gates. "All clear. Go on."

Lavya and Sara dashed off, eager to exchange loot and finish paperwork. But Lucius lingered. Edward noticed and stepped beside him, waiting until a group of adventurers had passed. Their voices fell silent. "Sir Edward," Lucius said quietly, eyes forward. "We need to talk."

"Not now," Edward replied, eyes scanning the surroundings. "Too many ears." Lucius nodded, turning to go. But before he could step away, Edward spoke again, his voice softer. "Did you complete the task I gave you?"

Lucius stopped, then slowly lifted his right arm, revealing a small emblem—a worn insignia once belonging to a knight of Verdun. The crest glinted faintly in the evening light, scarred and blood-stained. A relic of someone who would never return. He extended it toward Edward, but the knight shook his head. "No, Lucius. Keep it. You earned it."

His voice carried a weight it rarely held. "That emblem isn't just a memory of our fallen brothers and sisters. It's a reminder." Edward's eyes narrowed. "You are not just a self-obsessed brat, no matter how much you act like one. You are—"

"A genius self-obsessed brat," Lucius interrupted, a grin tugging at his lips. Edward sighed. He knew that was coming, and that Lucius would never change. Without another word, Lucius tucked the emblem into his storage ring and walked away, disappearing into the city that had shaped him—and into the night that still awaited him.

***

After seventeen hours of deep sleep and three hours of intense training, Lucius now sat atop a towering black-barked tree, his favourite resting spot for nearly eight years. From this height, the Black Mountains of Varis loomed far off, swallowing the last fragments of sunlight as dusk crept in. The western ridges always caused the sun to set early, around four or five in the evening, cloaking the city beneath a sheet of lengthening shadows. Lucius leaned back against the gnarled trunk, his body sore from mana depletion and overexertion.

He had pushed himself too far—again—and he knew it. But he didn't care. He never had. There was no slowing down, not when the abilities he was cultivating—his so-called "special powers"—came at a price that went deeper than flesh. They drained not just his mana core but something else… something less visible. Perhaps even his soul.

He closed his eyes as the last light disappeared behind the ridgeline, letting his thoughts drift to a memory six years old—the day he first uncovered his unique ability. It hadn't been taught. No master had guided him. It wasn't etched into any scroll or whispered in training halls. It was a power that should not exist. A power that stood in defiance of the very foundation of their world. And yet, there it was—silent, dangerous, real. If wielded properly, he had come to believe, it could change everything.

Seated high on a wide, stable branch with his legs swinging carelessly in the chilled night air, Lucius appeared relaxed. The tree—blackened by age and charred by old fires—had earned a name from the boy who had once climbed it alone in the dark: Buck. A simple name for something that had become more than a landmark. Buck had witnessed his secrets, sheltered his failures, and stood guard through the dangerous journey of his adolescence. From this perch, Lucius could see Varis glittering under the moonlight, calm, serene, unaware of the anomaly watching it from above.

His hands rested limply in his lap. Though his limbs ached, the pain was dulled by routine. His breathing remained calm, his pulse measured. Yet one thing was unmistakably wrong. His mana. It was gone—still, silent, halted entirely. His mana core, the centre of magical existence, wasn't just low—it was dormant. No pulse. No hum. No rotation. It wasn't due to injury or mistake. This was intentional. Voluntary. A deliberate defiance of natural law.

He remembered Sia's voice clearly—her warning etched into his bones. "Every living, sentient being needs mana to survive. It's like blood. Stop the flow, and you stop existing." She wasn't wrong. That belief echoed from every scholar, every warrior, every book and doctrine across the continent. Mana circulation was life. It was the fuel behind spells, physical reinforcement, perception, and even thought. Without it, the body would collapse instantly. The soul would wither. And yet... Lucius lived.

He leaned further against Buck, his gaze following the flickering lights of distant homes in Varis. "When did it all start?" he murmured to no one but the bark beneath him. "You remember, don't you, Buck?" Of course, the tree didn't answer, but Lucius had long ago started speaking to it as though it might. This place had become his sanctuary, a witness to his reckless experiments and the forbidden truths he unearthed in solitude.

Eight years ago, at the age of ten, Lucius had officially joined the Junior Program at the Adventurers Guild. Sia had trained him tirelessly in the Black Mountains—drills, physical conditioning, basic mana control—but soon, Lucius began sneaking off alone. He didn't do it out of rebellion, but necessity. There were things he needed to test, instincts he needed to follow. And Sia? She let him. She always knew. She didn't approve, but she understood that some lessons required solidarity, silence, risk, and pain.

It was during one of these solitary nights that he found a half-burned book buried behind disused volumes in the guild's restricted archives. A fragmented manual on assassin techniques—not a complete record, but enough for someone with Lucius's intuition to study and extrapolate. One line had stood out above the rest: "Assassins train their cores to minimise mana rotation—to erase their presence. Not just a tactic… an art." That single idea consumed him.

The average mage's mana core rotated at high speed, like a secondary heart, pumping energy throughout the body. Most warriors hovered around a hundred rotations per minute during combat, balancing power and responsiveness. Lucius decided to defy that rhythm. First, he dropped his rate to ninety. Then eighty. Sixty. Thirty. Ten. Every day under Buck's branches, he shaved off more until one evening, to his own horror, he felt it—his mana rotation had stopped completely. For one second, his entire being felt hollow. His limbs went cold. His heart pounded like a drum inside his head.

He remembered Sia's warning, her voice rising from memory like a scream—"Even a single second can cause irreversible damage to your core." Lucius panicked, forcing his core back into motion in a desperate surge. Mana flooded his body again. But nothing had broken. No backlash. No scarring. Just... fear. He swore he'd never attempt it again... Just a week later, though, he was back. This time, he held it for one and a half seconds. Then two. Then five. Then fifteen. Then a minute. Then an hour.

Eventually, he could maintain a completely dormant mana core for longer than most mages could sustain a meditation stance. And his body? It adapted. It still functioned. He could move, breathe, and think. The rules he had been taught began to crumble, one law at a time. He wasn't merely hiding his presence—he was existing without the very thing that supposedly defined existence.

It wasn't without consequence. Turning off his core erased his ability to reinforce his body with magic. He lost hardened skin, lost sensory enhancement, and lost the protection that mages relied on in combat. Without mana, even a blunt strike could shatter his bones. A sharp one? Lethal. His body became as vulnerable as an Nmana's, which forced him to adapt his training accordingly.

Lucius began rebuilding himself. Slowly, methodically. He forged his body like a soldier who had no magic. He trained pain resistance by taking hits without reinforcement. He practised dodging blindfolded, swinging wooden swords at full speed, running uphill with no mana to ease the strain. He learned to feel vibrations in the earth, to hear footsteps in the wind, to track enemies by scent alone. Every weakness became a puzzle to solve.

Paradoxically, the more time he spent without mana, the sharper his senses became when he reactivated it. His reinforced state grew more efficient, more attuned. He could enter combat with a deeper understanding of rhythm and reaction than even seasoned warriors. It was as if starving himself of power made him hungrier, sharper, more alive when he finally drew upon it.

"This ability… this curse…" he muttered, tracing a scar on his forearm, "it'll turn me into something not even Saint-ranked assassins would understand." There was no guidebook. No precedent. He was creating a new philosophy, a new school of thought. And with it came danger—not just to his enemies, but to himself. A single mistake, and his body would crumble. A moment of hesitation, and death would claim him before a spell could even form.

The wind stirred through the mountains like a whispered warning. Lucius placed a hand against Buck's weathered bark. "Only you, the mountains, and one other person know what I'm truly capable of." He paused, staring into the horizon. "Let's keep it that way." The clouds had thickened above Varis, dimming the light from the city. Yet Lucius could still feel its pulse—life moving behind those walls, unknowing, unready.

"Six months," he whispered, almost like a vow. "Six months until I'm free. Six months to finish sharpening every edge. After that... I walk into the storm, no hesitation." A faint smile played on his lips—wry, bitter, determined. There was no safety in what he was building. No glory. Just a truth. A silent path. A forbidden craft.

And until that moment arrived, he would keep walking it alone.