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Chapter 4 - The serpent's Coil

The days that followed blurred into a stream of focused, intense activity. Victor's chambers became both his refuge and his training ground.

Lucas remained a constant, spectral guide, his presence faint yet steady as he led Victor through the deep, twisting currents of black magic.

"Darkness, Victor," Lucas intoned one evening, his voice carrying the weight of forgotten centuries, "isn't just the absence of light. It's a force, a raw, primal current drawn from the void. It feeds on the emotions humanity buries: rage, sorrow, desire. Mana is a crutch for the weak. True power comes from will, complete command of the darkness within."

To emphasize his lessons, Lucas conjured swirling vortexes of shadow, energy moving in disciplined spirals at his fingertips. Victor took in every word, every movement, his mind absorbing this forbidden knowledge with relentless hunger.

He came to understand what Lucas meant by the phrase "blessed with darkness." Those chosen weren't just magic users; they were warlocks, channels for something ancient and corrupting. It was a destiny that pressed heavily on his shoulders, but instead of breaking under its weight, Victor drew strength from it. He had no intention of being a pawn to fate.

"To sharpen your resistance," Lucas suggested one afternoon while staring out toward the sprawling garden beyond the window, "you need to confront what weakens you. The Moon flower, Is a plant of pure light. It burns those who walk in shadow."

Victor found the flower easily. It stood alone, glowing white amidst the dark foliage, its petals almost too bright to look at. Its scent was piercing, clean completely opposite to the heavy, earthy aura surrounding his growing powers.

He plucked it, feeling its cool stem against his fingers. Consuming it was an act of brutal intent. As the petals touched his tongue, pain exploded in his mouth and spread down his throat like fire.

Blood trickled from his nose, bright red against his pale skin. The world tilted and swam before him as his body shook, his nerves buzzing like live wires. The air crackled around him with an unstable energy.

But through the agony came clarity. He felt something loosen, something deep and faint: a glimmering thread, blue and subtle, pulling away from a gentler destiny. The pain had marked a turning point. He had stepped off the predetermined path.

Alongside this intense inner journey, Victor began making secret trips to the Keystone Bank. He was always accompanied by Sir Darion, a knight of the Volkov Guard. The man's loyalty was unwavering, his demeanor grounded and calm qualities that balanced Victor's growing volatility.

Victor wasn't sure why Darion had taken a liking to him, but the knight's presence provided some much needed stability.

It was during one of these visits, as Victor examined a display of enchanted artifacts, that everything shifted.

The bank's grand doors suddenly sealed behind a wall of glowing magic. The room dimmed, and a sinister voice echoed through the marble hall.

"No one leaves until the Keystone Bank gives up its treasures!"

A group of masked intruders flooded in, armed with swords, staves, and enchanted tools. At their center stood a robed figure cloaked in an aura of raw magic. With one motion, he solidified the barrier trapping them all inside.

Lucas's voice cut in urgently. "Sira. A barrier magician and a dangerous one."

Victor's heart raced. Panic surged through the crowd. Lucas's whisper came again, sharp and urgent: "Victor, the metal box on the pedestal. It holds what you need."

Victor's eyes snapped to it, at a small silver box beneath a glass dome.

"How?" he breathed, glancing at the oncoming attackers.

"Use the darkness inside you," Lucas instructed. "Reach out with it. It's a key that opens more than locks."

Victor drew in a breath and focused. A thin tendril of shadow unspooled from his hand, reaching the box like a careful whisper.

With a soft click, the lock gave way. The dome slid aside, revealing an earring—delicate, feather-shaped, and glowing faintly with ethereal light.

As he touched it, a current surged through him, not pain, but knowledge. His mind flooded with memories, symbols, voices of the entire libraries of ancient lore. It was Lucas's wisdom, preserved and compressed into this talisman.

On the back of Victor's hand, a dark, clock-like symbol flared to life, his acceptance of the negativity he now wielded. At the same moment, a faint blue thread extended from him toward Darion and unexpectedly, toward the attackers as well.

"Elric. Sira," Victor muttered as he recognized the markings on their armor. Mercenaries with grim reputations. He'd heard their names in whispers, always tied to violence and shady dealings. The earring pulsed in his hand.

As the commotion grew louder, city guards drawn by the disturbance closed in. Elric and Sira began to retreat, slipping toward the edges of the room. Darion, quick and precise, managed to weaken Sira's barrier just enough for them to escape through a narrow breach.

Victor, however, saw more than an escape. He saw opportunity.

"Gentlemen," he called out, his voice calm but commanding. The two men stopped. Elric, tall and scarred, reached instinctively for his blade.

Sira narrowed his eyes, curiosity dancing with suspicion. "What do you want, boy?"

Victor stepped closer, unafraid. "I hear you're in some financial trouble. I also have... pressing debts. Maybe we can help each other."

Elric gave a dry grunt. "And why would we trust you?"

Victor offered a slow smile, charming on the surface, but sharp underneath. "I value ambition. I'm building something. I need people with your skills. I offer you a clean slate and in return, you work with me."

They exchanged glances and hope flickering behind years of hard-earned distrust.

"An arrangement?" Sira asked.

"Exactly," Victor said, his tone smooth and unwavering. "Clear your debts, and lend me your services. Think of it as a partnership."

He extended a hand not for a shake, but in silent offer. As he did, a new thread began to form, blue, shimmering, and charged with latent power linking him to the mercenaries.

Victor understood what he was doing. He was no longer just a boy navigating shadows. He was building something. A network. A power base. And he would forge it connection by connection, risk by risk.

At the edge of the chaos, another presence stirred. Thorne Kael, a man who operated in whispers and ruled the city's underbelly watched him. Thorne, leader of the Third Power, met Victor's eyes with a calculating look.

That silent exchange said everything.

Victor was no longer a passive participant. He was setting the board. And the game had only just begun.

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