The morning mist curled over the Voss estate, wrapping the training halls and gardens in a ghostly silver. Lucien Voss watched silently from the balcony, his slender frame hidden in shadows, eyes following his brothers as they sparred in the courtyard below.
Ragnar's strikes were like thunder, heavy and unrelenting, his qi roaring through the air. Kaelric moved differently—swift, precise, his mind clearly calculating multiple outcomes with every swing. Lucien's gaze, however, did not rest on their martial skill. It measured temperament, hesitation, ego, and pride.
Both were strong. Both were dangerous. Both were now wary of him.
Good.
Lucien had seen the signs the night after the northern pass battle. Ragnar's unease, Kaelric's calculating glances—they had noticed his fangs. They had begun watching the fourth son.
And a hunter must strike before the prey can bite.
Inside the council hall, Lucien moved among the generals and soldiers, offering subtle advice. "The riverbend could collapse under heavy cavalry," he said softly. "A feint could push them toward the ridge." His words were measured, cautious, almost timid. Yet every sentence planted doubt—about the enemy, about his brothers' plans, about their competence.
Later, he approached Kaelric in the private hall, where the second son practiced internal arts. The faint glow of qi shimmered around Kaelric's hands. Lucien bowed respectfully, his voice low and calm.
"Brother, you are ambitious," Lucien said. "I see your mind thinking three steps ahead. But ambition blinds as much as it guides. You must decide—do you trust the strategies of others, or will you forge your own path?"
Kaelric's eyes narrowed. "Do you doubt me?"
Lucien smiled softly, almost innocent. "Never. I only offer… perspective. A brother should help a brother avoid mistakes, not create them."
Kaelric paused. Something flickered in his gaze. Suspicion? Pride? The line between them blurred.
Later still, Lucien visited Ragnar, whose hands were rough from sword practice. "Eldest brother," he said quietly, "the northern pass victory was remarkable. But you left a weakness in the eastern flank. A true enemy might exploit it. I can guide our soldiers to shore it… if you wish."
Ragnar's jaw tightened. "Are you trying to teach me?"
Lucien's voice remained calm. "I am only here to serve the family."
Both brothers left him uneasy. Not enough to kill—but enough to watch him more closely.
Exactly what he wanted.
For survival in the Murim world—and in the Voss family—Lucien knew patience and perception were stronger than strength. He began planting seeds of trust and doubt simultaneously. Kaelric would grow reliant on him, believing that only the fourth son's insight could protect him. Ragnar would respect his mind, even if he feared it.
The threads were being woven carefully.
At night, Lucien stood on the balcony again, the Eastern Continent's distant mountains glowing under the moon. He whispered to himself, barely audible.
"They see my fangs… they think they can survive them. But a clever hunter does not wait to be attacked. They fall because I allow it… and they will never know my hand guided it."
A wind gusted across the estate, carrying the faint smell of smoke from the northern border. The war had ended, yet the true battle was only beginning—inside the hearts and minds of his own blood.
And Lucien Voss, the fourth son, smiled softly in the shadow of the moonlight.