The plaza seemed to hold its breath. Dust swirled around the crumbling stones, and the merchants' cries faded into a tense silence. Lucien's pale eyes never wavered. He did not move immediately; he observed. Every twitch of a muscle, every flare of aura, every subtle ripple in their shadows — nothing escaped him.
The crimson-caped newcomer stepped forward first, spinning with dramatic flair. His cape flowed behind him without wind, and his smirk suggested absolute confidence. "I hoped the stories were true," he said, voice carrying to the farthest edges of the square. "But they never spoke of this much arrogance. Tell me, pale one… are you here to die, or simply to amuse me?"
The twin-bladed figure lunged, striking with impossible speed. Two streaks of silver collided midair, clashing against Lucien's shadows before they could even land. The force sent ripples across the plaza, toppling crates and scattering guards.
The metallic-gauntleted fighter slammed a fist into the ground, creating a shockwave that rolled toward Lucien like a living beast. He leapt into the air effortlessly, cloak flowing behind him, shadows undulating in a controlled, mesmerizing rhythm. His landing was silent, precise — no dust rose, no stones cracked under him, yet the force of his presence made the air feel heavy, oppressive.
For the first time in weeks, Lucien felt a spark of excitement. These three were not merely strong — they carried style, precision, and arrogance in equal measure. Each movement, each pose, each flourish of weaponry was part performance, part calculated threat. They were dangerous in ways that went beyond raw strength: presence, confidence, and an uncanny ability to unsettle even the most composed opponents.
Lucien's turn came silently. One subtle step, and the shadows around him expanded, curling toward the nearest threat with serpentine precision. The twin-bladed fighter swung again, but the shadows coiled midair, intercepting, redirecting, and twisting the attack harmlessly aside.
The crimson-caped man laughed, loud and theatrical, as he spun away. "Interesting. You move like one who has survived the impossible… but can you fight the impossible?"
Another leap, another clash. Sparks of energy flared as blade met shadow, metal against darkness. The plaza shook, stones cracking beneath the rhythm of their battle. Guards and citizens watched in frozen terror, yet could not look away.
Even amid the chaos, Lucien's mind calculated every strike, every opening. He did not simply react — he predicted. He analyzed their arrogance, their tendencies, their rhythm, and exploited subtle flaws without a word, without a gesture beyond the almost imperceptible shift of his cloak or the ripple of his shadows.
The three adversaries began to realize that their theatrics, their poses, their aura — the very confidence they wore like armor — was being turned against them. Their strikes, once meant to intimidate, were deflected, outmaneuvered, or absorbed by sheer mastery of presence.
Yet even as Lucien gained the upper hand, he sensed it: the subtle edge of danger that marked true power. These were no ordinary villains. Individually, they could challenge even the strongest of soldiers. Together… they were a storm he could not casually dismiss.
A faint grin tugged at Lucien's lips. Finally, he thought, a challenge worth my attention.
The battle had begun — not just of strength, but of dominance, style, and calculated presence. And somewhere, far beyond the city, distant eyes watched. Whispers carried on the wind: "The Sole Exception has appeared… and yet, there are forces in this world that may rival even him."
The fight was not just for victory. It was a statement: the world was waking, and the stage had been set.