Lucian stepped out from the site of grace.
Melina was nowhere to be seen. She must have been too shy after what had just happened. If he lingered inside the grace any longer, she likely wouldn't appear again.
So there was no point in staying. He had to press on.
Still, his heart thumped madly.
What had just happened was far beyond what he had expected. A kiss. Not just his own feelings, but hers, too. She had answered him.
And truly—what joy in this world surpassed two hearts in harmony?
That must mean they were together now… right?
…He couldn't help smiling at the thought.
A short distance ahead, Selyra was waiting by the tower. When she caught sight of him, she tilted her head slightly, puzzled.
Ever since stepping out, Lucian had been distracted, his gaze distant, his air changed.
The man she knew was decisive. Once he set his mind on battle, he never wavered, never spared his hand, and would pursue his decision to its end.
But now, something felt different. His sharp edge had dulled. His purity, greatly reduced.
Not that it mattered to her. Whatever mood he was in, she had only one duty: to obey his command.
Lucian steadied himself. The warmth of Melina's touch… that would have to wait. Once he gave her a true body, they could think of such things again. For now, what mattered was the task at hand.
He let his eyes wander to Selyra.
She was dressed in a sleek, sleeveless black dress that hugged her frame and flowed like a dancer's gown. Against its dark sheen, her pale skin seemed to glow faintly, luminous as ivory. The hem of the dress left her long legs bare, crossed gracefully as she leaned against the tower wall.
Her silver-white hair draped over her shoulders, the tips lifting now and then in the night breeze. In one hand she idly twirled a silver-inlaid dagger, its gleam catching the faint moonlight.
Her face was elegant, refined—yet cold as carved stone. An aura that warded all approach.
Changed out of her assassin's garb, Selyra no longer looked the dreaded Black Knife. Instead, she carried the air of some exotic dancer from a distant land.
Lucian found the effect pleasing.
More importantly, no one would ever connect this figure with the Black Knives. Whoever had prepared the outfit, likely Ranni, had chosen well. It wasn't of Liurnia's style at all. Perhaps it hailed from Tanith's homeland.
Everything was ready. Time to return.
He needed to bring Selyra back to Stormveil.
The festival of combat was only six or seven days away. The journey back would take at least a day or two, which left little time to carry out his plan of leading the Drakeblood Knights into Caelid. Tight, perhaps too tight.
But that could wait. It wasn't something that had to be done before the festival. Besides, he had no idea if they had already dealt with the Drake Knight lurking beneath their stronghold. Better to have the Stormhawks deliver a message: finish the task, secure the lift to Caelid, and hold position.
As for himself, once back at Stormveil, he would first visit Master Sellen. He had scrolls to deliver, and he wanted to see how many spells he could master before the festival. He also wondered how far Master Thops had progressed in his research into sorceries of force.
Lucian's plan was simple: rest a few days, then teleport straight to Caelid for the festival.
Together with Selyra, he made his way through Caria Manor. Thanks to Ranni's arrangements, no one tried to hinder them. Only the Fingercreepers hissed and raised their grotesque limbs, flipping obscene gestures as they attacked. Likely no one had warned them.
They were hardly a threat. With little effort, Lucian brushed them aside, and soon the pair passed beyond the manor. Even the rain of magic arrows from the skies ceased—proof that Seluvis, too, had been warned.
At last, they reached Smithing Master Iji's forge.
But beyond the forge, a thick stone wall sealed the road. The slope stretched three to four hundred meters, completely blocked.
Lucian remembered; there was a hidden door here. He could break the wall if he wished, but there was no need. The storm was a better tool for uncovering secrets.
He sent a swirl of wind across the stone, sweeping away the moss. At once, the glamour broke, revealing a concealed gate.
Beyond lay the ruins of an old residential quarter. Once, this slope overlooking the Lake of Liurnia had been Carian royal land, lined with noble estates and fine houses. Thousands must have lived here.
Until the Cuckoos came. Their assault had annihilated everything. The buildings were gutted, the people erased. Nothing remained.
—or so it seemed.
From a ruined arch, a spindly creature leapt, lunging at Lucian.
Selyra moved first. She vaulted into the air, her dagger flashing across the attacker's throat. The head rolled free before the body even struck the ground.
The corpse fell at Lucian's feet. Cloaked in tattered rags soaked with filth, bedecked with broken jewelry, its twisted limbs sprouted in unnatural pairs. Its face was blackened, shriveled, tortured.
A revenant.
They had once been men. But when the cuckoos captured the Carian royals and their servants, they had twisted them into these abominations—mockeries, crafted not for strength but for humiliation.
The revenants were powerful in their own right, with grotesque abilities that outmatched even the second-born Albinaurics. Yet they obeyed no order, often harming their own masters. Still, the cuckoos delighted in their creation, leaving them behind in Carian ruins as eternal reminders of their cruelty.
Lucian knew what that meant: where one lurked, more would follow.
He drew the Sword of Night and Flame.
The crystalline glint on its blade flared, casting a soft glow. A star of magic blossomed above his head, bathing the ruins in light.
Starlight.
With their forms exposed, the revenants shrieked in hatred of the glow and rushed at him. Some shook little bells, calling forth cursed spirits to hound them relentlessly.
Selyra danced among the ruins, her blade flashing, cutting revenants down even as she drew their cursed summons into a futile chase.
Lucian raised his sword. Fire burst from the hollowed blade, a flame heavy with the savage might of giants. Its heat stung his eyes, burned into his skin.
He swung—and a wave of fire roared forth.
Air ignited. The ruins were consumed in flame. Revenants and cursed spirits alike screamed as the blaze devoured them, their twisted existences purified in the inferno.
In seconds it was done. Only charred stone remained.
Lucian nodded in satisfaction. The fire's reach was vast even without storm to carry it. He could only imagine the comet's power.
Torrent suddenly darted ahead, ears pricked. Lucian followed with a swift strike. His blade severed a half-dozen limbs in one clean sweep, the edge meeting no resistance.
The attacker howled. Its pallid face twisted into a grotesque mask, mouth stretched wide in a silent scream reminiscent of Edvard Munch's The Scream.
A Royal Revenant.
Its shriek was so piercing, so unnatural, that even the grafted nobles' roars seemed soft in comparison. A cry fit not to scare children, but to kill them outright.
It was no wonder the Royal Revenant was among the most reviled beasts in the Lands Between. Crawling from the soil without warning, their many limbs thrashing like centipedes, their grotesque forms crowned by ornate remnants of their noble past—it was horror embodied.
Holy incantations had no effect. Only healing incantations could harm them, proof that they yet lived in some tortured state. To cure them was to wound them.
Normally, he would use such incantations. But Lucian wanted to test his blade.
He raised the Sword of Night and Flame. Power surged into the blade, the crystals glowing one by one, building at the tip.
A stream of deep-blue comet-fire erupted forth, lancing straight through the revenant. Everything in its path was annihilated. The torrent of power streaked across the skies above the Lake of Liurnia, trailing like a true comet.
When it faded, the revenant was gone. Only severed limbs remained, smooth as polished stone where they had been cut.
Lucian stared, astonished.
So this was a +7 legendary armament. The comet stream drank his FP greedily, its width limited, but its sheer destructive force was beyond compare. None of his techniques could match its penetrating might.
Compared to the flame, the comet was overwhelming. Perhaps that was only natural. The sword's crystals were tuned to sorcery, not fire.
Still, fire could be paired with storm. It had its place. And besides—this was a straight sword that breathed fire. That alone was worth wielding.
The other revenants shrieked in despair, hurling themselves toward him.
Lucian tightened his grip. With each stroke, he granted them release. No longer would they suffer in such wretched, twisted forms.