Lance Varay's POV:
Now I understood why the voice had felt so familiar.
Lucas Wykes.
One of the captured nobles from the Xyrus attack.
But something was wrong. His presence—his aura—was different. Even his mana signature had changed. That was why I hadn't recognized him immediately. Before, he had been just another arrogant, power-hungry noble, barely worth remembering.
Now, he stood before me, his pale blonde hair tied into a neat bun, emerald eyes sharp and unreadable. The arrogance was still there, but it was no longer baseless. It carried weight—an underlying power that made it more than just a noble's bravado.
I narrowed my eyes.
"Are you the leader? Codename Lucien?" I asked.
Justice in Dicathen had died long ago, replaced by chaos. Terrorists roamed free, and war had tainted every corner of our lands. I sighed inwardly.
Lucas—no, Lucien—nodded and gave me a salute. At least he had learned some manners.
I returned the nod. "Meet your team. We will discuss things afterward."
He acknowledged my command without resistance, turning to leave. But then he paused.
"Lance Varay," he said, his voice steady, unreadable. "I believe this is a gift. Not just for the Council. For all of Dicathen."
He handed me a bundle wrapped in white cloth.
I took it without a word, my fingers moving automatically to unwrap it.
And then I saw it.
I froze.
My gaze flickered from the object in my hands back to him. Then back down. Then back up again.
"Is this a joke?" My voice was sharp, colder than the frost that gathered at my fingertips.
But he only smiled.
That same smile.
The same one he had given Arthur Leywin before the Asuras took him away.
"The royal children can confirm the identity," he said simply, stepping back.
I wanted to demand answers, but before I could, he gave me another salute and excused himself, walking away without another word.
I stared at the gruesome gift in my hands and then stored it inside my dimension ring.
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The tent was quieter than before—but not peaceful.
The air still reeked of blood and burnt flesh, layered with the sharp bitterness of healing salves. Eight cots were lined in two uneven rows. Six were occupied.
Two were empty.
Lucas stepped inside.
Conversation died instantly.
Not because he demanded it—but because his presence pressed on the space, subtle and heavy, like the air before a storm. Pale blonde hair tied back, white shirt stained faintly red at the cuffs, emerald eyes sharp and awake. Very awake.
The first to speak was a massive man sitting upright on a reinforced cot, torso wrapped in thick bandages. His body looked like it had been carved from stone and stitched back together by a drunk god.
"Oi," the man rumbled, voice thick with a heavy accent. "Captain finally decides to show his pretty face."
Lucas glanced at him. "You're alive, Mikhail Volkov. That alone is impressive."
Mikhail barked out a laugh that turned into a cough. "Took a spear through the gut, an axe in the shoulder, and still outlived the bastards. I win."
"Barely," muttered a lean man from the opposite cot, one arm missing from the elbow down, replaced by a crude mana-formed prosthetic. His dark hair was matted with sweat, his grin sharp. "Don't listen to him, Captain. Ronev carried half his weight."
Mikhail scoffed. "Liar. You fainted."
"I took a break," Kael corrected. "Strategically."
A woman sitting cross-legged on her cot snorted. Her armor was cracked, her ribs clearly broken despite the healer's work. Bright eyes, wild smile. "You idiots almost ruined the fun. Captain, next time tell them not to die so loudly. It was distracting."
Lucas's gaze softened—just a fraction.
"Good to see you too, Nyssa Vale."
Another voice chimed in, calmer, steadier. A man with ash-brown hair and runic burns climbing his neck looked up from adjusting his leg brace. "Two didn't make it."
The tent fell still.
Lucas nodded once. "How."
Ronev swallowed. "Joren Hale. Took a spell meant for me. And Silas Morn… stayed behind to collapse the tunnel."
No dramatic reaction. No shout.
Lucas walked past the cots and stopped at the two empty spaces. The blood had been cleaned, but the absence screamed louder than gore ever could.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Mikhail broke the silence, voice low. "They didn't scream."
Nyssa added, quieter than before, "Silas laughed. Said we owed him drinks."
Kael smirked, eyes wet. "Joren said you'd be pissed if we died without finishing the job."
Lucas closed his eyes.
Just for a breath.
"They did well," he said finally. "They did exactly what they were trained to do."
He turned back to them, emerald eyes burning—not with rage, but with resolve.
"And because of that, the gate is gone. The coast is quieter. And Alacrya lost something it won't replace easily."
Hope flickered.
Not loud. Not bright.
But real.
Mikhail grinned through bloodied teeth. "So… drinks still on Silas?"
Lucas allowed himself a thin smile. "I'll pay."
That earned a few weak laughs. Broken, battered, but alive.
Then Lucas moved.
Toward the far end of the tent, where an older man stood apart from the rest. White hair pulled back neatly, beard trimmed, spectacles perched low on his nose. His robes were practical, stained with ink and mana residue rather than blood.
Professor Elric Vaun looked up as Lucas approached, eyes sharp behind the lenses.
"Captain," Elric said mildly. "You look better than you did an hour ago. That's… unsettling."
Lucas stopped in front of him. "The retainer."
Elric's smile widened—slow, knowing. "Contained."
"Where."
Elric tapped the silver ring on his finger. "Stored. Stabilized. Mostly intact."
Lucas's eyes narrowed. "Mostly?"
"Well," Elric shrugged, "retainers aren't meant to be disassembled and reassembled under field conditions. You were… enthusiastic."
Lucas exhaled through his nose. "Can it be done?"
The old man adjusted his glasses, eyes gleaming now—not with fear, but excitement.
"With time?" Elric said. "With resources? With that thing you call a mana core?"
He smiled widely.
"It's possible."
Lucas returned the smile—sharp, dangerous, satisfied.
"Good," he said softly. "Then you begin."
And the tent seemed to breathe in with him.
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