The Fallen One

Lucius was lying on the bed assigned to him, its surface clean and passably comfortable, though he suspected it had little to do with Rebecca's goodwill. The knight hadn't spared him a second glance after escorting him in. She vanished the moment her task was complete, offering no parting words, no sideways smile, no trace of interest or care. Her silence spoke more than her presence ever did. She didn't like him for some reason; that much was obvious. He wasn't sure what he'd done to earn that disdain, but the feeling settled like dust in the corners of his chest. Bitter, familiar, and strangely predictable.

The infirmary was large but simple, arranged in neat rows of metal-framed beds, each one occupied by someone in some stage of suffering. A few were old and withered—people whose bodies had long since stopped listening to them, who stared at the ceiling like it owed them answers. Others were adventurers, clearly patched up from recent excursions, their bandages still fresh, their eyes still sharp with the remnants of adrenaline. And then there were the rest—children, young men and women like him, or slightly older, some silent, some restless. Among them all, Lucius was the outlier—not because of his injuries, but because of who he was. Because of what he was. The youngest in the room, and likely the one most spoken about in whispered fragments and unfinished sentences.

Peace, unsurprisingly, had not welcomed him with open arms. For the first hour, he'd found himself surrounded by curiosity poorly disguised as conversation. Questions came at him relentlessly, flung like arrows from mouths too eager, too nosy, and too unaware of the weight behind the things they were asking. Where was he from? How had he entered the Academy? Was he a noble in hiding? A spy pretending to be wounded? One particularly loud boy even suggested he was a foreign infiltrator with dark intentions buried beneath his quiet demeanour. Lucius, who had tolerated more than he should have, finally spoke without restraint, muttering that if he were an infiltrator, the boy would have been his first victim. The words had slipped too easily, fueled by exhaustion and irritation, and the silence that followed was brief and suffocating. He regretted it the moment it left his lips.

As fate would have it, the target of his sarcasm turned out to be the illegitimate son of someone important—some noble with reach and wrath, the kind who didn't need legitimacy to destroy someone like Lucius with a whisper. Trouble had arrived early, even before he could leave the bed. But just as quickly as tension mounted, salvation came in the form of the very same nurse who had shown him in. Her return was timely and direct. Her words, sharper than any scalpel, sliced through the noise with ease. She threatened to tamper with their food and medicine if the interrogations continued, and her voice didn't need to rise for them to believe her. He chuckled, not the kind of laugh that came from joy, but the kind born out of disbelief. As the nurse turned away, she winked at him, an unexpected gesture of alliance that made her feel, for that brief moment, like the coolest person he'd met since waking up, after Sia.

***

Time had shifted slightly, and a familiar presence filled the space beside his bed. Sia had arrived. He hadn't seen her enter, but the second her voice reached his ears, everything else faded into something distant and unnecessary. She was seated beside him, legs crossed, her posture a blend of composure and fatigue. Her elbow rested against the arm of the chair, hand supporting her temple, fingers barely moving. Her eyes were alert but weighed down, not from sleep, but from the lack of it. It was clear she hadn't rested. Not since whatever ordeal had placed him here.

Lucius, now awake and alive, responded before she even opened her mouth. He informed her he'd slept fine—five or six hours, maybe more—and stretched as though trying to convince her of it. He even joked about pretending to sleep while the others wheezed nearby, claiming he didn't want to open himself to more probing about his past, or worse, questions about where he came from. And who or what he had left behind. His voice dipped into dry sarcasm as he spoke, intending to distance himself from the ache those questions always triggered. He chose his words carefully, layering them with bitterness, but not enough to draw sympathy. He didn't want pity. Just distance, for the rest.

One of the older men across the room responded almost on cue. The rasp in his voice made it sound like he belonged in the memories, yet he found the strength to scoff and comment on the "state of kids these days." He muttered something about how the Empire's future was doomed if people like Lucius were meant to inherit it. Lucius didn't look at him. He didn't need to. His words, however, were precise and sharp enough to leave a wound. He told the man to focus on his own present instead of worrying about a future he likely wouldn't live to see. The room reacted immediately. Laughter spilt out from every direction, unfiltered and genuine. The kind of laughter that bruises pride.

He didn't need to turn to see the expression on the old man's face—he could feel the heat rising from him. The tension climbed, and a sound followed that Lucius didn't like: the slow drag of a chair across the floor. He looked up in time to see the only thing worse than the old man standing.

Sia was standing, her posture was effortless, yet intimidating. Her head tilted ever so slightly. Her arms were loose at her sides, relaxed in a way that only made her presence feel sharper. Before he could say anything, her left hand struck out, seizing his ear with exacting precision. He barely had time to process before she pulled.

The pain was immediate and humiliating. She yanked him upright, dragging him off the bed as though he weighed nothing.

"We're leaving," she announced.

The room erupted. Laughter echoed against the infirmary walls, louder and freer than before. People pointed, whispered, and grinned. The same adventurers who had laughed at his insult now cackled at his downfall. Even the nurses had to hide their amusement behind professional façades. Lucius tried everything—he pleaded, then again pleaded, even whimpered—but Sia didn't falter. Her expression never changed. Her grip never loosened.

She dragged him through the hallway like a wayward child, silent and steady, without once acknowledging the audience they left behind. Only when they were outside the building, far from the infirmary's laughter and walls, did she finally release him.

The pain faded. The embarrassment lingered.

Lucius stumbled back, his hand flying instinctively to cradle his reddened ear, still burning from the unexpected yank. The sting echoed deeper than it should have, not just in his skin but in his pride. His scowl was immediate, more hurt than angry, as he glared at Sia with a bewildered frown.

"Ouch! OUCH! OUCH!" His left hand immediately grabbed his right ear. "That hurts!" he muttered, bristling. "What was that even for?!"

Her expression didn't shift. The same stoic calm remained etched across her face, but her eyes—the sharp amber irises narrowed with intent. The weight behind her next words wasn't loud or threatening, but it cut through him all the same. "Watch that little tone of yours, Lucius."

And then it hit.

Her mana flared—not violently, not outwardly destructive—but with a controlled, deliberate presence that filled the space between them in a single breath. Lucius froze. He had sensed mana before, felt it in fragments or through observation, but this was the first time he truly felt someone else's. It wasn't just energy. It was pressure. It clung to his skin, slithered down his spine, pressed into his lungs like an invisible tide. It wasn't malicious, and yet, it made every inch of him feel small, as though he stood beneath an open sky ready to collapse.

Now that he had a core of his own, the difference was striking. It amplified his awareness, sharpened his perception. And in this moment, every instinct told him to kneel—to yield, to retreat, to let his knees buckle and simply endure.

But he didn't.

He gritted his teeth and reached inward, fumbling for the raw, unfamiliar centre of power now housed within him. The connection was clumsy, almost foreign, but it was there. The threads of mana stirred beneath his skin, reluctant but loyal. He directed the flow toward his limbs, forcing energy into his muscles, bracing himself. Slowly, shakily, the trembling in his knees eased. His breathing steadied. The overwhelming weight remained, but no longer threatened to crush him entirely.

Sia stood unmoving, observing him without a single word of encouragement. She wasn't helping, nor hindering. She was watching. Measuring how far he'd push himself when no hand reached down to lift him.

And then, just like that, the pressure receded. The air cleared. The weight dissolved into nothingness. Lucius inhaled sharply, his lungs catching up. He felt the absence like a vacuum, as if the world had been returned to him.

Sia folded her arms, her gaze cool but appraising. "Congratulations," she said at last. "You just learned the basics of mana reinforcement. For an eight-year-old, that's utterly pathetic. But for you…" Her tone flattened, and though her words were blunt, they weren't cruel. "It's an achievement."

Lucius said nothing. His face was taut, his jaw locked as he reached up to rub his still-throbbing ear, quietly nursing the sting of both her grip and her critique. "How did the meetings go?" he asked after a moment, his voice low but calm. "With the High Command and the Guild?"

Her eyes darkened, just slightly—a subtle shift that would've gone unnoticed if he weren't already watching her so intently. She exhaled through her nose, the sound almost imperceptible. "It was a mess," she admitted. "But I handled it. Merc helped."

Lucius blinked. That name—so familiar, so constant—hit harder than he expected. "Merc?" he echoed, more confused than surprised. "He did?"

"You have no idea how much risk he took for you," she added, her voice quieter now, but heavy. "For your future."

"Why would he—?"

Sia silenced the question with a wave of her hand, sharp and final. "That's a conversation for another day," and from the look in her eyes, Lucius knew she meant it.

Sia stepped back slightly, her gaze drifting from the boy's expression to the quiet corridor behind him. She let a pause linger before speaking again, this time with deliberate care.

"Now then… what should I do with you?"

She didn't say it lightly. The question had lingered in her thoughts since yesterday, when Lucius was found, yet alive in defiance of reason. There were options now. He could be given citizenship. A future. A name protected by empire and its law. He could be sent to one of the orphanages—prestigious places that trained children for real paths. Not just survival.

"They're not like the ones you've heard of in stories," she said gently, anticipating the worst from him. "These orphanages… They're elite. Structured. Dedicated to raising and training gifted children. Many of our knights, even our officers—they were once raised there. If you go, you'll meet new people. Be taught. Trained. Protected."

It was the safest, smartest decision.

But Lucius's face fell. Just… In stillness. A terrifying, bone-deep stillness that left his hands curled into the sides of his tunic as though they needed something to hold onto. His head dipped, and he didn't speak. Didn't blink. But the grief hit anyway. It hung around him like a storm cloud, too silent for a child who seemed to have already endured more than most adults ever would.

She tried to soften the future again, painting it with hope. "You'll have access to training. Education. When you turn seventeen, you can apply for advanced academies. You'll have options others only dream of."

Still, no reply. Only silence, and eyes that refused to lift from the floor.

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Then—at last—his voice broke the quiet. "Can I ask for a favour?"

He didn't look up. His tone was calm, not desperate. Just certain. "I want you to train me."

She blinked. Not because of the request itself, but because of the clarity behind it.

"I want to become an adventurer. Like you. Strong like you. And more than that…" His voice didn't waver. "I want to repay the debt I owe you."

"Please consider this, too. Maybe you're right. Maybe the orphanage is the smarter option. A better one. But…" He finally looked up, and when their eyes met, there was no plea in his gaze. No begging. Just honest resolve.

"I want to spend my time with you."

Sia felt something shift inside her the moment Lucius spoke. It wasn't his words alone—it was the certainty in them, the clarity of his eyes, the unshakable resolve in his voice. But this wasn't a decision she could make alone, not one with so many implications.

"Lucius…" Her voice lowered, softer now, more careful. "I'll have to ask my husband and the city officials first. My husband, he's currently away on a mission. Something like this… I cannot decide on my own."

It wasn't an excuse. It was the truth. Adoption, even temporary, came with weight. And though the idea had crossed her mind before—lingering quietly in the back of her thoughts—now it stood before her in flesh and blood, asking for a place, asking to belong.

Eighteen hours ago, when she'd first found him barely breathing, his body had no trace of mana. None. A complete void. And now, in less than a full day, he had somehow reignited an actual mana core, without any real, proper assistance—something previously unheard of, something bordering on impossible. He was an anomaly. Perhaps not a prodigy by traditional standards, nor blessed with a known class or affinity, but the sheer impossibility of his survival and adaptation said enough. Lucius was different.

But he was still just a child.

And right now, he was struggling to process that this might not go the way he wanted, like an actual child. His small shoulders had begun to tremble—barely, subtly, but enough to betray the cracks in his composure. His breathing was shallow, uneven. She could see him fighting the sting in his eyes, willing himself not to break, not to cry in front of her. It was probably just now sinking in—this truth he couldn't avoid. That sometimes, life didn't bend to will. Sometimes, you didn't get to choose...

***

"You live here? This is your home?"

Lucius's voice was filled with honest disbelief the moment they arrived at the house. His eyes scanned the simple structure, from the tiled roof to the garden-lined path, like he was trying to reconcile its appearance with everything he knew about her. He remained still at the edge of the walkway, arms crossed in wary confusion.

"Don't you, like… earn a lot?" he asked, his brows furrowed. "Why settle in such a modest house?"

His tone wasn't mocking. If anything, it was genuine curiosity, tinted with the confusion of someone who had expected grandeur and was instead met with something humble—something grounded.

And in a way, he wasn't wrong. With both her and her husband's earnings, they could have lived anywhere. A manor. An estate. A fortress, even. But they didn't.

Because this house—this quiet, grounded space on the outskirts of the city—had belonged to her husband long before it ever became hers. His attachment to it was deep, unspoken, and absolute. She had never pushed for more, never questioned the way he guarded this place like it held something irreplaceable.

With a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, she turned to Lucius and cocked a brow. "Why? You don't like it?"

Lucius hesitated. His mouth opened slightly, clearly weighing his options, until she cut in before he could make a mistake.

"It's either this," she said with feigned sweetness, "or that orphanage I mentioned earlier. Your call." That silenced him immediately.

Lucius straightened with a nervous cough, visibly backtracking. "No, no! I mean, it's… nice! Really nice. Cozy! Peaceful, even. And, uh… the garden looks very well-kept. Wow." Sia held back a chuckle. Smooth save. The kind of awkward recovery only a child could pull off.

Truthfully, the home was modest, but it had everything they needed. A small but thriving garden wrapped around the front and side, with herbs, flowers, and a few fruit-bearing plants she and her husband had tended to for years. A training ground sat just beyond the house, marked by worn earth and wooden targets, perfect for spars and drills. Inside, the layout was simple and spacious—spare bedrooms, a study, and a kitchen that always smelled faintly of herbs and steel. One of those bedrooms would now belong to Lucius—at least until her husband returned.

She stepped forward and pushed open the front door. "Come on in," she said. "You must be starving after today."

Lucius hesitated, just for a breath, then nodded and followed her inside. He kept his footsteps light, uncertain, as if afraid to leave any trace behind.

"Go freshen up," she called over her shoulder as she moved toward the kitchen. "I'll cook something in the meantime. After lunch, we'll rest for a few hours. Then…" She turned just enough to meet his eyes. "Your training begins."

There it was again—that flicker of fire in his gaze. The one that had first appeared in the infirmary when he asked to be trained. It returned now with full force, and though he tried to temper it, she could see the excitement sparking beneath his composure.

But before he could speak, she raised her hand.

"There are ground rules, Lucius," she said, firm but not unkind. "If you wish to stay here—with me and my family—you will follow them."

Lucius simply nodded. Silent. Respectful. No rebellion, no sarcasm, only one quiet request, "I want you to personally train me."

Sia held his gaze for a long moment, searching for a hint of hesitation—but there was none. Just clarity. Just a child standing in front of a future he didn't fully understand, asking to be led into it with dignity. She exhaled, the corner of her lip curling in the smallest trace of a smile. 'This boy… He truly had no idea what he was asking for.'

But if he was serious?

Then the path ahead of him would be anything but ordinary, and Sia's decision had already been made long before Lucius ever asked.

She would train him.

***

The full moon had risen to its apex, casting pale silver light over the rooftops of the quiet city. It hung above like a silent sentinel, gentle and still, bathing everything in soft luminescence. Lucius tilted his head upward, watching the sky with a gaze that flickered between wonder and reflection. The same moonlight had greeted him the night before—back when he first awoke in the that forest, overwhelmed and uncertain. Then, it had only served to sting his eyes, stirring tears he refused to shed. Tonight, it felt different. Familiar. Calming. Like something watching over him from far above, quietly reminding him that he had made it through.

He exhaled, his breath fogging lightly in the cool air. His eyes drifted to the tree standing at the edge of the courtyard. Its silhouette looked delicate under the moon, its branches unmoving. It reminded him of the forest. Of the same giants he had wandered under, desperate and empty. But this tree wasn't terrifying—it was small, protected, and rooted in safety. Just like him now.

He clenched his fists as the realisation crept in, that he had survived.

But the questions that had haunted him since that forest still clung to the edges of his mind. Why had he been left there in the first place? Why was there no trace of his parents? Were they the ones who abandoned him? Did they cast him away simply because he couldn't circulate mana? Because he was... broken? And then, there was the core. His mana core—its sudden emergence, its structure, its unnatural feel. Had it truly been awakened by Sia's fire alone, or had someone tampered with it before? The more he tried to understand, the more the questions multiplied.

He let his fists loosen again and drew in a calming breath, pushing the doubts aside.

No amount of brooding would change the past. What mattered now was the present—the here and now. He closed his eyes, focusing inward. His mana core pulsed quietly at his centre, emitting waves of energy that spread into his limbs in uneven bursts. It was still new to him, this foreign rhythm of energy flow. Some parts of his body drank in more mana than others. His legs, for instance, seemed to draw more power, while his arms felt faint. But he was learning. Slowly.

Sia's earlier instructions echoed in his mind—how she had linked mana circulation to breathing. An unconscious rhythm. She'd said that without mana constantly flowing through one's body, surviving was impossible. That the human body would fail in the same way it would without oxygen. He'd survived in the forest far longer than anyone should have. Without mana. Without 'breath'. And that still made no sense.

He remembered the hollowness, the void that followed him through every step in that wilderness. That crushing weight, like the world had turned its back on him. It hadn't gone away until Sia had placed her hand against his chest and ignited his core.

He could still feel the warmth of her flames—how they had burned through that emptiness and awakened something inside him.

But the deeper he tried to recall, the hazier it became. It was like chasing smoke. Like trying to remember a dream slipping through his fingers. Something had been sealed. Buried. Or broken. And he didn't know what when or which.

He shook his head sharply and stood, forcing his focus back to the present.

Behind him, the chair groaned softly with movement. He hadn't even noticed Sia. She approached quietly and handed him a small cup, the contents steaming gently in the moonlight.

Lucius took a cautious sip. The drink was sweet and warm, and the aroma that lingered in the air had a calming, almost nostalgic quality to it. He took another, slower sip, letting the warmth seep into his chest.

"Did you like it?" Sia asked, watching him with faint amusement.

Lucius nodded slowly, the corners of his lips curling. "It's hot… and sweet," he mumbled, then took a deeper sip and added with more enthusiasm, "Actually, let me correct myself—I love it."

He held the cup reverently, as if it contained something sacred.

"Can I have another cup of this godly bestowed beverage, Master?"

Sia chuckled softly, shaking her head. "It's called Chai. And no. One cup a day is your limit."

Her words stabbed him like a dagger. Lucius inhaled sharply through his nose, visibly wounded. But he said nothing. Instead, he made a dramatic show of savouring the remaining sips, clinging to every drop as though it were his last.

Once the cup was empty, he walked to the window, resting his arms along the metal bars, eyes wandering across the quiet street outside. The sky was slowly lightening—daybreak was approaching. The air smelled different now. Cleaner. Brighter.

Behind him, Sia remained seated in the same position, perfect posture, eyes scanning the room absently. Even in this domestic moment, her soldier's training remained evident. Her back didn't bend, her limbs didn't slacken. One arm rested lightly on the chair's side, her fingers tapping in rhythmic intervals. Lucius had seen it before—the signs of someone who'd been shaped by discipline, carved into precision.

"Thanks for the clothes," he said, looking down at the light shirt and soft pants she had given him. They were simple, pale in colour, but they fit well. Clean. Comfortable. They even smelled nice.

Sia gave a small nod in response, nothing more.

She wore a long-sleeved maroon outfit herself, something that still resembled the lines of her combat attire. Even now, she seemed ready for battle.

Lucius stepped outside then, drawn by the rising light. He jumped down from the small stoop and landed softly on the ground. The sun had started to stretch its fingers across the earth, golden and warm. He took a deep breath, letting it soak into his skin.

And then he saw them.

Far beyond the garden, their edges barely visible over the horizon, were mountains—immense, dark, jagged things that loomed like ancient guardians. Their peaks reached into the clouds, cutting through the sky like obsidian spears.

But something was wrong.

Even with sunlight spilling over the world, those mountains remained untouched. As if the light couldn't reach them. Their surfaces stayed cold and black, absorbing everything that came near.

Even the wind felt strange around them—slower, hushed.

"They're called the Kalarth Mountain Range," Sia said as she stepped beside him, her eyes locked on the distant peaks. "Or simply, the Black Mountains."

Lucius turned to her, waiting.

"They absorb all the sunlight that touches them. Before the Lunar Walls and the Seven Sister Cities were built, those mountains were our only defence… against monsters." She paused. "And demons." The word hit Lucius like a jolt. "Demons? You mean actual ones? With horns? And creepy smiles?"

Sia smirked faintly. "Yes. Real beings of evil and chaos. A thousand years ago, they invaded from this direction, when their continent clashed with ours."

Lucius stared, wide-eyed.

"This land was once a battleground," Sia continued. "A war that lasted for decades. Two massive forces—ours and theirs—clashed, for control and survival. We lost more than seventy per cent of our people before it eventually ended."

There was a pause. A silence that carried the weight of memory.

"And in the end?" Lucius asked, barely above a whisper.

"In the end, we survived. The former emperor led us to victory. He destroyed the demon forces... And paid the ultimate price… with his life."

Lucius swallowed, his voice cautious. "Who was he? What was his name?"

Something flickered across Sia's face. It wasn't grief. It wasn't anger. Just… stillness. Like a door had quietly shut behind her eyes, which didn't go unnoticed.

"Hm. So you just assumed the former emperor was a man?"

Lucius blinked, caught off guard. "Wait, that's what threw you off?! After all that?"

Her gaze was unreadable. "Interesting," she murmured.

Lucius frowned. The more he thought about it, the stranger it felt. He didn't know any of this history, yet he somehow vaguely recognised it. Not from memory… but from instinct. They rang familiar in a way he couldn't explain.

And with that familiarity came an unsettling thought.

It wasn't just that his memories were missing.

Maybe someone had taken them.

Maybe someone had messed with them.

That idea had buried itself deep inside him, and it wouldn't go away.

Sia seemed to sense the shift in his thoughts, but didn't press further.

"Yes," she said at last. "The emperor was a man. Probably."

Lucius raised an eyebrow. "Probably?"

She shrugged lightly, rubbing her injured arm. "He was human. Or so the records claim. But his strength, his tactics, his resilience—many believed he was something more. A being far beyond ordinary humans."

Her voice dropped slightly.

"During the final assault, he led the charge. It was the battle that won us the war. And the one that ended his life."

Lucius stood still, thoughts racing.

Before he could ask more, a knock echoed from the front door.

Sia turned toward it, her stance shifting into something alert.

"Someone's here."

She began walking away, but not before glancing over her shoulder.

"Start your warm-ups, Lucius. History class is over. Now… we train."

Lucius's hands curled into fists at his sides. His pulse quickened. This was it, the first step.

The beginning of something more... A future he would shape with his own hands.