The sun bathed the ancient temple in a soft, golden hue as Lucas stood still, just watching. The silence wasn't empty—it was heavy, charged with something unspoken. The wind rustled the leaves softly, but Lucas felt something else pulling at him. A purpose. A call.
He took a slow breath and walked toward the temple, each step weighed down by questions.
Why did Grandfather send me here? What is really going on?
The pathway was cracked and littered with leaves, yet somehow familiar. But what waited at the temple entrance was not.
A box.
Lucas froze.
It looked utterly out of place. The temple, though old, radiated ancient majesty. But this box—sleek, clean, oddly untouched by time—stood like an intruder. Dust had gathered on it, yes, but even that couldn't hide its foreign nature. Lucas narrowed his eyes.
This wasn't here before.
He approached slowly. On top of the box, there was a hollow impression—a space where something had once been. Inside it, engravings of a sun, a moon, and a dragon caught his eye.
Lucas instantly recognized it.
"The locket," he muttered.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the locket his grandfather had given him—the one he'd kept close all these years, even when he didn't know why. He placed it gently into the hollow. It fit perfectly.
A low, mechanical rumble followed. Click. Click. Click. Gears turned inside. Dust rose into the air as the box slowly opened with a hiss, like it was breathing for the first time in years.
Inside, four items lay perfectly arranged:
• A letter, with his name written in his grandfather's bold, deliberate hand.
• A book with ancient script etched on the cover—Lucas instantly recognized it as Chaos Arts. A chilling aura radiated from it. His fingertips tingled just looking at it.
• A black vial, swirling with something dark and unknown.
• A marble-sized orb glowing faintly, like it held a star inside.
But Lucas's eyes were fixed on the letter.
He sat down, hands trembling—not with fear, but anticipation—and opened it. Two pages. The first was titled:
"To Lucas."
To Lucas, my greatest creation, my beloved grandson,
If you're reading this… then I am no longer walking this world. My body may have fallen, but let no one say I died with regret—because you, my boy, were my final masterpiece.
You must be furious. I know you. The day I told you to leave, you clenched your fists, gritted your teeth, and asked why, again and again. And I gave you nothing but silence… and a command to go.
Now, at last, you deserve the truth.
I was not just a historian or a mystery-loving old man who kept too many secrets. I was once a Warlord, known across kingdoms by names whispered like curses:
The Raven Strategist. The Man Who Broke the East. The Flame Beneath the Throne.
I built empires with nothing but discipline, knowledge, and the edge of my sword. Men knelt. Kings listened. Enemies feared my very breath.
But power breeds paranoia.
Those I led… those I raised… grew afraid. I taught them too well. And when their greed outweighed their loyalty, they conspired.
A single night—that's all it took.
Poison in my drink. Blades at my back. Lies whispered into the ears of the world.
And the worst part? I didn't see it coming.
I trusted them.
That was my greatest mistake—believing loyalty could survive ambition. I was naive.
They thought they destroyed me. They thought the Warlord died.
But I lived… until you were born.
You were barely a child, yet I saw something in you no one else could—clarity. I didn't raise you as a grandson. I raised you as the future—the weapon they would never see coming.
I taught you everything. Not just how to kill—but how to think. How to wait. How to vanish into the shadows and reappear as death. While the world saw an old man feeding pigeons and reading dusty books, I was building you.
And when I felt the winds of my past returning… I had to make a choice.
Let them know about you… or let you go.
So I told you to leave. Not because I feared death. I've danced with death more times than I can count.
But I feared they'd discover you—and that, Lucas, I could never allow.
My death… was a smokescreen. A final play.
They'll think they won.
They'll believe the last page of my life has been written.
But they don't know you exist.
And that… is their greatest mistake.
Now, I leave the rest to you—not out of duty, but choice. You are free to live your life as you wish. But if there is fire in your veins… if my teachings still live in your bones… then go to the chamber beneath the old temple. You know the one. It opens only with your blood.
Inside, you'll find my final plans. Names. Faces. Weaknesses. Secrets only I knew. Everything I built, burned, and buried—it's all there.
If you choose to act, do it not with anger, but with precision.
Don't scream.
Don't boast.
Don't let them know who you are.
Just strike.
Let them feel fear before they feel steel.
And when it's done, vanish once again—like the ghost I trained you to be.
You are not just my grandson. You are my legacy.
My vengeance.
My message.
Let history remember me as dead.
But let the future fear the shadow named Lucas.
—With love and pride,
Grandfather
The Raven Strategist
The Ghost Who Taught Death to Wait
The letter slipped from Lucas's hand, falling gently onto the temple floor.
His eyes burned.
Tears streamed silently down his cheeks—grief, love, and fury crashing inside him like thunder. His breath trembled. The world seemed to shift beneath his feet.
But then… something else emerged.
Heat.
A fire, slow and quiet, ignited deep in his core. It wasn't just rage. It was purpose. A flame not to destroy blindly—but to cleanse, to reclaim, to strike with meaning.
Lucas clenched his fists, his jaw tight.
"They thought they killed a legend," he whispered, voice cold and steady. "But they just lit the fuse for what comes next."
His gaze returned to the box—to the book, the vial, the orb.
He understood now.
This wasn't just an inheritance.
It was a declaration of war.