A pulse. Subtle, but present. Not the hollow, sluggish rhythm of the husks that dragged their feet in endless loops. This one is sharper, erratic, carrying the trace of thought.

  “A human”

  He slowed, tilting his head slightly, as though listening to a brushstroke on canvas.

  The possibility didn’t change his pace. If it was a captive, they could be pressed for knowledge.

  If it was one of the puppeteer’s lackey, all the better. Truth is easier to carve from the mouth of the living than from a corpse.

  Lucien moved like a line of ink drawn swift across paper here, then there, his steps almost soundless even at inhuman speed.

  When he stopped, it was sudden, exact.

  A presence lingered ahead.

  Eyes still closed, He walked forward, slower now, deliberate, like one approaching a painting worth examination.

  From the mist, a blade materialized, aimed low for Lucien’s ribs. The attacker was a specter in black, his features swallowed by wrappings.

  Lucien stepped back, the steel missing his side by a breath. Momentum carried the assailant forward. As the man twisted to slash again, Lucien’s boot came down on his shin.

  The man dropped, his balance annihilated. Before a cry could form, Lucien’s other foot drove into his diaphragm. The figure folded, a choked gasp his only sound as his sword flew from a nerveless hand.

  Lucien caught the hilt midair, his gaze never settling on the weapon. “Saves me the trouble of finding one,” he remarked.

  He straightened, testing the blade’s weight with a slight turn of his wrist. His eyes, cold and assessing, scanned the shifting gray around him. The man he had maimed was dragging himself through the mud, a pathetic, desperate crawl.

  Lucien watched the futile effort for a moment before speaking to the unseen. “Must I finish this one to draw out the rest of you?”

  Two new adversaries emerged from the gloom, both dressed in black, white masks over their faces. They moved as one, each step measured, coordinated.

  Both lunged at once, blades cutting for his neck and chest in a cross. Lucien arched backward, the steel whistling through the space his body had occupied a moment before.

  His own sword answered in two blinding flashes. A single step forward, two precise cuts. The men crumpled, their torsos cleaved open diagonally from shoulder to hip. They collapsed into separate, pieces before their minds could even register the fatal wounds, their innards spilling steam into the damp air.

  A voice, laced with mocking approval, cut through the mist. "To compromise our surveillance so efficiently... you are as capable as anticipated. A prime sacrifice for the ritual."

  The speaker wore a red mask fashioned into the grotesque, protruding mandibles of an insect. From her fingers curved long, metallic talons, each honed to a vicious point. Miniature lightning arcs skittered across their surfaces. Her posture was taut, a spring-loaded with lethal potential.

  She was not alone. A second figure stood immobile, his face a placid blue mask. His broad frame trembled incessantly, a vessel in revolt. With a wet, grinding sound, the flesh of his arms dissolved into a slurry of dark mud, which then solidified mid-motion into jagged, stony blades.

  They came together, no hesitation.

  The woman dissolved into speed. Her talons lashed out in a frenzy, each swipe leaving contrails of crackling electricity that illuminated the fog with strobing light.

  Lucien flowed through the storm without faltering. His blade met every strike with a resonant clang of steel on metal, parrying with an efficiency that bordered on the preternatural. Sparks fountained with each impact, but her assault grew increasingly frantic against his impenetrable defense.

  Driven back, her boots skidded in the mud. She let out a sharp, shrill laugh. "Impressive! Truly impressive! Tell me, hey sweet face, what is your name?"

  Lucien offered no reply. His sword simply rose, describing a clean, fatal arc toward her neck.

  Then, a flicker of peripheral awareness warned him. At the last possible instant, he altered the strike. The razor edge became the weighted hilt, which he drove with brutal force into her shoulder. The crack of bone was audible.

  Before she could scream, he spun the blade in a tight, controlled circle, the steel whistling as it sliced through a volley of stone spikes hurled from the side as if they were made of paper.

  The blue-masked man stepped forward. He retained a human silhouette, but his form was a nightmare of instability. Mud rippled and oozed beneath a thin membrane of skin, reshaping itself with every gurgling breath. "You matched her speed. And you disintegrated my projectiles. Who are you? An agent of the Empire?"

  Lucien’s voice was low, measured, and absolute, his eyes locked on them with unnerving stillness. "If you are willing… to answer my questions… and submit to my will… I may permit you to leave this place alive."

  The woman clutched her shattered shoulder, laughing through the pain. "Did you hear this fool's babbling? You noble brat… we dictate the terms here!"

  The blue-mask gurgled in agreement. "It matters not. He will die regardless. Let him cling to his delusions as a final comfort."

  The ground at Lucien’s feet erupted. Spears of compacted mud and rock shot upward, intent on impaling him. He became a whirlwind of steel, his blade a blur that dismantled each earthen shaft before it could reach his knees.

  The woman lunged again, claws flashing. Her partner flanked Lucien, his entire arm swelling and morphing into a massive, boulder-sized hammer of stone that slammed down with enough force to tear a crater in the earth.

  Lucien had already vacated the space, his foot touching mud, only to pivot instantly. His sword snapped upward, shearing through one of her metal talons with a shriek of tortured metal.

  She recoiled with a furious hiss, but the blue-mask gave her no quarter to retreat. His other arm liquefied, stretching into a whip of acidic sludge that lashed at Lucien’s legs. Lucien leaped, twisting his body midair to bisect the appendage.

  The woman was there, anticipating his trajectory. She met him at the apex of his jump, claws extended for a killing blow, lightning erupting at point-blank range. Lucien’s free hand shot out, catching her wrist with a grip like a steel vise.

  With a single, merciless motion, he brought his sword across her face. The blade did not simply cut, it obliterated. The red mask and the skull behind it shattered into a spray of porcelain, bone, and cerebral matter. Her body spun violently, before crashing into the mud with a sickening, wet thud.

  A deep, grinding roar emanated from the blue mask. His chest cavity split open, and from it erupted a cannon-like blast of hyper-compacted stone. Lucien dropped flat against the earth. The beam ripped through the fog behind him, tearing a temporary tunnel of clear air through the mist.

  Using his sword as an anchor in the churned ground, Lucien pushed off in an explosive burst, closing the distance in a heartbeat.

  The creature’s arms reshaped into twin scimitars of jagged rock, sweeping down in a crushing blow. Lucien’s sword met the first, shattering it to gravel.

  The second grazed past his shoulder as he slid beneath it, his own blade simultaneously carving a deep furrow across the man’s thigh. The wound gaped open, revealing not muscle and bone, but a bubbling, brown fluid, before sealing shut instantly.

  A bubbling laugh erupted from the mask. "You cannot kill me with cuts! I will only reconstitute myself stronger!"

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  The blue mask threw his head back and roared. His body began to swell grotesquely, losing all semblance of humanity.

  Mud and stone consumed him, rising into a monstrous, shuddering giant of clay and rock that loomed over the battlefield, its thunderous voice echoing from within the shifting mass. "YOU... WILL... BE... CRUSHED!"

  [Inside the watchtower]

  Wolf, a beastman in a silver mask, broke the silence. “What's happening now?”

  Shaman’s voice drifted from the orb, calm yet warning. “Another seven surveillance nodes have been destroyed. At this rate, we’ll lose them all within half an hour. That’s… not good, if you want this to succeed.”

  Flower, a girl with a cape and a mask over her eyes, leaned forward. “We do want it to succeed. Especially for our lord. That’s why we hired the best dark arts practitioner in the empire.”

  Shaman’s tone turned sharp. “Buttering me won’t help. I am not the best dark arts practitioner— that title belongs to my master, Shalkas. Still, the system is failing. That isn’t an issue for me. But for you… trapped in that mist, it is. Without those nodes, the undead won’t function properly.”

  White, in white attire and a black mask, frowned. “Hm… that’s bad. We need to find who’s behind this. Could it be one of those heroes who fled from the Beast King?”

  Tyrant, the golden-armored woman, radiated quiet menace. “Who knows… but how are they navigating the mist so easily, and so fast? Especially after such a devastating defeat?”

  Shaman’s voice grew impatient. “Well, whatever. Hurry up and fix it. I won’t be able to help—or warn—you again. The most important part of the ritual is about to begin. Make sure nothing disturbs it, and that all special sacrifices are in place at the given time.”

  Tyrant smiled, a glint of cold assurance in her eyes. “Don’t worry. It will happen, just as you desire.”

  Flower chimed in, her voice sly. “Six very capable ones have already gone out to deal with the problem on our own. Even that big guy, the Beast King, is cooperating without any retaliation or disobedience.”

  Zero, gray-haired and gray-skinned, spoke with measured authority. “To make things easier, Tyrant and I will defend the area near the ritual. Nothing will disturb it. White, you join the search—capture anyone wandering through the mist.”

  White nodded. “Yes.”

  With that, Zero, White, and Tyrant departed. Some time passed in tense silence.

  Wolf glanced at Flower. “So… what should we do?”

  Flower smirked. “How about a game? If I win, I get to keep your eyes.”

  Wolf narrowed his eyes. “And if I win?”

  Flower grinned. “You can have my hair.”

  Wolf tilted his head. “And what would I do with your hair?”

  Flower’s eyes glimmered mischievously behind her mask. “Use it to curse others.”

  Suddenly, the air surged with mana, sharp and familiar.

  Wolf tensed. “Hey… is that Dex? Why is he going all out? Has he already found the intruder?”

  Flower’s voice dropped, serious now. “Well… he’s in trouble. Once he unleashes his true self, nothing can stop him. Even among us, only Zero and the Beast King have bested him in that form. The longer he stays in it, the angrier he gets, the more he is attacked the stronger he becomes. Every strike… it grows deadlier. Frightening ability.”

  Wolf grinned, a mixture of excitement and relief. “Good. Finally, that Shaman will shut his mouth. Still… to think we didn’t get to do anything. How sad…”

  Before Wolf could finish his words. The stone floor of the watchtower shuddered. A section of the wall exploded inward, not with fire, but with a concussive force that sent shards of rock and splintered wood flying.

  Through the settling dust and debris, a Lucien stepped forward with an unnatural calm.

  In his right hand, he held the massive, mud-swollen form of the creature that had been Dex. The monstrous giant was limp, much smaller now, its stony flesh cracked and oozing dark fluid.

  With a motion devoid of effort, Lucien flung the body across the chamber. It struck the far wall with a wet, crushing impact and did not move again.

  For a heartbeat, the room was frozen in the aftermath. Wolf’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, his body coiling into a fighter’s stance. His eyes narrowed, calculating the distance, the opponent, the odds. He knew, with cold certainty, that the first move would be the last. He held his position.

  Lucien voice cut through the tension, low and devoid of inflection. It was not a threat, but a statement of terms.

  “You have a simple choice,” he began, his eyes locking onto them.

  “Answer my questions without deception. Obey my instructions without hesitation. If you do this, you will leave this place alive.”

  He paused, allowing the absolute finality of the offer to settle.

  “Decide quickly.”

  Flower hadn’t moved, but her power had. The instant she regained her senses, she unleashed her deadliest spells—hypnotic snares and venomous curses. The air around Lucien shimmered, a subtle pressure pressing in on his mind.

  Her eyes glowed faintly behind her mask, a hypnotic pattern swirling within them. "Now, now," she purred, her voice a silken trap. "There's no need for all this hosti—"

  Lucien was suddenly in front of her. The hypnotic patterns shattered against a will as immovable as the Stellar Mountains.

  Wolf moved in a blur of fang and fury, a silent, full-power lunge meant to tear out Lucien's throat. It was a killing blow from a master predator.

  It ended in a spray of red.

  Lucien's left hand snapped up, catching Wolf's jaw in an unbreakable grip an inch from his neck. The force of the charge halted utterly. For a split second, Wolf's wide, shocked eyes met Lucien's impassive gaze.

  Then, Lucien's right fist struck Wolf's face.

  The impact was not merely bone-breaking. It was annihilating. Wolf's head vanished in a mist of crimson and bone fragments, his headless body slumping to the floor with a heavy thud.

  Lucien looked at flower, his hostility a physical weight that crushed her spirit. It wasn't rage; it was a cold, absolute promise of annihilation. There was no game here. No wager. Only extinction.

  The air exploded from her lungs. She folded, hitting the ground on her knees, choking, her mask askew to reveal wide, terrified eyes. The playful trickster was gone, replaced by a creature facing an apex predator.

  "Fine!" she wheezed, the word a desperate surrender. "Fine! I'll... I'll answer! Just... stop."

  Lucien: "Where is the ritual happening?"

  Flower, her voice trembling: "I don't know. Only the top ranks know. Wolf might have known, but you... killed him."

  Lucien: "What is the ritual's purpose? Its conditions? Is there a way to stop the mist?"

  Flower: "It's a manifestation ritual. Souls, bodies, blood, and servitude are used as fuel. It requires special sacrifices at the end. I overheard our lord seeks immortality, power beyond anyone. The shaman said he will absorb all life within the mist to be reborn as he wishes. That's all I know about the mist. Believe me."

  Lucien: "Define 'special individuals.'"

  Flower: "People with unique capabilities, mana, conditions, or high potential who are still unaware or underdeveloped. Like unripe fruit."

  Lucien: "Where are your superiors?"

  Flower: "Outside, in the mist. Some are searching for you and the other intruders. Some guard the ritual site. Rest are at the site itself."

  Lucien: "How many?"

  Flower: "Nine. You've killed two. That leaves seven."

  Lucien: "Was the woman with the metal nails one of them?"

  Flower nodded.

  Lucien: "Six remain, including you. Who are the other intruders?"

  Flower: "Survivors from the hero's party. Their arrival was part of our plan. We gain sacrifices, their side gets rid of them."

  Lucien: "Tell me about everyone you know."

  For ten intense minutes, a rapid-fire interrogation ensued. Finally, Lucien cut her off. "You are done. Run away. Quickly."

  He watched her scramble to her feet and flee.

  Flower stumbled through the crumbling corridors, the echo of her frantic footsteps the only sound. The humiliation was a physical burn in her chest, hotter than any spell.

  That cold, dismissive command,“Run away. Quickly.” played over and over in her mind. He had looked at her not as a threat, but as an insect to be spared out of sheer indifference.

  She reached a hidden hatch in the stone floor, yanking it open and descending a rusted ladder into a cold, subterranean chamber. The air hummed with contained malice.

  In the center of the room stood a black obelisk, its surface etched with pulsating red runes. This was the secondary control node, a fail-safe Shaman had shown her in case of a catastrophic breach.

  A fail-safe she was about to trigger.

  Her hands, still trembling, flew over the runes. She wasn't deactivating the spell that governed the undead, she was shredding it.

  With a final, vicious swipe of her hand, she shattered the central containment glyph. The obelisk flared a violent crimson, and a wave of necrotic energy pulsed outward, through the stone, into the mist.

  Outside, the change was immediate. The slow, shambling gait of the undead corpses snapped into a jerky, frantic twitching. The low groans sharpened into shrieks of pure, mindless hunger.

  The restrictions that kept them patrolling in set patterns evaporated. Now, they would attack any living thing with frenzied, indiscriminate rage.

  Flower leaned against the obelisk, her breath coming in ragged gasps. A twisted smile finally broke through her humiliation.

  "Have your fun, you bastard," she whispered to the empty air, her voice thick with venom. "Let's see how you handle this."

  Once alone, Lucien touched two fingers to his forehead, activating the telepathic communication rune Alaric had embedded there.

  "Ultimare. Can you hear me?"

  A moment of silence, then a reply, laced with surprise. "Oh! You startled me with this unexpected call. So, what's the news?"

  Lucien's thought was a clear, cold data stream. "I am transmitting all acquired intelligence. Share it with the others."

  Ultimare's psychic presence shifted, the surprise giving way to a sharp, focused interest. "Got it, Captain. Anything else?"

  Lucien's response was a blade of pure intent. "Yes. You expressed your desire for some action right. How about, I gave you a perfect opportunity."