A scream tore through the air as another victim collapsed—hit by a projectile too fast to see, let alone dodge. It all happened so quickly. One by one, the six mercenaries fell, each meeting a gruesome end.
Among the five lifeless bodies scattered across the dusty gravel—blood trailing and soaking into the earth—stood a figure all too familiar.
Lucid.
It was a dark scene, especially for those who knew him. The sight of Lucid killing—even if reasonable—was nothing short of horrifying. To anyone who had known him as a kind, quiet, and helpful presence, this was a total contradiction to that image. That image was shattered, overridden by this brutal, monstrous act.
Rain began to fall—slowly at first, drop by drop, each merging into puddles. Water mixed with blood on the gravel, creating a mess of grey and a red-ish colour. It was a gruesome scene, not for the faint of heart.
A trembling foot stepped into the blood-soaked puddle.
One of the mercenaries was still alive, the last one remaining.
He shook violently, gripping a machete in both hands. The blade caught a glint of light—reflecting off the glass mask of the man standing before him.
Lucid.
He stood face to face with the last survivor.
In one hand, Lucid held a compact submachine gun. In the other, a heavy Desert Eagle. Rain slid down his jawline and dripped from the edges of his mask. There was no trace of warmth in him now—not a slight hesitation. Lucid looked like a cold-blooded killer.
Meanwhile, the tall boss stood just outside the tavern, observing—watching all of his comrades fall at the hands of some scrawny boy. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
"Don't come any closer. You'll die," Lucid said, almost pitying the last remaining mercenary.
With a single motion, the man dropped his machete and turned to flee, stumbling as he ran—desperately, as if his life depended on it. But in the next instant, a chained, hooked harpoon shot through the air and pierced his skull, ending him in a flash.
Lucid wasn't fazed.
For the first time in his life, he had killed four people—four human beings with dreams, passions, and people they cared about. He had ended it all in a single moment. And yet, if anything, he felt relieved. At least he wasn't the one who had killed the runner.
He turned his gaze toward the source of the harpoon. The chain retracted with mechanical precision, winding back in an instant, pulled by some inner mechanism. It came from the large man, the leader of the mercenary group.
"Those who run in battle and betray our allegiance are unworthy of life."
Lucid said nothing.
"I thought you were some noble kid with lofty ideals," the boss continued, "but you're quite the menace."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Say… why don't you work for the council? The Council of Nine could use someone with your power."
Lucid remained silent.
"I don't know if you've started to notice," the man went on, "but Andorrea is going through a purge—a real purge. Social and physical. Only the strong and the wealthy will survive what's coming."
"So wha—"
A heavy gunshot rang out, the bullet ricocheting off metal. The mercenary boss had blocked it with his arm—revealed now to be a fully prosthetic arm.
"Hmph. These weapons of yours… what are the—"
Another shot. This one aimed directly at his forehead. It struck him, jerking his head back. But in a swift motion, he braced himself, flexing both of his arms and regaining his stance as if it hadn't fazed him at all.
"Ahaha! Did you really think that would work?"
"I studied you. You rely on your weapons to finish your enemies. So I reinforced my entire body with ether—boosting my resistance!"
"..."
"Speak, kid."
Lucid looked up at the man, then holstered his weapon. He glanced behind the house, using the Seven of Diamonds' Clarity to peer inside.
No one.
It was clear.
'The mission is a success.'
"Hey, kid—how long are you gonna stand there for?"
Lucid's thoughts were interrupted. It had gone according to plan—he had managed to delay and distract the mercenaries just long enough.
But inside, he felt like a failure. Blood had been shed—too much of it. And now, there was nothing he could do to atone for the sins he'd committed.
A sharp harpoon whistled toward him. Briefly caught off guard, he dodged with remarkable agility—twisting sideways and leaping back. He landed hard, one hand and one knee on the ground.
'I can't let this lunatic run free. He didn't even hesitate to kill his own man.' And yet, one thought crept into Lucid's mind: He was getting sick of Andorrea. Still, he had to stay. He'd promised that researcher he would help Shion—"find her way" and resolve whatever was happening in the shadows, as well as helping Yannick find his students.
"If I join you," Lucid asked, "can you get me to the upper sectors?"
The large man—pulling back his massive prosthetic arm—looked up in amusement at Lucid's words. He placed one hand over his bald head, thinking.
"No, kid. I'm afraid that offer's off the table now."
"..."
Again, Lucid said nothing.
"It's not very kind," the man continued, "to send a bullet at someone's head after they try to have a conversation."
Lucid shrugged off the words.
Now that the offer was off the table, things were simpler. There was no need to play along anymore. His objective was clear:
Dispose of him.
"You're awfully brave," Lucid said coldly, "for someone who hid behind his crewmates and sacrificed them."
The man's eyes flared with fury. He stepped forward, closing the distance.
"Oh, I'll have fun with you," he growled. "How about I tear that mask off—and see the scared little boy hiding underneath?"
BANG.
The shot from Lucid's Desert Eagle cracked through the air—so loud, so sharp, it sent crows scattering from a leafless tree nearby. The echo rang out through the empty valley of Sector 11, while the cold wind remained unchanged.
It looked like a futile shot at first.
But then, the man staggered. Dropping to his knees, blood trickled from his mouth. Confused, he looked down at his body. Blood began to seep rapidly from a growing wound. In a panic, he clutched it with his real hand, trying to stop the bleeding—his face twisted in agony.
BANG.
Another shot pierced the heavy sound of rain.
This time, it struck his right side of his chest, knocking him back sideways. For a brief moment, he thought something had pushed him. He didn't yet understand. The reality of the situation.
"Wha–"
A blood-choked syllable escaped the man's lips, broken and shaky.
He collapsed onto the wet red stained gravel, rain falling steadily onto his face as his eyes grew heavy. It took him only a moment to understand what had happened. He knew Lucid's ability. He knew what to expect. And yet, the shots had pierced him anyway.
A foot stepped beside his weakened body.
Through the dusty rain-soaked air stood the man who had shot him Lucid. He looked down at the boss—the one who had kidnapped Yannick's students and killed his own comrade without hesitation. Lucid's expression was unreadable behind the mask. He didn't smile. He didn't look remorseful. He simply stood there, silent, as the dying man struggled for breath—his collapsed lung making every gasp a war. Still, Lucid didn't finish him off. He had one question.
His voice came out stern, cold, and indifferent:
"Themenos. Do you know him?"
The man's eyes rolled toward Lucid, the question barely registering. He tried to speak, a single thought consuming his final moments:
"H–ho… how did you manage to hit me?"
Lucid crouched beside him, pulling out a single card—the Seven of Spades—its edges glinting under the rain.
"I altered the potency of my bullets," he said, voice flat and almost mechanical.
"Funny enough, I didn't even need to push it to maximum intensity."
He stood up again—slow and deliberate, his boots shifting slightly in the blood-muddied gravel.
"Themenos," Lucid said once more his voice firm and cold. "Do you know him?"
But the man didn't answer.
He was still breathing, barely—each breath jagged like metal scraping against stone. Blood bubbled at the corners of his mouth. His body trembled. The strength that had once made him fearsome had drained into the earth beneath him forming a pool of blood.
Lucid stared at him not sad nor angry, then slowly turned his gaze toward the five other corpses sprawled across the field—mercenaries he had killed in cold blood.
"I gave you a chance," he said softly, not to anyone in particular.
"You know I tried…"
The wind picked up. Rain fell harder now—sheets of it, slapping against his soaked hair, trailing down his temples. Above him, the sky churned with heavy, dusky clouds were dark as soot. It was as if the heavens themselves refused to look down. The dying man coughed, bloody foam spilling down his chin. He lifted his head slightly, lips twitching.
"Fuck o—"
BANG.
The shot rang out, sharp and final. Lucid didn't let him finish.
He already knew what the man would say. Desperation laced with bravado. He didn't care to hear it.
He flicked the weapon away into blue dust in silence.
"Goodbye Brother" Lucid murmured, almost sorrowfully.
"I'll see you in hell when I as well… get there..."
Lucid felt guilt in that moment. There was no satisfaction in his voice, there was only an empty sorrowful voice that didn't carry any emotion like a defensive shield. The kind that shields the soul and never leaves it, making it numb.
He hadn't needed to kill all of them. But he had to. If he had lured them away or tried to run, they would have eventually discovered the others—Yannick, Alice, and the people he had promised to protect. There was no room for hesitation even if it didn't pose a threat specifically to him.
And yet.
Lucid had always believed no one, not even someone like him—had the right to decide when a life should end. That was the domain of fate, destiny or gods whatever you may call it, not men. And tonight, he had claimed seven of them.
He had judged them. Executed them.
And in doing so, he had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.
He stepped forward, careful not to tread over any of the bodies. His boots splashed in shallow puddles of rain and blood. The air smelled like metal and gunpowder. He reached for his coat with one gloved hand, fingers brushing the soaked fabric. It was heavy—soaked through completely.
The rain was deafening now, drowning the world in white noise.
And then—
A pierce.
A sharp, chilling sound tore through the night. As if shards protruded from thin air. In the blink of an eye, a large ice shard shot through his back, its gleaming tip protruding from his chest. Time seemed to slow as the impact jolted through every nerve in his body.
"AHHH—!"
A loud scream of agony escaped Lucid's lips, swallowed by the storm. His body arched violently, muscles seizing as blood spilled down his front in a steaming rush. His legs buckled. He collapsed to the ground, his senses reeling, pain screaming louder than any thought.
'What…?'
'Who?'
A soft voice cut the noise from the heavy rain
"oh my oh my…"
Lucid now collapsed on the ground. Felt Pain that surged through his back like fire, spreading outward with every shallow breath. His fingers scraped helplessly against the mud-slicked gravel, trying to find leverage—trying to understand.
He hadn't sensed them.
'How?'
Lucid's senses—sharpened by years of training before this world, battles, and his powers—should have picked up a threat long before it struck. His mind raced through possibilities, but the thoughts tangled into each other like threads unraveling in the rain.
His head tilted to the side, vision narrowing. There, lying inches from his face in the mud.
A poker card.
The Seven of Red Hearts. Its crimson ink bled out slowly, the color fading into a dull, ghostly grey. A chill gripped his spine—not from the pain, but from what it meant.
The cards appeared In thin air one by one.
The Spade… grey. The Diamond… grey. The Clover… grey. The Black hearts... grey too.
His connection to the Deck was vanishing.
Lucid was dying.
He didn't know who had attacked him. He didn't know why.
All he knew was that something, someone—had pierced his body and disrupted the very essence of his powers. The sound of footsteps squelching in the mud broke the silence.
A figure stepped into his failing view, backlit by the dull glow of lightning hidden behind the thick, rain-soaked clouds. Their outline blurred at first, distorted by the water and blood in Lucid's eyes. But then it became clearer.
A woman.
Her hair was long and flowing, strands of it floating unnaturally in the storm—as if untouched by the wind. Its color was impossible to pin down—shifting hues that the eye couldn't register properly. Blonde, then silver, then something else.
Her eyes were wide and round, giving her a look of innocence. But her smile was too wide, too polished it radiated something far more sinister.
She crouched in front of Lucid, almost like a child examining a dying animal.
"Lucid," she said sweetly, her voice laced with mock affection,
"You are hereby arrested under the authority of the Circle of Nine. You are to be presented before the Council... for further review." Her tone was playful, almost musical—completely detached from the seriousness of her words.
She stood again, slowly crossing her arms in satisfaction. Then, as if overwhelmed by the moment, she placed her hands on her cheeks and let out a quiet giggle. Her body trembled with glee, like she was savoring the final moments of a long, beautiful performance.
"That is... if you survive~"
Lucid's limbs grew heavier. He tried to raise an arm, to reach his cards that have now turned grey, a rock in the gravel, anything—but his body didn't respond. The rain was deafening now, pounding against the gravel, against his body, against the empty streets of Sector 11.
The last thing he saw before slipping into unconsciousness was her face. That smile—so full of joy, and so completely devoid of empathy.
"Hey don't fall asleep, i won't be able to observe your suffering"
"He–.. hey!!... hey.. Hey.." the voice started to grow muffled and quieter as he started to slip away into unconsciousness.
And then darkness.
The same familiar scenery he had grown so well acquainted with over the years. It was the darkness that came before he awoke in the scattered worlds—a void without light, without form, yet painfully recognizable. But this time, something felt wrong.
Before him, a shape began to emerge, faint at first, then coalescing into a dark silhouette. It stood no taller than a child, its body woven entirely from shifting shadows. The edges of its form bled into the surrounding void like smoke, and yet Lucid could not look away.
It spoke.
The voice was small, trembling, but every word was a dagger twisting in his chest. They were words he had heard before—too many times. Words that carried the weight of guilt he could never wash away. The sound of them made his throat tighten, his breath falter.
"Mister… why are you leaving?"
His vision blurred, and before he realized it, a tear slid down his cheek.
"Promise… you'll bring my mom."
The child's voice cracked, as if holding back their own tears. Lucid's hands curled into trembling fists, though he could not move forward.
"I'll be waiting here… Mister L… Lu… cid."
Each syllable of his name seemed to echo endlessly in the void, as though the darkness itself was repeating it.
And then—just like before.
Just like back then. Everything went dark.
Only this time, Lucid feared. The darkness might never lift.