The transition from the pristine, manicured grounds of the Thorne estate to the chaotic reality of the capital city was like stepping through an invisible wall.
Behind the massive wrought-iron gates, the world was a silent, controlled vacuum where even the wind seemed to blow only when the Marquis permitted it.
Out here, on the cracked concrete sidewalks of the public sector, the world was aggressively, unapologetically alive.
Normal city gridlock choked the multi-lane avenues. Rows of standard, combustion-engine cars and electric sedans sat bumper-to-bumper, their horns blaring in a discordant symphony of morning frustration.
The air smelled of exhaust fumes, cheap street food, and the faint, ozone tang of the city's defensive mana-barriers.
Lucian walked through it all with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his plain black jacket. The heavy, matte-black headphones Lily had given him were firmly clamped over his ears, reducing the deafening roar of the metropolis to a dull, manageable vibration.
He didn't take a private family transport. He didn't hire a luxury car. He simply walked to the nearest subterranean transit station and swiped a prepaid, anonymous pass.
The subway platform was packed with the morning rush. Businessmen in sharp gray suits stood shoulder-to-shoulder with tired-looking students.
Interspersed among the regular civilians were the hunters, mostly low-ranking D and E-tier mercenaries carrying duffel bags stuffed with scuffed leather armor and dull mana-crystals.
They were the blue-collar workers of the magic world, heading off to clear minor portal outbreaks for a meager paycheck.
Lucian stood near the sliding doors, holding onto a metal rail as the train rattled through the dark tunnels. He stared blankly at a glowing advertisement for a new energy drink.
He found the grime and the crowding strangely comforting. In the Thorne mansion, every empty hallway was a stage where he was expected to perform, to be the tragic, broken heir.
Down here, crammed into a metal tube smelling of stale coffee and sweat, he was absolutely nothing. Nobody looked twice at a pale, gaunt man in cheap black clothes with headphones pressed on his ears. He was entirely invisible.
The train screeched to a halt at the Lower Sector transit hub. Lucian stepped out, navigating the labyrinth of cracked tile corridors until he reached the surface.
The Lower Sector was a stark contrast to the gleaming glass towers of the city center.
Here, the buildings were older, their facades stained with years of pollution. Neon signs flickered weakly in the morning light, advertising noodle shops, cheap motels, and unregulated potion dispensaries.
Lucian walked two blocks until he found his destination, Courier Station 9.
It was a dingy, cramped office wedged tightly between a 24-hour convenience store and a pawn shop that specialized in fencing chipped monster cores.
A bell jingled weakly as Lucian pushed the glass door open. The interior smelled of old paper and dust.
Behind a scratched plexiglass counter sat a bored-looking clerk, rhythmically popping a piece of synthetic chewing gum. He barely glanced up from his datapad as Lucian approached.
"Pickup or drop-off?" the clerk mumbled, his voice carrying just enough over the counter to reach Lucian's ears despite the headphones.
Lucian didn't speak. He pulled his uninjured hand from his pocket, placed the encrypted data-slate on the counter, and slid it forward.
The clerk sighed, picking up the slate. He plugged it into a bulky, outdated terminal. The screen flashed green.
The clerk's eyes widened slightly as he read the transaction details, realizing that the pale, bored-looking kid in the cheap jacket was finalizing a land of himself.
"Uh, right," the clerk said, his posture suddenly straightening. He cleared his throat. "Proxy purchase validation. Everything is digitally cleared, sir. I just need a physical biometric signature to bind the deed to your anonymous holding company. Thumb on the glass, please."
The clerk pushed a small, glowing scanner across the counter.
Lucian pressed his thumb against the glass. A soft chime confirmed the scan.
"Transfer complete," the clerk said, sliding a physical, sealed envelope containing the hard-copy deed across the counter. He tried to offer a customer-service smile. "You know, if you don't mind me asking, that property you bought in Sector 4... it's a dead zone. The city cut the main mana-lines out there a decade ago. Nothin' there but weeds and rusted fences."
Lucian took the envelope, folded it once, and shoved it into his inner jacket pocket. He looked at the clerk, his golden eyes dull and unresponsive.
"Good," Lucian said.
He turned and walked out the door before the clerk could ask anything else.
As he stepped back onto the bustling sidewalk, Lucian felt a very faint, very rare sense of satisfaction.
He hadn't bought a massive warehouse district, nor had he bought an island. When he had scrutinized the listings the night before, he had found something perfectly suited to his ultimate goal.
It was an abandoned, two-story house on the absolute edge of the city limits, bordering a protected forest reserve.
The listing photos showed peeling paint, an overgrown mini-garden choked with wild thornbushes, and a high, solid iron fence that looked like it hadn't been opened in many many years.
But the bones of the house were solid, and the large windows offered excellent natural lighting.
It was the ultimate lazy backup plan.
Lucian knew how noble families operated.
Right now, he was a medical curiosity, a traumatized son they were leaving alone out of a mix of guilt and confusion. But eventually, the Marquis would finalize Silas's succession. The family would move on. And when they did, a "broken" eldest son taking up space in the main estate would become a political embarrassment. Eventually, they would throw him out.
Instead of waiting for the confrontation, instead of fighting it, Lucian had simply prepared his landing pad. When the day came, he wouldn't argue. He would just pack a bag, take a taxi to his overgrown garden, lock the iron gate from the inside, and go back to sleep.
He began the walk back toward the main avenue to flag down a taxi. The effects of his long walk were starting to catch up with his fragile body. His injured shoulder throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, and his legs felt heavy. He wanted to go back to bed. And also he really need to fix his body sooner or later.
The sidewalk narrowed near an alleyway, crowded by overflowing trash bins. Approaching from the opposite direction was a trio of hunters.
They wore mismatched, low-tier gear, scuffed leather chest pieces, cheap iron gauntlets, and utility belts lined with empty potion vials.
They smelled of stale beer, sweat, and the pungent, unmistakable stench of goblin blood. They had likely just cleared a low-level E-rank Gate and were riding the cheap, intoxicating high of survival and a fresh payday.
They were walking three abreast, taking up the entire width of the pavement, laughing loudly and shoving each other.
Lucian didn't alter his pace. He didn't care enough to step into the muddy gutter to let them pass.
He simply kept walking in a straight line, his eyes fixed on the distant yellow blur of a taxi.
The hunter in the center, a burly man with a fresh scar on his cheek and an ego inflated by cheap alcohol, didn't move either.
Their shoulders collided.
Lucian barely staggered, his body instantly adjusting its center of gravity out of a hundred lifetimes of martial habit, despite his physical weakness.
The hunter, however, stumbled backward, spilling the half-empty can of energy drink he was holding all over his leather boots.
"Hey!" the burly hunter barked, his face flushing with immediate, aggressive anger. "Watch where the hell you're walking, you pale little rat!"
Lucian didn't stop. He didn't even turn his head. He just kept walking.
The dismissal infuriated the hunter. In a blur of motion, the man lunged forward and grabbed a fistful of Lucian's black jacket, jerking him to a halt.
"I'm talking to you!" the thug sneered, pulling Lucian around to face him. The hunter's two friends stepped up behind him, smirking, eager for a show.
The thug's eyes darted to the expensive, matte-black headphones on Lucian's ears. "You bump into a licensed Hunter, you apologize. Or maybe you just hand over those fancy headphones to pay for my boots, and I don't break your jaw."
Lucian looked down at the hand gripping his jacket.
He didn't feel fear. He didn't feel a rush of adrenaline. He felt a profound, exhausting annoyance. He just wanted to go to bed.
Slowly, Lucian raised his gaze and looked the man directly in the eyes.
He didn't throw a punch. He didn't channel mana into his fists. He didn't utter a single threat. He simply stopped holding it back.
For a fraction of a microsecond, the absolute, crushing weight of his ancient mana leaked through his dull golden eyes. It was an overwhelming, primordial aura, the presence of a being that had slaughtered so many beings, and stood atop mountains of corpses. It wasn't just magical pressure, it was the sheer, terrifying gravity of an apex predator looking at a very small piece of prey.
The air in the alleyway instantly turned to ice. The ambient noise of the city seemed to completely vanish, swallowed by a suffocating, leaden dread.
The burly hunter froze. The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a corpse. His pupils dilated to the size of coins. Every single instinct, every biological alarm bell in his human DNA, screamed at him in blind,
'D-Dangerous... H-He's dangerous!!'
paralyzing terror. His lungs seized. He felt as though the sky had suddenly fallen, pinning him to the concrete. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. He was standing in the shadow of a monster.
His hand, trembling violently, let go of Lucian's jacket as if the fabric had burst into flames.
The hunter's knees buckled. He stumbled backward, crashing into his two friends, who were equally pale, their eyes wide with an inexplicable, instinctual horror they couldn't even name.
"I—I'm sorry," the burly hunter choked out. His voice was a pathetic, high-pitched wheeze. Sweat poured down his face in rivers.
"I'm sorry. M-my fault. We're leaving. We're leaving."
Without waiting for a response, the three grown men scrambled backward, nearly tripping over their own feet in their desperate haste to run. They scrambled down the street, bumping into civilians, putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the man in the black jacket.
Lucian watched them flee. He didn't smirk. He didn't feel a surge of pride.
'Loud,' he thought.
He reached up, using one finger to adjust the right earcup of his headphones, ensuring the seal was tight against his head.
The faint, muted hum of the city returned to its acceptable volume.
He turned away from the alley, stepped off the curb, and raised a hand. A perfectly ordinary, bright yellow city taxi pulled over with a squeal of brakes.
Lucian opened the door, slid into the back seat, and closed his eyes as the car merged back into the morning gridlock, carrying him back home.