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Chapter 110 - Volume 2 Chapter 17: The Shadow of the Witch

Lucian had already set out from Stormveil the moment he received word.

It didn't take him long to reach the camp that Hakkan had described. There, by the fire, Boc was roasting food, looking as carefree as ever.

The moment he saw Lucian, Boc jumped to his feet, visibly moved. "Sir Lucian! I didn't expect you'd still remember me. I'm so touched!"

Around them, the Kaiden Sellswords shifted their gazes toward Lucian. For many of them, it was their first time seeing the commander they now answered to. One by one, they stood and saluted.

Lucian waved a hand dismissively. "Rest. No need for formalities."

He turned to Boc. "Earlier, when I went back to the place where I first met you, you were gone. Did you manage to return there?"

Boc looked embarrassed. "Well… I didn't want to trouble you anymore. I thought I could go back myself to fetch my things, then wait for you there."

"But I lost my way. And before long, I couldn't even find the spot where we agreed to meet…"

"Now I've gone and made you send men looking for me. I'm truly sorry…"

Lucian nodded slightly. Losing his way wasn't necessarily bad—it meant Boc hadn't fallen prey to the other demi-humans in the cave. "No matter. Patrols are what these mercenaries were meant for anyway."

He decided to wait until morning to escort Boc back to the cave. At night, demi-humans often fell into madness and frenzy; they were impossible to negotiate with. If he could subdue the demi-humans of that cave and then use them as an example, it would be a powerful case to show others.

"Speaking of which… where is Hakkan?"

Lucian glanced around the camp. The commander was nowhere to be seen. By rights, he should have remained here to oversee things. Lucian had not ordered any night patrols.

One of the mercenaries stepped forward. "After we found Boc, we heard screaming in the distance. Hakkan led a band to investigate, but… he hasn't come back."

Lucian's brows furrowed as he peered into the black horizon. "How long ago did they set out?"

"About as long as it's been since Hakkan sent word to you."

"Which way did they go?"

The mercenary pointed.

"I'll see for myself."

Lucian mounted Torrent and spurred him into a gallop. At the same time, the Ancient King stirred in his mind, directing several stormhawks to scout ahead.

But as the hawks crossed into a certain range, one after another was struck down and fell silent.

The Ancient King's voice resonated. 'The enemy in that direction is no weak foe. Several stormhawks were felled almost instantly. Best not to send more.'

"I see," Lucian murmured, and urged Torrent to greater speed.

What enemy could silence Hakkan's force without even letting them send word? And strike hawks from the sky at range? Could it be a Deathbird? At night, only they were known to wield such far-reaching power.

But speculation was a waste. He needed to reach Hakkan before it was too late.

As he and Torrent thundered past the fallen hawks, a gray phantom spear suddenly streaked toward him.

Lucian summoned a storm with a flick of his hand, deflecting it with ease. The phantom spear dissolved at once. More followed in quick succession, yet each was scattered harmlessly by stormwinds.

He recognized the technique instantly—Spectral Lance.

And with that, the foe's identity became clear. Night's Cavalry.

Though he'd never known them to use such a skill before, if they could wield Phantom Slash, then Spectral Lance was hardly beyond them.

At last, Lucian beheld the battlefield.

Hundreds of Tarnished lay slaughtered. The Kaiden Sellswords Hakkan had brought were strewn across the ground.

And there was Hakkan—kneeling, bleeding, a fresh gash riven across his chest.

Nine Night's Cavalry stood tall in the torchlight, their black forms like grim statues.

"Night's Cavalry," Lucian's voice was cold. "Your end is nigh.."

The horsemen reined in, their ranks shifting swiftly into formation. Eight still mounted surged toward him, weapons leveled. To them, he was simply another Tarnished—another to be erased.

Lucian raised his hand. Storm surged beneath their steeds, engulfing them in a gale. Then he spurred Torrent forward, racing straight for Hakkan.

One rider, dismounted, moved to block him, phantom weapon ready to mirror his strike.

Lucian drew his Ornamental Straight Sword and met the halberd's arc. Though his blade was slender, the force of his swing staggered the rider back several paces. The phantom behind him repeated the motion, but Lucian cut it down with a single stroke, scattering it like mist.

A blade of storm surged outward, sending the rider crashing away.

Lucian leapt from Torrent, landing before Hakkan.

The commander's wound was grave, but not instantly fatal. There was hope.

He pulled forth a Flask of Crimson Tears and poured it between Hakkan's lips. The man's breathing eased, color returning faintly to his face. Another two flasks, and the wound sealed completely.

Hakkan lived. Lucian exhaled, tension loosening at last.

Now, it was time for retribution.

The rider he'd cast aside dragged himself up, discarding his halberd for a greatsword. Meanwhile, those he'd trapped in the storm burst free—though one was shredded to ribbons, seven others emerged unscathed.

The nine encircled him.

Lucian sheathed his straight sword.

The Night's Cavalry were indeed heroes in their own right—reapers of warriors on the battlefield. During the assault on Godrick, Lucian himself had only barely surpassed them. Facing so many at once would have been daunting.

But now… now he had grown far beyond.

The riders sensed insult at his bare hands, and as one, they charged.

Lucian invoked the Great Rune. His frame swelled, muscles surging, clothes tearing away until only a tattered cloak remained about his waist. Nearly three meters tall now, his body thrummed with raw might.

The ornamental sword would be a toy in such hands. Flesh alone would suffice.

The first rider closed in, greatsword descending. Phantom slash shadowed behind.

Lucian seized his wrist, planted a foot against his chest, and kicked. The force tore his body in half at the waist, the phantom's slash finishing its own master.

One after another, riders fell. Horses broken, skulls crushed, torsos wrenched apart—none could withstand the storm-forged giant.

What had been slaughter only moments before had turned to massacre in reverse. The reapers of Tarnished were now themselves the reaped.

Of the nine, three turned to flee. One bolted into the distant Mistwood. Another tried the opposite direction.

They needed to carry word—word of this Stormlord who had grown stronger still, stronger even than Morgott's warning had implied.

Lucian would not allow it.

He crushed those who barred his path, ripped one rider from his saddle and snapped him in two, dashed another's brains against his brother's helm.

One still escaped into the Mistwood, grievously wounded but alive. The fog was too thick, too disorienting; even stormhawks could not track him. For now, he would have to be left. The Mistwood's rune bears would trouble him soon enough.

Lucian gathered the corpses of the fallen into a heap. Around him, a handful of mercenaries and Tarnished stirred weakly from amidst the carnage, scarcely alive.

"Search the bodies," Lucian commanded. "Find whoever still breathes. Bind their wounds. Stay here. Healers will come."

As they obeyed, the Ancient King whispered in his mind: Look there.

From the direction of the Mistwood, a figure emerged.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a wolf's head upon his neck. On his back, a colossal greatsword. In his right hand, he dragged the corpse of a Night's Cavalryman.

The wolf-headed giant stopped, his voice rough yet articulate.

"I come bearing orders… to strike an accord with you."

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