“I forgot my sword again,” Lucien muttered as he sat on a massive stone nestled among the dense forestry, roughly thirty kilometers ahead of the first target. Instead of waiting at the mountain base, he had simply wandered here alone, unhurried.

  The air was quiet, the wind soft. He ran a finger through the dirt beside him, drawing slow, spiraling lines in the earth. A crude map took shape not for navigation, but to sort his thoughts.

  He examined it in silence.

  His eyes drifted toward the faint smoke curling above the trees in the distance, just a hint of life from the camp ahead.

  He drew a rough symbol to mark the captives.

  Footsteps broke the stillness behind him. A voice followed.

  Max: “Brother, you could’ve said something before you wandered off. We nearly lost our minds when we didn’t find you at the base. We ran all the way here, and finding you wasn’t exactly easy. It was really troublesome”

  Arika stood behind Max, catching her breath in silence, her expression unreadable. She had clearly been the one doing most of the navigating.

  Arika: “Things were troublesome because of you. You didn’t listen to anything I said. You ran like a drunk monkey in every direction. We went off-track four times.”

  Lucien: “Do either of you have a weapon? A sword, preferably.”

  Max: “Nope. You know I don’t carry those. I’m more of a fists and power guy.”

  Then he laughed.

  Max: “Oh, wait. Don’t tell me. You forgot yours again? Seriously? Even for this mission? Some habits really do die hard.”

  Arika blinked. Her brows pulled together slightly.

  She hesitated, then offered what she had.

  Arika: “I have daggers. If you’d like, I can offer one.”

  Lucien shook his head.

  Lucien: “No need. I’ll manage. For now, both of you, listen carefully. I’ll assign your roles shortly, but first, Arika, I need to ask you something.”

  She straightened instinctively, spine rigid, posture perfect.

  Arika: “Yes, my lord.”

  Lucien turned to face her, finally. His voice remained even, yet there was a stillness beneath it. Like the eye of a storm.

  Lucien: “You know we’ll be killing many people today.”

  Arika: “Yes.”

  Lucien: “Our methods often aren’t kind. We don’t believe in torture or cruelty for sport. But we don’t shy away from them when they serve purpose. This camp, and the other four locations, are about to fall for our violence. Regardless of rank, relationship, affiliation, what they have done, what they have not, every single person there will die. Some deaths may be violent, others disgraceful. We won’t force you to take part in what you cannot handle. So tell me honestly. Do you have any issue with that?”

  Her spirit wavered. Just for a second. But she caught herself. Straightened. Her eyes met his, sharp, unwavering, focused.

  Arika: “No issue. I’ll do whatever it takes to protect my people.”

  Her voice was steady, even strong. But Lucien felt it. The weight behind her logic, the emotion buried beneath. He knew she would falter when confronted with the real thing. Still, that was not his concern.

  Lucien: “I’ll start the assault. Every armed combatant within the perimeter dies. If needed, I’ll kill some of the captives as well. But your tribe and their survivors will be untouched. That much, I can guarantee.”

  Max: “And me?”

  Lucien: “Kill anyone who tries to flee. Use your dehydration technique. Make sure no captives are caught in the crossfire. Arika will guide you.”

  Max: “Alright. No complaints here.”

  Lucien turned back to Arika.

  Lucien: “Your job is to retrieve the mountain tribesmen. Only them. Leave everyone else.”

  Arika, hesitant: “Can’t we do something for the others as well?”

  Max: “Oh, come on. We’re freeing them. What more do they want?”

  Arika’s eyes dropped. Her voice cooled.

  Arika: “You’re right.”

  Lucien looked at Max.

  Lucien: “Do you have any extra cloth?”

  Max: “Cloth? What for?”

  Lucien: “Something to cover my eyes.”

  Max: “Why? Are you planning to blindfold yourself? Why would you? Is this some kind of new play?”

  Arika, silent, reached for her side. She pulled free a strip of crimson fabric from her robes. For a moment, she hesitated. Would he even wear something given by her?

  He took it without a word. Wrapped it around his eyes. Tied it behind his head.

  Then he stepped forward and disappeared into the treeline.

  Alone now, Lucien slowed his breathing.

  Activating the ability was like flexing a limb. There was no chant. No ritual. It happened the moment he allowed it to.

  But when it awakened, everything changed.

  His mind went silent. Dark. Thought didn’t vanish. It stalled. His sight blurred. His eyes still saw, but they no longer looked upon this world. They glimpsed something older. Higher.

  The delay between brain and body became noticeable. Like water between neurons.

  He stood in darkness. A sensory void. And then, his perception bloomed.

  He felt it all. Every heartbeat in a Forty-meter radius Without any effort at the cost of his movement. Every insect skittering beneath the soil. Every shift of air.

  It wasn’t sight. It wasn’t hearing. It was presence.

  He breathed, focused for more control

  To feel the flow of power, the current of tension in all things.

  A rhythm without a heartbeat. A sea without color.

  Lucien’s knees buckled slightly.

  He fell forward and vanished, reappearing midair in a silent, impossible flash.

  Lucien closed the distance between himself and the target location without the slightest hitch. He was nearly at the edge of the camp. His eyes were still blindfolded, but he moved as if he could see everything—which he could.

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  The moment his foot crossed the boundary of the premises, the air changed.

  This was the camp, built near a series of silver and mineral mines, it hosted hundreds of slaves. Forced laborers of all ages. Men. Women. Children.

  All crammed inside wooden barracks. The camp was one of the major mining points in the region and was fortified like it. Wooden walls wrapped, In the outer layers Iron fences ran. Guards on every side. Swords. Bows. Crossbows.

  Mages scattered across the rooftops and watchtowers. Even outside the gates, a dozen soldiers stood positioned to intercept potential intruders.

  Lucien walked directly toward them.

  He made no effort to hide and showed no sign of hesitation. He looked like a man on a stroll. Those who saw him felt nothing more than confusion, who wouldn't at this sight of One blindfolded noble, wearing clean and obviously regal clothing and no weapons.

  This confusion alone made several of the guards hesitate.

  They stared at him. Confused. Alert, but unsure.

  Guard 1: “You see what I’m seeing?”

  Guard 2: “Yeah. Rich. Blindfolded. No sword. What’s he doing here?”

  Guard 1: “Maybe a some higher official. We don’t move unless we know for sure.”

  Lucien kept walking.

  He was twenty meters from the gate now.

  A few of the archers above raised their bows. They didn’t draw. Not yet.

  A soldier stepped forward, hand on his sword.

  Gate Guard: “State your purpose. Who are you?”

  Lucien said nothing. Guard kept going on like a dog barking at the sight of an intruder.

  But Lucien just kept moving.

  The Gate Guard finally lost his cool: “Stop now, or you’ll be recognized as a threat.”

  No reaction.

  Guard 2, louder: “Is he deaf?”

  The shouting continued. Warnings. Threats. Even a half-hearted plea for identification.

  Still nothing.

  Finally, one of the men stepped forward to grab him.

  It was a simple detainment. A basic hold and pin.

  Lucien moved.

  The next second, the guard was airborne. His body flipped sideways near the fences, spine twisted unnaturally, and hit the ground with a dull, snapping thud.

  The rest reacted on instinct. Four more rushed him with swords.

  Lucien shifted left, caught the wrist of the nearest attacker, and twisted hard—ripping the blade free. Then he buried it in the man's gut with a wet crunch.

  His grip shifted mid-motion as he drove the blade through the second guard’s jaw, the point punching out behind his skull. One yank, and the corpse dropped.

  Lucien spun, the blade flashing out—severing the arm at the elbow before it could reach him. Blood sprayed. The fourth barely had time to raise his weapon before Lucien stepped in close and cleaved straight through his chest plate like it was cloth.

  All within four seconds.

  The archers took position.

  A storm of arrows came down from the towers.

  Lucien turned. His senses heightened.

  His sword moved. Once. Then again. And again.

  Steel flashed through the air. Arrows didn’t shatter mid-flight because of some magic. They shattered because he cut them. Each one. Splintered midair, snapped apart, deflected wide. Fast, clean, efficient.

  Not a single arrow reached him.

  Lucien looked up even though his eye was blindfolded, but still the sensation of his predatory glance paralyzed them for a moment.

  Then he jumped. He landed hard on the nearest tower.

  First archer turned—too late. A diagonal cut split him from shoulder to hip. He collapsed in two pieces.

  Lucien stepped forward. Another archer raised his bow—didn’t get the chance to release. A single thrust through the eye ended him.

  Third tried to run. Lucien was already behind him. A horizontal slice at the waist. Legs dropped first.

  Another. Too scared to fight. One clean stroke across the throat.

  He didn’t slow down.

  Bodies fell around him like paper cutouts.

  Then he leapt down from the tower into the heart of the enemy camp.

  Sword still dripping.

  He walked.

  he thought.

  A few guards watched from a distance, stunned. Some ran to alert their captains. Others simply froze, caught in the gap between confusion and fear.

  Lucien already sensed them but paid them no attention.

  Lucien waited.

  He wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t breathing hard. He was just walking, cutting down soldiers as if clearing weeds from a path. Some saw him. Some didn’t even get the chance. They looked once—and were already on the ground.

  Steel, flesh, movement. Nothing wasted.

  With each kill, he scanned the area, there are many life forces present near him but too few in the barracks.

  Meaning, all the captives weren’t here.

  Which meant they were in the mines.

  And if the slaves were there, then a decent chunk of the camp’s forces and mid-tier officers were probably down there too.

  Lucien paused for a moment.

  Then kept moving.

  And so he did.

  The little mercy he had allowed up to this point disappeared. He stopped making clean kills. Now, every step left a stain. Every movement carried weight.

  Spot. Cut. Spot. Cut. Another one down. Blade through bone. Another. Then another.

  Nothing stood for longer than a breath.

  He turned, drove his sword through the gut of a guard mid-charge—and that’s when it hit.

  A fireball. Then another. And another.

  Lucien stepped back, blade raised, as the spells came raining down.

  The mages had finally arrived. They stood perched on top of towers and barracks, robes flicking, hands glowing, focused and relentless.

  .

  He could’ve dodged. He could’ve shrugged them off like the rest. Instead, he chooses something new, his body stopped moving. Just for a second.

  And then he starts moving again.

  One clean swing.

  His blade didn’t block the spell. It sliced through it. The fireball crumbled into nothing midair, pulled apart from the inside out.

  He didn’t even blink.

  More spells followed. Soldiers rushed in to close the distance. Lucien moved again.

  He raised his sword again. Slashed through another spell.

  Gone.

  Then another.

  Gone.

  Then he moved.

  The sword came down on a soldier’s neck. One clean cut. Then he took another blade from the ground and moved faster.

  He jumped from rooftop to rooftop, cutting mages before they could finish their chants. He ducked under ice spears, spun through wind pressure, stepped between lightning bursts like they were sparks from a fire.

  Every mage he reached died before they could say a word.

  They weren’t weak. Not at all. Their casting was clean, their positioning smart, their timing sharp. But it didn’t matter.

  Lucien was faster. Cleaner. Colder.

  He struck through robes and ribs. Kicked one off the roof, drove his blade into another’s spine, then hurled a severed head at a third before vanishing behind him and cutting through his chest.

  Slash.

  Crash.

  Another down.

  Then another.

  The last mage tried to run.

  Lucien didn’t chase. The man turned a corner—and found Lucien already there.

  One stab.

  Done.

  Not one of them got to scream. Not one finished a single spell after that first volley.

  The camp went quiet.

  He looked up. Blindfold still on, both swords dripping with blood, his clothes no longer clean.

  Just as the thought crossed his mind, he sensed multiple presences approaching.

  A man stepped out in front of Lucien, flanked by soldiers and mages, all fully equipped. Clean military uniforms. Disciplined footwork. A line of cannons behind them, freshly loaded and facing forward.

  "What do you want?" the man called out. His voice was loud, steady. "We’re willing to negotiate."

  The man took a step forward. Still calm. Still in control.

  "Gold? Minerals? Weapons? Speak. We can settle this. No one else has to die."

  He leaned toward one of his men.

  "Does he not speak our language?"

  "I don’t know, Chief Grant," the soldier muttered.

  Grant raised his voice again.

  "Hey, blindfold. You keep pushing this, you’re not walking out alive. There are more troops in these mines than you can count. More mages. More weapons. Even if you survive this, the people who come after you won't stop. You’ll be hunted. Just tell us what you want. Why did you attack?"

  Lucien finally spoke. His voice was steady. Clear. For a second, it made even the veterans forget the blood on his clothes.

  "Where have you kept the tribal you bought from the mercenary groups? The ones brought in a few days ago."

  Grant paused. Then laughed.

  "Oh. This is about ? You came here for mountain rats?"

  He looked Lucien up and down.

  "You don’t look like one of them. But it doesn't matter. No, we can't give them back. We paid a heavy price. They work well. Man, woman, child—they all bleed the same silver."

  He smiled.

  "Still, if you’ve got family in there, maybe we can return one or two. Sound fair?"

  Lucien:"That won’t work. I’m here to retrieve all of them. I was hired. Can’t walk away from the job."

  Grant’s grin widened.

  "So they hired you? With what? Goat bones and river stones? Come on. You look smart. We’ll pay you properly. Real diamonds. Gold. More than whatever those savages offered."

  Lucien, Both blades in his hand.

  He launched.

  And Soldiers started to fell in a matter of seconds.

  Slashed through. One. Two. Four. Eight. The front line collapsed. Mages stepped forward to cast, but Lucien was already there. Blade through spine. Slice through ribs. Heads came off. Chests opened.

  Formation? Gone.

  Grant cursed and backed off, signaling the cannon crews.

  "Fire!"

  The cannons fired.

  Too late.

  Lucien cut through the incoming shots. One swing, two shells gone. A sidestep. Another cut. Barrel sliced in half. He moved across the field like a blade through water. Nothing could resist him.

  He was bored now. Nothing left in this camp worth his time.

  He cut a man clean through the chest, spun, stabbed another through the mouth, twisted, drove his sword into a kneeling archer, grabbed a second blade off the ground, and kept going.

  Seven seconds.

  That’s how long it took.

  The cannons were in pieces. The towers collapsed. Pretty much every soldier within the camp was dead. Not injured. Dead.

  Grant ran.

  Lucien let him.

  Not out of mercy. He wanted to see what else the man had left to offer.

  As Grant disappeared into the camp, Lucien moved again. Faster now.

  He arrived at the mining sector in a blink.

  Sentries? Gone before they could shout. Reinforcements? Never had a chance. Inside the tunnels, guards tried to regroup. Lucien was already past them. Every step was a body falling. Every turn was another corpse. The metal supports cracked as spells failed to land. Weapons shattered. Orders turned to screams.

  The slaves in the mine froze in place. Some screamed. Others dropped their tools.

  Lucien didn’t care. They weren’t his concern.

  He kept moving, cutting down anything that looked like it might raise a weapon.

  Infrastructure collapsed behind him.

  Grant reached a locked iron door. His face was red. Sweat soaked through his shirt. But his hands were steady.

  He unlocked it with a heavy key.

  Inside was a dark chamber. One prisoner sat cross-legged in the center of the cell.

  He looked up as the door creaked open.

  "What is it, old man? Thought I was in here for a month."

  "Shut up and listen," Grant snapped. "You want freedom, right?"

  "Pretty much. Why?"

  "There’s a man. One man. He’s wiping out the entire camp. Alone. If you help me stop him, I’ll give you what you want. Freedom. Gold. Whatever it takes. Just kill him."

  The prisoner chuckled.

  "You're begging now? That’s new."

  He stood up. Cracked his neck.

  "Fine. I’ll play your game