The city slept, but Lucien did not.
Perched atop the highest tower of the Citadel, he stared at the horizon, the faint light of dawn brushing the spires in gold. Below him, his pawns slept in scattered safehouses, exhausted but alive. Above, the wind whispered through the battlements. And within him, something far older than the city stirred—The White.
He closed his eyes.
Time in The White had taught him patience, precision, and pain. It had honed his body, sharpened his mind, and stretched his will beyond human limits. But here, in a world that still obeyed the laws of mortality, he could refine himself further.
He let his aura flow freely. Not as a weapon, but as a river, coursing through every vein, every fiber of his being. He focused on its resonance, the faint tremors that echoed from soul to body. The sensation was intoxicating—every heartbeat amplified, every nerve ignited.
"Strength is nothing without control," he whispered to the night.
He began small, forming blades of aura around his fingers, then around his limbs. Each motion precise, each strike a lesson in efficiency. He simulated battles against invisible opponents, forcing himself to predict, react, and strike simultaneously.
Hours—or perhaps minutes, for time felt different—passed. His aura became a living extension of his body, capable of acting independently yet perfectly synchronized with his will. He practiced splitting it, weaving multiple streams of energy, learning how to manipulate pressure, force, and momentum in ways that no ordinary man could comprehend.
Then came the breakthrough.
Lucien closed his eyes deeper, letting the memory of The White flood him. The endless void, the monsters that multiplied, the suffocating silence… all of it surged through his aura. He felt the threads of time bending around him, the echo of every attack he had endured, the memory of every strike he had landed.
And suddenly, he understood.
Aura was not just energy. It was extension of the soul. It could bend reality in subtle ways. It could anticipate, resist, and overpower—if wielded correctly.
He opened his eyes, and the tower trembled beneath him as his aura flared outward in a perfect sphere. The city below shivered as invisible force brushed across the streets. Lucien's pale frame stood unmoving, calm, almost ethereal.
"Good," he whispered. "Not enough to be feared… yet. But enough to ensure survival. And survival is only the first step."
He drew a deep breath, letting the energy recede back into himself. Every muscle screamed. Every nerve throbbed. But his mind was clearer than it had ever been.
From the depths of The White to the streets of the Citadel, Lucien Dreamveil had evolved.
And soon, the world would know why he was called the Sole Exception.