I.
Two days of stillness.
Two days of sitting in the meditation chamber, eyes closed, reaching inward toward a part of himself he was only beginning to understand.
And now, finally, it was done.
Lucian opened his eyes. The meditation chamber looked the same as before—cushioned mats, soft lamplight, paper screens filtering the morning sun—but something fundamental had shifted. Not in the room. In him.
His soul felt... denser. More solid. Like a muscle that had been strained to its limit, then rebuilt stronger. The difference was subtle, but unmistakable. He could feel it in the way his awareness settled, the way his breathing came easier, the way the Twin Blades at his hips seemed to hum with a frequency that matched his own.
D-rank, he thought. I actually did it.
"You've broken through."
Varen's voice came from the doorway. She stood with her arms crossed, watching him with those sharp, assessing eyes. Her expression gave nothing away.
"I felt it happen," Lucian said, rising to his feet. His legs protested—two days of sitting would do that—but he ignored the discomfort. "Last night. Something clicked."
"The hard part comes next." Varen pushed off from the doorframe. "But not today. You've earned a rest. Go to the church for cleansing, then take the day. Clear your head."
It was the most generous thing she'd ever said to him.
"Tomorrow?" he asked.
"Early start. Make sure you get enough sleep." She turned to leave, then paused. "The Church of the Storm is closest. Head up toward the peak—you'll see the spires."
She was gone before he could respond.
Lucian stood alone in the meditation chamber, letting the silence settle around him. Two days of stillness, and now he was being set loose. Free time. Actual free time, for the first time since he'd arrived in this world.
I should probably use it wisely.
He collected his blades, adjusted his uniform, and stepped out into the morning light.
II.
Highcrest was beautiful.
Lucian had known, intellectually, that the city was built on a mountain peak. He'd seen fragments of it from the barracks, glimpses through windows and over walls. But walking through it now, climbing the steep streets toward the church district, the full scope of it finally registered.
The city wrapped around the mountain like a crown—a C-shape of stone and timber, with the back of the peak left exposed to the sky. Streets wound upward in spiraling paths, lined with buildings that seemed to grow out of the rock itself. Stairs were carved into the steeper sections, worn smooth by generations of feet. And everywhere, there was the sense of up—the constant incline, the pull of gravity reminding you that you were climbing toward something.
Lucian paused at a landing where the street opened into a small plaza. The view stole his breath.
Below him, the city spread out in layers—the lower districts hazy with morning smoke, the middle city already bustling with market activity, the rooftops forming a patchwork of gray and brown that descended toward the mountain's base. Beyond the city, the land fell away into rolling hills and distant forests, and on the horizon, barely visible through the morning haze—
The Capital.
A cluster of towers, too far to see clearly, but unmistakable nonetheless. The heart of the kingdom. The place where decisions were made, where power concentrated, where people like his father had once walked the halls of influence.
His father.
The thought came unbidden, and Lucian pushed it away. Not today. Today was for breathing. For processing. For finally letting himself acknowledge what he'd been too busy to face.
I'm actually in a different world now.
He stood at the plaza's edge, looking out over the city he was slowly learning to call home, and let that truth settle into his bones.
Mark Chen was dead. Or as good as dead—trapped in a body that wasn't his, in a world that operated by rules he was only beginning to understand. His old life, his old identity, his friends and family and everything he'd known—all of it was gone. Replaced by this. A mountain city built on stone. A squad of monster hunters who'd taken him in. A pair of cursed blades that would kill him if he used them too long.
And two souls fighting for space in one body.
He thought about the second soul—the original Lucian's, still bound to his flesh, keeping his heart beating and his lungs breathing. He thought about how it floated above him even now, a hundred meters up, watching the city from an angle no human eye could reach.
What am I?
He didn't have an answer. Maybe he never would.
But he was alive. He was getting stronger. And for now, that would have to be enough.
Lucian turned away from the view and continued his climb toward the church.
III.
The Church of the Storm rose from the mountain's peak like a prayer made stone.
It was smaller than the Church of the Sun—Lucian had seen that massive structure from a distance, all golden spires and stained glass that caught the morning light like fire. But what the Church of the Storm lacked in size, it made up for in presence. Its towers were sharp and angular, reaching toward the sky like lightning frozen mid-strike. The stonework was dark gray, almost black, and the windows were set with glass the color of storm clouds. Even the air around it felt charged, thick with something that made the hair on Lucian's arms stand on end.
He climbed the broad steps and entered through the main doors.
Inside, the church was surprisingly peaceful. Candles lined the walls in iron sconces, their flames steady despite the faint draft that whispered through the chamber. The ceiling vaulted high overhead, painted with murals of storms and wind and rain—the Storm God's domain, rendered in swirling blues and grays. Rows of wooden pews led toward an altar at the far end, where a priest in gray robes was conducting a quiet prayer for a small congregation.
Lucian found a place near the back and waited.
The cleansing ritual, when it came, was simpler than he'd expected. A different priest approached him—younger, with kind eyes and a calm voice—and led him to a side chamber where a basin of consecrated water waited. The prayers were spoken in the old tongue, words Lucian didn't understand but felt resonating in his chest. The priest touched water to his forehead, his hands, his heart, and spoke a blessing that seemed to sink through his skin and settle somewhere deep.
When it was done, Lucian felt... lighter. Not physically, but spiritually. Like a film of grime had been washed away from something essential.
"You may stay as long as you need," the priest said. "The Storm God welcomes all who seek shelter from the chaos."
Lucian thanked him and returned to the main chamber.
He wasn't sure why he lingered. The cleansing was complete; he could leave. But something kept him there, sitting in one of the back pews, watching the morning light filter through the storm-gray windows. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the sense of something larger than himself, something that didn't care about souls or Blights or the complicated mess of his existence.
Or maybe it was because he'd noticed someone familiar.
Near the front of the church, a figure knelt in prayer. Blonde hair, cropped short. A wooden staff laid across her lap. She wore full priest robes—not the cropped top and unusual bottom he'd seen before, but proper vestments that covered her from neck to ankle. Her hair was kept, neat, pulled back from her face in a way that made her look older. More serious.
Senna.
She looked completely different.
Lucian watched as she lifted a pendant from around her neck—a small symbol of the Storm God, worked in silver—and pressed it to her lips in reverence. Her eyes were closed, her expression peaceful. She murmured something too quiet to hear, then rose to her feet.
That was when she noticed him.
Their eyes met across the length of the church. Senna blinked, clearly surprised to see him there. Then she gathered her staff and walked toward him, her robes swishing softly against the stone floor.
"You're the new one," she said when she reached him. "Varen's student."
"Lucian." He stood to meet her. "And you're... Senna, right? From the other day."
"That's right." She studied him for a moment, her head tilting slightly. "I barely recognized you. You look different outside the barracks."
I could say the same about you, Lucian thought, but kept it to himself.
"I'm here for cleansing," he said instead. "Just finished."
"I'm here for practice." She gestured vaguely toward the altar. "I train here twice a week. The Church raised me, so..." She shrugged, the motion oddly casual given her formal attire. "It's like coming home, I suppose."
An awkward silence stretched between them.
"I'm almost done," Senna said finally. "If you don't mind waiting, we could walk back to the barracks together. It's a long way, and..." She hesitated. "It might be nice to have company."
Lucian considered it. He'd planned to spend the day alone, processing. But something about her offer felt genuine—not pity, not obligation, just a simple desire for companionship.
"Sure," he said. "I'll wait."
IV.
They descended through the city together, the steep streets unwinding beneath their feet.
Senna had changed out of her full robes somewhere in the church's side chambers, emerging in her usual attire—the black cropped top that showed her midriff, the priest-style robes covering her lower half. The contrast was striking. In full vestments, she'd looked like a proper priestess, serious and devout. Now she looked like what she was: a young woman caught between two worlds, trying to belong to both.
"So," she said as they navigated a particularly steep set of stairs, "you've broken through. D-rank already."
Lucian glanced at her. "How can you tell?"
"I can see souls now, remember? Finished my perception training." She smiled, the expression tired but genuine. "You feel different than you did before. Denser. More... solid."
"It took two days," he said. "Straight meditation."
"That's fast. Most people take weeks." She gave him an appraising look. "Varen must have pushed you hard."
"She didn't do much. Just told me to meditate and figure it out."
"That sounds like her." Senna's smile turned wry. "She's not big on hand-holding."
They walked in comfortable silence for a while, the city passing around them. The morning crowds had thinned as they moved into the middle districts, the markets giving way to craftsmen's workshops and modest homes. The air smelled of bread and smoke and something faintly metallic.
"So now you're starting physical training?" Senna asked eventually.
"That's what Varen said."
"And you're being trained by her specifically?"
"Apparently."
Senna was quiet for a moment. Then: "Just... be ready. That's all I'll say."
Lucian looked at her. Her expression had changed—something flickering behind her eyes that he couldn't quite read.
"Ready for what?"
"You'll see." She didn't elaborate. Just kept walking, her staff tapping softly against the cobblestones.
Lucian filed the warning away. He'd learned that in this world, ominous hints usually meant exactly what they implied. But there was nothing he could do about it now, so he changed the subject.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"You're a priest-in-training. But you're in Squad 8—not Squad 1."
Senna's stride faltered, just slightly. "You noticed that."
"I did some reading before the tests. From what I understood, priest-Creed members usually get assigned to Squad 1. The Church's squad."
"That's the normal path, yes."
"So why are you with us?"
She didn't answer immediately. They rounded a corner, emerging onto a wider street that offered another view of the city below. Senna stopped walking and moved to the edge, looking out over the rooftops.
"I requested a transfer," she said finally. "When I was old enough to choose my assignment, I asked to be placed in Squad 8."
"Why?"
"Because of Captain Varen." She paused, and something shifted in her posture—a tension that hadn't been there before. "She saved my life, a long time ago. When I was just a child."
Lucian waited.
"My mother..." Senna's voice dropped, becoming quieter. More fragile. "My mother was the only family I had. I never knew my father. It was just us, for as long as I could remember. And then one night, she..."
She stopped. Her hand tightened on her staff, pulling it closer to her body—a gesture that seemed almost unconscious, like holding onto something precious.
"She turned into a Blight," Senna finished. "A Type A. The worst kind."
The words hung in the air between them.
"The Creed responded," she continued after a moment. "Squad 1, back when Varen was still a new member. She was the one who... who stopped it. Who stopped her." The grip on her staff tightened further. "And afterward, she gave me this. Said it would protect me."
Lucian looked at the staff—really looked at it for the first time. Plain wood, worn smooth from years of use. Nothing remarkable about it, at first glance. But the way she held it...
He didn't ask. Some things weren't meant to be explained.
"The Church took me in after that," Senna said. "I had nowhere else to go. And when I got older, I decided I wanted to fight. To make sure no other child had to go through what I did." She turned to face him, her expression composed despite the weight of what she'd shared. "That's why I'm in Squad 8. Because Varen is here. Because she's the reason I'm still alive."
Lucian didn't know what to say. He thought about his own story—his father, the ritual, Alice's sacrifice. Different circumstances, but the same core truth: they'd both lost family to the darkness that lurked beyond the veil.
"I understand," he said quietly.
"I know you do." Something in her gaze softened. "I heard about what happened to you. The Count's son. The ritual."
Lucian's jaw tightened, but he didn't look away. "My father tried to sacrifice me. My sister died saving my life."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"It's fine." He exhaled slowly. "The wounds are still fresh. But I'd rather people know than make assumptions."
They stood there for a moment, two survivors of the same kind of tragedy, connected by shared understanding.
Then Senna smiled—a small, genuine expression that reached her eyes.
"We should keep moving," she said. "It's still a long walk."
V.
The Squad 8 barracks were quiet when they arrived—most members out on patrols or training exercises, the halls empty save for the occasional passing staff member.
But the entrance hall was not empty.
A young man stood near the reception area, surrounded by bags and traveling cases. Dark skin, green eyes that caught the lamplight with an almost electric brightness, and hair that gleamed silver in a way that seemed impossible for someone his age. He was looking around with the slightly lost expression of someone newly arrived in an unfamiliar place.
Senna stopped. "You're new. I don't recognize you."
The young man turned, his expression shifting from confusion to friendly interest. "Just got here about an hour ago. Name's Ashwin." He smiled—quick, bright, easy. "Transferred from the Capital. I'm supposed to be joining Squad 8, but nobody's told me where to go yet."
"Capital?" Senna approached him, curiosity overcoming any reservations. "That's a long way to come. What brings you all the way out here?"
"Orders, mostly. They said Squad 8 needed fresh blood." Ashwin shrugged, picking up one of his bags. "I'm not complaining. I've heard interesting things about this unit."
"Interesting isn't wrong," Lucian said, stepping forward. "I'm Lucian. Also relatively new."
"Ah, excellent. Fellow newcomer." Ashwin's grin widened. "Maybe we can figure this place out together."
Before anyone could respond, a familiar voice cut through the hall.
"Ashwin. Good, you're here."
Varen strode into the entrance hall, her boots clicking against the stone floor. Her gaze swept over the three of them—assessing, cataloging, filing away whatever observations she'd made in that sharp mind of hers.
"Lucian, Senna," she said. "Show him to the barracks. Get him settled."
"Yes, ma'am," Senna replied.
Varen turned to leave, then paused. Her eyes found Lucian.
"And Lucian—we have an early day tomorrow. Make sure you get enough rest."
She didn't explain. Didn't elaborate. Just delivered the words like they were nothing—a simple instruction, easily overlooked.
But Lucian caught the slight tension in her voice. The way Senna glanced away, suddenly very interested in the wall.
"Understood," he said.
Varen nodded once and left.
Ashwin looked between them, clearly sensing something unspoken. "Did I miss something?"
"Just... Varen being Varen," Senna said quickly. "Come on. Let's get you set up."
The tour was brief but thorough.
They showed Ashwin the training yards, the armory, the common areas, and finally his assigned quarters in the residential wing. He asked questions constantly—about the barracks, about the city, about what missions were like—but in a way that felt more curious than demanding.
By the time they finished, the sun was setting and Lucian's stomach was reminding him that he hadn't eaten since morning.
"Dinner?" Senna suggested, as if reading his thoughts. "The mess hall should have something ready."
Ashwin's eyes lit up. "Now you're speaking my language."
The mess hall was a large room near the barracks' center, filled with long wooden tables and the smell of roasted meat and bread. A few other squad members were scattered about, eating in small groups, but the three of them found an empty table near the wall.
The food was simple but filling—stew, bread, and some kind of roasted vegetables Lucian didn't recognize. They ate in comfortable silence for a while before Ashwin spoke up.
"So," he said between bites, "I've got a question. Everyone keeps giving me strange looks when I mention I have a Spirit Pact. What's the deal with that?"
Senna and Lucian exchanged glances.
"Squad 8 has a reputation," Senna said carefully. "Some people call it the reject squad. Most of us are Item users, not Pact holders."
"So I'm the odd one out?" Ashwin didn't seem bothered. If anything, he looked amused. "I've been the odd one out my whole life. This is nothing new."
"What kind of Spirit Pact?" Lucian asked.
"Lightning. Raiken." Ashwin grinned. "Most temperamental spirit you'll ever meet, but we get along."
"And they sent you here? To Highcrest?"
"Orders from the Capital." Ashwin shrugged, tearing off a piece of bread. "They said Squad 8 needed fresh blood. I didn't ask questions."
There was a story there, Lucian could tell. But he didn't push. Everyone in Squad 8 seemed to have their secrets.
They finished their meal as the mess hall slowly emptied around them. Eventually, Lucian pushed his plate aside and stood.
"I should get some rest," he said. "Early day tomorrow, apparently."
"Lucian."
Senna's voice stopped him before he could leave. He turned.
She sat at the table still, staff leaning against her shoulder, her expression hard to read in the lamplight.
"Good luck tomorrow," she said. "You're probably going to need it."
There was something in her voice—not quite sympathy, not quite warning, but somewhere in between. Like she knew exactly what was waiting for him and couldn't decide whether to feel sorry or amused.
"...Thanks," Lucian said.
Senna smiled—that small, knowing smile—and returned to her meal.
Lucian left the mess hall, unease prickling at the back of his mind. What's waiting for me tomorrow?
He shook off the feeling. Whatever it was, he'd handle it. He'd survived a sacrifice, a transformation, and a pair of cursed blades. A training session couldn't be that bad.
He entered his room, closed the door, and lay down on the narrow bed.
Tomorrow. Early day.
Whatever it is, I can handle it.
Sleep came slowly, but when it finally took him, Lucian dreamed of storms.
END OF CHAPTER 3