Chapter 334: Saved
Manco and Shelia moved through Thornridge's dimly lit streets, their footsteps muffled against the damp cobblestones. The city's life had retreated with the sun, leaving only scattered lanterns casting their meager glow on the alleys. The scent of wet stone mingled with wood smoke, and somewhere distant, a dog barked—a lone, hollow sound swallowed by the dark.
Shelia pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her sharp eyes flickering toward every shadow. "Feels like the city's holding its breath," she murmured.
Manco nodded, keeping his voice low. "It always does when the serpents start to slither."
They moved carefully, sticking to the edges of buildings where the light failed to reach. Thornridge had changed in the months since the Crimson Serpent Sect had seized control. Gone were the nights of calm taverns and lantern-lit markets. Now, only silence reigned—the kind that bred whispers of rebellion and the weight of conquest.
"Do you think she's still in there?" Shelia asked, her tone hushed but heavy.
"She has to be," Manco replied. "If they were going to parade her, they'd have done it already."
Before Shelia could respond, a sharp surge of mana rippled through the air. The force was unmistakable—powerful and uncontrolled, like a whip lashing at the night. Manco froze mid-step, his gaze snapping toward the northern quarter where the Crimson Serpent Sect's pagoda loomed.
Another surge followed, then another.
Shelia sucked in a breath, her fingers twitching toward the dagger at her belt. "What in the Void is that?"
"Fighting," Manco muttered, his jaw tightening. "And not just any fighting."
They crept toward the nearest street corner, pressing themselves into the shadows as they peered out. What they saw confirmed Manco's suspicions.
Flares of mana lit the rooftops, streaks of crimson and violet energy carving through the night like falling stars. Figures dashed along the stone terraces, silhouettes weaving and colliding in bursts of light. The faint echoes of shouting and clashing steel carried through the darkness, but from this distance, the words were lost.
"It's the Crimson Serpent Elders," Shelia said in a near-whisper, her face pale under the lantern glow. "They're moving."
Manco's gaze sharpened, following the faint shapes moving through the air. The elders of the Crimson Serpent Sect—those cruel, powerful figures—were in motion, chasing someone or something through the city. He could feel their oppressive mana like a pressure against his ribs, even from here.
"Who are they after?" Shelia asked. "A rival sect? Someone important?"
Manco didn't answer right away, his mind already spinning. Whoever the elders were chasing, they were drawing every eye and ear in Thornridge, pulling the sect's strength outward. It was a rare opportunity and one they couldn't waste.
"This is our chance," he said, his voice steady but urgent. "The sect will be thinner inside. We can slip in, find her, and get out before anyone notices."
Shelia turned to him sharply. "Are you insane? If they catch us, we'll be dead before we see the gates again."
"They won't catch us," Manco said, more to convince himself than her. "They're too busy with—whatever this is. It's the only opening we're going to get."
Shelia swore under her breath but nodded. "Fine. But we move carefully. I'm not dying tonight."
"Neither is she," Manco replied.
They picked up their pace, slipping through alleys and narrow side streets as they made their way toward the Crimson Serpent Sect's pagoda.
'What is this?'
Manco and Shelia slipped through the crumbling outer wall of the Crimson Serpent Sect's grounds, emerging into a courtyard bathed in eerie stillness. The oppressive weight of mana lingered in the air, thicker now, clinging to their skin like a second layer of grime. But something else struck Manco first—a sharp, metallic tang that filled his nostrils and turned his stomach.
The smell of iron.
Shelia froze beside him, her face twisting. "Do you smell that?"
Manco's throat tightened. "Blood."
The realization struck just as they rounded the corner of a training hall. The courtyard sprawled before them, drenched in the soft, silvery light of a half-moon. And scattered across the stone like discarded dolls were bodies—dozens of them.
The disciples of the Crimson Serpent Sect.
Shelia staggered back, her hand flying to her mouth. Her wide eyes darted across the scene, landing on the lifeless forms crumpled on the ground. Crimson robes darkened with slick patches of blood. Some bodies were slumped against walls, others sprawled awkwardly where they had fallen, their weapons lying useless at their sides.
Manco's heart pounded against his ribs as he scanned the faces. He recognized them. Of course he did.
"There… there's Jorath," Shelia choked out, pointing with a trembling hand. "And Vynn. That bastard laughed when they burned our banners."
Manco's eyes fell on Jorath, the once-arrogant disciple who had stood at the front when their sect was conquered. Now he lay motionless, his glassy stare fixed on nothing, blood pooling beneath his broken form.
"Burghk—!"
Shelia doubled over, retching violently. The sound echoed unnaturally in the quiet courtyard. Manco stood frozen, unable to tear his gaze away. He had dreamed of vengeance, of seeing the Crimson Serpent Sect suffer, but this… this was something else entirely.
"How… how did this happen?" Shelia gasped, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow. "Who could do this? The elders—where are the elders?"
Before Manco could answer, another sound reached them. A distant clash of steel, sharper and fiercer than before. The unmistakable hum of mana rippling through the air followed—a pressure so intense that the cobblestones beneath their feet seemed to hum in response.
The sound came from deeper within the sect.
"There's still fighting," Manco muttered, his voice hoarse. He could feel it, the energy rippling outward like shockwaves through the air, vibrating through his very bones.
But then, as abruptly as it began, the ripples stopped. Silence fell over the sect, thick and suffocating.
And then they heard it.
A voice. Smooth, calm, yet cutting through the stillness like a knife through silk.
"Come here."
The voice—smooth and commanding—lingered in the air, as if carried on the weight of the mana that still buzzed faintly around them. Manco exchanged a glance with Shelia, both of them hesitating for only a moment.
"We have no choice," Manco said quietly. "If that voice belongs to whoever did this…" He gestured faintly at the lifeless bodies around them. "Then they would've already killed us if they wanted to."
Shelia swallowed hard, her knuckles white as they gripped the hilt of her dagger. "Fine," she said, her voice tight. "Let's get this over with."
Together, they moved forward, their footsteps slow and deliberate, the silence of the courtyard swallowing every sound. Each step felt like walking into the maw of a predator, but there was no turning back now. The pull of the voice—the owner of that terrifying, casual power—was too strong to ignore.
They reached an opening between two pagoda buildings, the passage yawning into a larger courtyard beyond. There, under the pale light of the half-moon, they saw him.
A young man stood at the center of the blood-streaked courtyard, his back straight and posture calm, as if the carnage around him was no more troubling than a summer breeze. His clothes were unremarkable—dark, travel-worn garments with a long cloak that billowed faintly in the breeze. But it was his eyes that struck Manco like a fist to the chest: dark as the void, unyielding and fathomless, reflecting no light and revealing nothing.
And beside him…
Shelia froze mid-step. Her wide eyes locked onto the figure seated elegantly on a broken pillar just beside the young man—a cat. A silver-furred cat with delicate features, her tail curling lazily as she watched them approach with unnerving intelligence.
"Ah…" The sound came from Shelia's throat, a mix of disbelief and awe. "Ah… Lady… Lady Vitaliara…"
Manco blinked sharply, his mind struggling to comprehend the sight. It was her. There was no mistaking it. Lady Vitaliara, the silver cat that had once protected their sect—a being of ancient mana, revered and mysterious. The very same creature that had shielded them in their time of need.
The cat blinked slowly, her sharp golden eyes fixing on Shelia with an expression that could almost be called amused.
"...Hmph."
The young man's lips curled into a faint smirk, a sharp contrast to the stillness in his dark gaze. His voice was casual when he finally spoke, yet each word carried a weight that hung in the air.
"It appears you two are quite brave." He gestured to the lifeless courtyard around them. "Walking into this… in the hopes of saving your young lady, even though she's locked here, in such a dangerous place."
The words struck Manco like a slap, his heart pounding faster. Whoever this young man was, his presence alone was enough to still the air, as though the very mana of the sect bent to his will.
"Who are you?" Manco demanded, forcing his voice steady despite the dryness in his throat. "Do we know you?"
The young man chuckled softly, though the sound was more unsettling than comforting. He turned slightly, pointing a finger toward the cat perched beside him.
"Who am I? Let's say I'm her confidant," he said with a faint shrug, as if the explanation required no further clarification. "Her voice, her hands—depending on the day."
Manco swallowed hard, his gaze shifting back to Lady Vitaliara, who regarded them with a quiet, feline patience. Shelia's mouth worked silently, as though trying to find words that wouldn't come.
The young man tilted his head slightly, studying them with those dark, piercing eyes. "Anyway…" he said suddenly, breaking the stillness. "You're here to save your young lady, aren't you? Then let's get moving. Time is short."
"What?" Shelia blinked, stunned. "You… you're going to help us?"
The young man smirked again, though the expression didn't quite reach his eyes. "Do you think I called you here for idle conversation?" He turned, his cloak swirling around him like the edge of a shadow. "Come on. Let's go take your fellow disciples out, shall we?"
Manco and Shelia exchanged one more look—half disbelief, half fear—before nodding in unison.
Whatever this young man was, whatever power he held, one thing was clear: he was their best chance at saving her.
And right now, that was all that mattered.
Chapter 335: Saved (2)
At that time when Lucavion had left, the heavy iron door groaned as it shut behind Lucavion, leaving Ilyana and the other disciples in stunned silence. The faint echoes of his footsteps faded slowly into the oppressive quiet of the underground chamber, replaced only by the shallow, uneven breaths of those around her.
For a moment, no one spoke. The air was thick with disbelief, confusion, and the lingering chill of hopelessness. Ilyana sank to the cold stone floor, her weakened limbs trembling as her mana, newly freed, fluttered uncertainly within her. Around her, the other disciples stirred, their gaunt faces a mixture of wonder and wariness.
"Lady Vitaliara…" whispered one of the disciples, her voice hoarse and barely audible. "How… how is she here?"
"And who is he?" murmured another, the words breaking like glass in the fragile silence. "That young man… how could someone like him—?"
The questions spread, hushed voices rippling across the chamber. Each disciple clutched at their restraints, at the remnants of their chains, as though to confirm they had truly been freed. They looked to Ilyana for answers, but she could only stare at the space where Lucavion had disappeared, her own thoughts churning with the same impossible doubts.
'Who is that young man?' The question echoed in her mind like a bell tolling far away, each strike reverberating with deeper unease.
How could someone so young claim to have killed Vaelric, the Crimson Serpent Sect's monstrous leader? A peak 4-star warrior, feared even among the strongest around the place. Ilyana shook her head faintly, unable to reconcile what she had seen with what she knew.
"It doesn't make sense…" she murmured under her breath. "How can he—how can anyone—?"
Her fellow disciples turned to her, their expressions desperate for clarity she didn't possess.
"Can he really save us?" a voice asked, trembling with hesitant hope.
"Is he truly alone? The elders… the guards… the sect still has its strongest fighters," another added, their tone wavering with fear. "Even a 5-star master would struggle against them."
Ilyana swallowed hard, her throat dry. It was true—there were limits to what one person could do. Even if Lucavion had killed Vaelric, there were still the Crimson Serpent Sect's elders, enforcers, and warriors. Their strength combined was unimaginable, a force that had already crushed the Azure Blossom Sect into ruin.
'Even if he's strong… how could he possibly fight them all? It's impossible.'
And yet—she couldn't ignore the reality of what she had seen.
Lady Vitaliara had been with him. The celestial figure, revered as a guardian of their sect, had spoken with unwavering trust in the young man's ability. There had been something about him—something unexplainable that she had felt even in her weakened state. A presence that lingered like the faint glow of his strange, ethereal flame.
Lucavion's calm voice echoed in her mind. "Vaelric's body lies in pieces several floors above us."
Her heart pounded, doubt gnawing at her resolve even as something strange stirred deep within her—a thought she dared not give voice to.
"What if?"
What if it was true?
The thought struck Ilyana like a whisper of wind in the silence, so faint yet impossible to ignore. Her chest tightened as it surfaced, unwelcome and fragile, like the first flicker of light in an eternal night. She clutched her trembling hands together, her nails biting into her palms as though the sting might ground her against the tide of emotions threatening to swell.
What if he really meant it? What if he truly could save them all?
Her gaze drifted across the chamber to the other disciples, their faces gaunt, their eyes hollow yet glimmering faintly with the same unspoken question. None of them dared to hope aloud, but she could feel it—the flicker of longing that they all tried to suppress. It was easier to stay in despair, to accept the grim truth of their existence, because hope was dangerous.
Hope was cruel.
'If he was lying,' she thought bitterly, 'if this is all some trick or illusion… I'll be the one to break again. We'll all break again.'
Her hands loosened from their fists, her fingers brushing over the frayed remnants of her tattered robes. Somewhere deep inside, something began to stir—a fragile, impossible thing that felt almost foreign after so many years.
What if… he comes back?
The thought was small, no louder than a whisper. It was a dangerous thing to believe in. But in that moment, Ilyana found she couldn't stop herself.
'What if he comes back, and we're saved?'
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
The walls trembled under the weight of each explosion, dust cascading from cracks in the stone ceiling. The sounds reverberated through the underground chamber like the pounding of a war drum, deep and relentless. Ilyana's heart jolted with each rumble, the reverberations shaking through her ribs. Her thoughts swirled, unable to keep pace with what was happening above.
He's fighting, she thought, her mind racing to grasp the truth. It doesn't make sense otherwise. Someone must be up there—him or… maybe others.
For the briefest of moments, a thread of logic tried to tie itself together. What if he's not alone? That would explain it—the sheer scale of the destruction, the confidence in his voice when he left them. If he had allies, others strong enough to stand against the Crimson Serpent Sect's warriors, then maybe… just maybe…
Another BOOM! shook the chamber violently, and the disciples gasped in unison, their wide eyes darting toward the ceiling as though it might collapse. A hush fell over them, each breath shallow and anxious. Then, as suddenly as it began, the explosions stopped.
The silence that followed was far worse.
Ilyana's breath caught in her throat. The stillness felt deafening, thick and unnatural, as though the very air had frozen in anticipation. Her heart pounded like a drumbeat in her ears.
"Silent," she ordered sharply, her voice cutting through the unease. Her tone, though soft, carried the authority of her position—the weight of her name, even if they were far from their former glory. "Everyone, calm down."
The disciples stilled, their restless whispers dying in an instant. Despite their fear, they turned their attention to her, their trust in her leadership unshaken. Ilyana straightened, forcing her trembling limbs to steady. She couldn't allow panic to spread, not now.
He's alive, she told herself. He must be.
The creaking sound of the heavy iron door echoed from the far side of the chamber. Ilyana's breath hitched as the disciples instinctively shrank back, their gaunt forms pressing against the walls, their eyes fixed on the entrance. The hinges groaned in protest as the door swung open, and the dim torchlight from beyond spilled into the darkness like a golden flood.
And then—he appeared.
Lucavion stepped into the chamber with an unhurried stride, his dark coat billowing faintly behind him. His estoc hung loosely at his side, the faint glow of the [Flame of Equinox] still shimmering along the blade's edge. A wide smirk curled across his lips, as if the chaos above had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
"Ah," he drawled casually, his dark eyes scanning the room, "you're all still here. Good."
Beside him, Lady Vitaliara stepped forward, her celestial form aglow with an ethereal radiance that seemed brighter than before. Her golden eyes scanned the chamber with quiet purpose, and her tail flicked once, a sign of calm reassurance.
But it was the figures trailing behind them that stole the breath from Ilyana's lungs.
Two familiar silhouettes emerged from the doorway—figures she had long since assumed dead. Her wide eyes locked onto them, her heart seizing in her chest.
"Sheila…?" The word escaped her lips in a breathless whisper. "Manco…?"
The two figures stepped fully into the light. Sheila, her once-pristine robes now dirtied and torn, still held herself with the poise of a loyal attendant. Manco, always the sturdier of the two, bore fresh cuts across his arms but stood tall, his sharp eyes filled with unyielding resolve.
"Young Lady!" Sheila cried, her voice breaking with relief as she rushed toward Ilyana. She fell to her knees in front of her, tears streaking her dirt-smudged face. "You're safe… thank the heavens, you're safe!"
Manco followed closely behind, bowing his head low as his fists clenched tightly. "We never stopped looking for you, Young Lady," he said gruffly, his voice thick with emotion. "We promised we'd find you."
Ilyana couldn't move, couldn't speak. The sight of them—alive, real—was too much. Her throat tightened as an overwhelming rush of emotion clawed its way to the surface.
"You… you're alive?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "How? How are you here?"
Lucavion, still smirking, tilted his head as though amused by her reaction. "You have me to thank for that," he said nonchalantly, brushing a speck of dust from his coat. "They were in far better shape than most, so I figured you'd want a reunion."
"Figured?" Vitaliara huffed softly, her golden eyes narrowing as she perched back on his shoulder. [You have a flair for dramatics, Lucavion.]
"Guilty as charged," Lucavion replied with an exaggerated shrug. Then his gaze sharpened, his smirk softening into something that almost resembled sincerity. "But we don't have time to sit here and cry tears of joy. You'll have plenty of time for that later—once we're out of here."
Ilyana's head spun as the words sank in. Escape. Freedom. The very thing she had convinced herself was beyond reach. And yet here he stood—this impossible young man with a smirk far too arrogant for his own good and Lady Vitaliara at his side, as though the world had simply bent to his will.
"Now….You are allowed to leave…."
"Ah…."
Chapter 336: I will follow you
The disciples began to move, slowly and hesitantly at first, as though their bodies had forgotten the feeling of freedom. Ilyana watched them step out of their cells one by one, their gaunt faces filled with disbelief as they followed Lucavion toward the exit. The flickering torchlight cast eerie shadows against the cracked stone walls, their footsteps echoing softly in the deathly silence of the underground chamber.
Lucavion took the lead, his stride unhurried, as though the weight of what they had just endured meant nothing to him. Vitaliara sat perched on his shoulder, her celestial form glowing faintly like a guiding star. Sheila and Manco stayed close to Ilyana's side, their presence both grounding and surreal.
Freedom, Ilyana thought distantly as they climbed the narrow staircase that led upward. Her limbs still trembled, unaccustomed to movement after so long, but there was no stopping now. We're leaving… we're actually leaving.
As they stepped into the upper halls of the Crimson Serpent Sect's stronghold, the air hit them like a physical blow—cold, heavy, and stained with the unmistakable scent of blood. Ilyana's breath hitched as they emerged into the grand chamber, her wide eyes freezing on the scene before them.
It was a massacre.
Corpses littered the blood-soaked ground, their bodies sprawled lifelessly across the broken stone floor. Red trails streaked the walls, dripping in sickening patterns that told of a battle fought with ruthless precision. The sect's enforcers, guards, and even robed elders lay in twisted, unnatural heaps—some slashed cleanly apart, others burned beyond recognition by searing flames that still smoldered faintly.
"Ah…"
A choked gasp broke from one of the disciples behind her, and others followed with sharp intakes of breath. The horror in their eyes mirrored her own, their fragile hopes now trembling in the face of this grim reality.
"T-This…?" a young disciple stammered, his voice cracking. "Did you… did you do all of this?"
Lucavion turned slightly, his smirk still firmly in place as he casually rested a hand on the hilt of his estoc. "Yep."
That single word rang out like a hammer strike in the silence.
Ilyana couldn't move, her mind struggling to reconcile what she was seeing. It didn't make sense. This level of destruction… a sect as powerful as the Crimson Serpent Sect brought to ruin, their forces annihilated as though they were nothing. And all of it at the hands of one person?
It was impossible.
But here it was, spread out before her, undeniable and absolute.
"Impossible," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "How… how could you—"
The words died on her lips as a sudden realization struck her like ice water. Her heart seized, and she stumbled forward a step, her eyes darting around the hall as a surge of desperation clawed at her chest.
"Mother!" she cried, her voice breaking. "Where is Mother?! She was brought here too!"
Sheila and Manco froze at her side, their faces paling at the memory of Gabriela, the Azure Blossom Sect's revered leader and Ilyana's mother.
Ilyana spun toward Lucavion, her panic building. "Where is she? Tell me—where is Sect Master Gabriela?"
A terrible silence followed.
Lucavion didn't answer. He stood there, his smirk gone, his gaze unreadable as he looked at her. Vitaliara remained still, her golden eyes lowering faintly as though she already knew what was coming.
"Why?" Ilyana's voice cracked as she took another step forward, her desperation spilling into her words. "Why are you not speaking? Please, answer me!"
Lucavion's dark eyes met hers at last. His tone, when he finally spoke, was quiet but unflinching.
"She is no longer here."
The words struck her like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs.
"Ah…" The sound escaped her lips as though torn from her very soul. She staggered back a step, Sheila's hands reaching out to steady her, but Ilyana didn't feel it. The world seemed to tilt around her as Lucavion's words echoed endlessly in her mind.
"She's… gone?" she whispered, her voice hollow.
Lucavion didn't say more, his silence confirming the truth she already knew in her heart. The stronghold reeked of death—her mother's absence could mean only one thing.
Ilyana fell to her knees, her hands pressing against the cold stone floor as tears spilled down her face, silent at first, then wracked with quiet sobs.
"Please…."
Sheila knelt beside her, her own face streaked with tears as she tried to hold Ilyana close. Manco stood behind them, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his grief evident in the way his shoulders sagged.
Lucavion watched silently, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he spoke, his tone even but softer than before.
"Your mother fought to the end." His words carried a quiet weight, a faint hint of respect lingering within them. "She held on for as long as she could."
Lucavion's gaze softened ever so slightly, though the steel in his voice remained. He spoke with a quiet finality that cut through the still air.
"She fought for one reason," he said, his words deliberate, every syllable carrying weight. "It was for you, her daughter."
Ilyana froze, her sobs catching in her throat as Lucavion's words pierced through her grief.
"She held on for as long as she could, enduring everything they put her through," Lucavion continued. "Even when it would have been easier to give in… she didn't. She fought to protect the chance that you would live—that you might be freed from this place."
He crouched down slightly, his dark eyes locking onto hers. They were calm, and unwavering, but not unkind.
"You are quite lucky," he said softly, the faintest edge of reverence and melancholy threading his tone. "To have a mother strong enough to endure for you."
"Ah…" Ilyana's voice escaped her as nothing more than a breath. Tears streamed down her face, her expression twisting with grief and something else—something fragile, painful, and undeniably real.
Behind her, the disciples broke. Silent tears turned into quiet sobs as the weight of reality finally settled over them. They all had known—deep down—that this was inevitable. That Gabriela, their sect master, would not have survived the horrors of the Crimson Serpent Sect. But hearing it aloud, hearing the sacrifice she made for her daughter, shattered the final remnants of their resolve.
Sheila held Ilyana close, her tears flowing freely. "Lady Gabriela… she never gave up on you," Sheila whispered, her voice trembling. "Even until the end…"
Manco stood behind them, his fists still clenched at his sides, his face a mask of grief. Though he said nothing, the slight quiver in his shoulders betrayed his sorrow.
For a moment, Lucavion said nothing, letting the room be filled with the sounds of their quiet mourning. The weight of their loss was palpable, heavy enough to still the air.
But then, Lucavion straightened, his voice breaking the silence like a blade cutting through cloth.
"Now," he said, his tone low but firm, "what do you want to do?"
Ilyana blinked, her tear-streaked face lifting as she looked up at him. Her reddened eyes met his sharp gaze, confusion and despair mingling within them.
"What?" she whispered, her voice faint and broken.
Lucavion straightened fully, his presence dominating the broken silence of the blood-soaked chamber. His dark eyes swept over the grief-stricken disciples, his expression unreadable but carrying none of the sharpness from earlier. He regarded them calmly, waiting until their soft sobs and trembling breaths began to quiet.
Then, he spoke, his voice cutting through the heavy air with a cool finality.
"Now," he repeated, his tone deliberate and clear, "what do you want to do?"
Ilyana blinked, her tear-streaked face lifting slowly as she stared up at him. Confusion flickered in her red-rimmed eyes, mingling with the lingering despair. "What do you mean?" she whispered, her voice faint and broken.
Lucavion's smirk returned, faint and sharp, though it lacked its usual bite. "What I mean," he said simply, "is that you are free. The Crimson Serpent Sect is done. The choice is yours now."
He turned slightly, gesturing to the grand hall around them, the aftermath of his ruthless handiwork laid bare. "You may take whatever is here in this place. Gold, artifacts, weapons—loot it all. Use it to start a new life, or to rebuild what you lost. It's up to you."
The disciples exchanged stunned glances, their grief momentarily interrupted by disbelief. One young man stepped forward hesitantly, his voice shaky. "We… we can take everything? Everything in the sect?"
Lucavion's gaze flicked to him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Yes, everything. The vaults, the treasures—whatever you can carry."
"But… you don't want anything?" another disciple asked, her voice incredulous. "You defeated them all. This should be yours."
Lucavion chuckled softly, a quiet sound that echoed through the grim chamber. "I don't need their money," he replied, his tone carrying an edge of amusement. "I didn't come here to get rich. Though—" He tilted his head slightly, his smirk widening. "It'd be better if you left fifty or a hundred gold behind. I need to pay some people with that."
A ripple of shock passed through the group, their disbelief turning to tentative laughter, weak but genuine. For the first time in years, the disciples felt the weight of hopelessness begin to lift, replaced with something fragile—possibility.
Ilyana wiped at her tears, her gaze never leaving Lucavion. "You're… giving this all to us?" she asked quietly, her voice still trembling but steady enough to carry her disbelief. "Why? You have no reason to."
"Well….Let's say I made a promise."
Ilyana's breath hitched, fresh tears pooling in her eyes, though this time they were different—softer, quieter.
'A promise….'
She didn't understand what he meant.
'….Lady Vitaliara?'
Maybe it was a promise that he made to Lady Vitaliara, or maybe something else.
'But we can't do it.'
Ilyana stood frozen as Lucavion's words hung in the air, echoing through the blood-soaked chamber. Take everything. Use it to rebuild.
The disciples murmured softly among themselves, their voices trembling with both confusion and hope. But Ilyana… she knew. It wasn't that simple. It could never be that simple.
They could gather gold, artifacts, and weapons; they could scrape together the shattered pieces of their lives. But what then? They were weak, their sect destroyed, and their hearts had been emptied by grief and suffering. Survival wasn't only a matter of tools and treasures.
Her mother's voice, soft yet unyielding, drifted into her mind like a distant echo from the past.
"My daughter, no matter what happens, never become someone who doesn't know gratitude. And always, always make sure to cherish those who have extended you a hand."
The memory struck her like a physical blow. Gabriela's words, spoken so many years ago, had been a lesson—a command—that had shaped her heart and her values. Gratitude.
Ilyana's trembling gaze lifted toward Lucavion.
'This person saved me.'
The thought came with a heavy finality. This young man—this impossible, arrogant, and unrelenting young man—had shattered the chains that bound her, ended the nightmare they had endured, and given her and the disciples a chance at life again. Why?
Was there something to gain from this? Perhaps. Maybe he had his reasons, his promises, or even his motives. And maybe he didn't.
But in the end, it didn't matter.
He saved us.
Her mother's words echoed in her mind again, loud and clear this time. "Always cherish those who have extended you a hand."
'I will repay this,' she thought, her grief and uncertainty hardening into quiet resolve.
Ilyana clenched her fists at her sides and straightened her back. Though her body still trembled with exhaustion, her voice emerged steady, carrying with it the weight of her decision.
"I will follow you."
She made her decision.
Chapter 337: I will follow you (2)
"I will follow you."
The chamber fell silent. The other disciples turned to stare at her, their wide eyes filled with confusion and surprise. Even Sheila and Manco froze beside her, their faces mirroring the shock that rippled through the group.
Lucavion, however, tilted his head slightly, the faintest flicker of surprise crossing his features before his smirk returned. "Oh?"
"I said," Ilyana repeated, lifting her chin, "I will follow you."
Lucavion's dark eyes met hers, sharp and assessing, as though he were peering into the depths of her resolve. "And why would you do that?" he asked, his tone curious, almost teasing.
"Because you saved me," Ilyana replied, her voice firm despite the faint tremor in her chest. "You saved all of us when no one else could—or would. Whether you did it for a reason or not doesn't matter. My mother…" She swallowed hard, her voice softening as she continued. "My mother taught me never to forget those who have extended me a hand when I was in need."
Her gaze didn't waver from his. "I will repay this debt. I don't know how yet, and I don't know what I can offer, but I won't ignore the life you've given back to us."
Lucavion stared at her for a long moment, his smirk fading into something quieter—more thoughtful. Beside him, Vitaliara's golden eyes glimmered faintly as she regarded Ilyana with a soft, knowing gaze.
[She's sincere,] Vitaliara said gently, her voice resonating in Lucavion's mind. [Her heart is strong, even if she doesn't see it yet.]
Lucavion let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head faintly. "You're a stubborn one," he said, his voice carrying the faintest edge of amusement. "I didn't ask for followers, you know."
"I don't care," Ilyana replied simply, her tone unwavering. "This is my decision. I'll follow you—not because you asked me to, but because I owe you my life. And that debt will be repaid."
Lucavion's dark eyes lingered on Ilyana, studying her as though he could peel back the layers of her resolve and see what lay beneath. For a moment, the smirk on his lips faltered, replaced by something quieter—curiosity, perhaps. Or maybe disbelief.
And then it returned, sharp and amused, like the edge of a blade that had tasted far too much blood.
"Even though I'm someone with this much blood on my hands?" he asked, his voice calm, yet tinged with something darker.
Ilyana's gaze didn't waver, her eyes meeting his steadily despite the way her chest tightened at his words. She could feel the weight of what he meant, the unspoken truth of what he had done—the bodies strewn across the Crimson Serpent Sect's halls, the ruthless precision of his blade. He was a force of chaos and death, wrapped in the casual guise of a smirking young man.
"Yes," she replied firmly, her voice unwavering. "Even though you have this much blood on your hands."
Lucavion tilted his head, the faint amusement in his expression deepening. "Even though I'm someone who'll be in trouble a lot?" he pressed, his tone growing lighter, almost teasing now. "Someone who will constantly put himself in dangerous situations?"
"Yes."
"Even though," he continued, his smirk sharpening, "staying near me means you'll be targeted too? You'll end up in the line of fire just for being my acquaintance?"
"Yes," Ilyana repeated without hesitation.
The simple word echoed through the chamber, soft but resolute, ringing louder than any shout. Lucavion paused, as if waiting for her to falter, to take back her words. But Ilyana stood her ground, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she held his gaze.
"This is my choice," she said quietly, her voice steady as a flame. "Whatever comes from it—whatever danger, whatever blood—I accept it. I owe you my life, and I will repay that debt."
Lucavion stared at her, his smirk softening into something more subtle, more genuine. The faint flicker of surprise in his eyes disappeared, replaced by something harder to define. Respect, perhaps, or a glimmer of something he wouldn't name.
"Stubborn," he muttered, shaking his head with a faint chuckle. "Absolutely stubborn."
[She's serious, Lucavion,] Vitaliara said softly, perched still and silent on his shoulder. Her golden eyes gleamed as she watched Ilyana with quiet approval. [Don't dismiss her so easily.]
'Heh….Even though she looks fierce and admirable, that is not how the world works…..She is far too weak to stand by my side.'
Lucavion's gaze lingered on Ilyana, his smirk sharpening as his dark eyes bore into hers. For a moment, silence stretched between them, as though he were weighing her very soul. Then he spoke, his words carrying the weight of finality.
"You're too weak to stand by my side," he said, his tone blunt, cutting through the fragile resolve she had wrapped around herself. "If you really want to repay me, then you must get stronger."
Ilyana flinched, his words striking deep. Yet she didn't break. Her fists clenched at her sides as her jaw tightened, her gaze holding firm.
Lucavion said nothing more. He turned away, his coat sweeping behind him as he strode toward the grand chamber's exit. His boots echoed softly on the blood-streaked floor as he passed by the fallen elders, his sharp eyes scanning their remains with methodical precision. He crouched briefly over each body, plucking the spatial rings from their fingers with casual indifference—one by one.
"Even if we're weak now…" Ilyana called after him, her voice trembling but steady, "we can still be a help to you!"
Lucavion didn't pause, his smirk audible in his voice. "With the way you are, you won't."
The words cut deep, and yet there was no cruelty in them—just a cold, matter-of-fact truth. Ilyana's chest tightened as she watched him, frustration bubbling up within her.
"But who knows?" Lucavion said, his voice carrying as he straightened and resumed walking. "Maybe the next time we meet, you'll be different."
"Wait!" Ilyana shouted, her voice louder this time, filled with defiance and resolve. "I will repay you, no matter what! Just wait and see!"
Lucavion tilted his head slightly as he reached the far end of the hall. Though he didn't turn around, the faint sound of his chuckle drifted back to her. "Heh… I'll be waiting."
Just as his figure was about to disappear into the shadows of the corridor, something struck Ilyana like a sharp jolt. His name. She had never learned his name.
"You!" she shouted desperately. "How can I find you?"
Lucavion paused, his silhouette framed by the flickering light of the torches. For a moment, he said nothing, and then his voice cut through the silence, calm and clear.
"The name?"
"Yes!" Ilyana replied breathlessly. "Tell me your name!"
Lucavion glanced over his shoulder, his face still hidden in shadow, though the faint curve of his smirk was unmistakable.
"Lucavion."
The name hung in the air, as though it carried a weight all its own.
"Lu… ca… vi… on?" Ilyana repeated slowly, tasting the name as though it were foreign and familiar all at once.
Before she could say anything more, Lucavion turned away fully and stepped into the darkness beyond. His figure disappeared as silently as it had come, leaving only the echo of his name and the lingering scent of blood in his wake.
"Lucavion…" Ilyana whispered, her voice soft but resolute as she stared at the spot where he had disappeared. The silence of the chamber seemed heavier now, the absence of his presence like a void left behind.
Her hands curled into fists as her resolve hardened into something solid, unshakable. Her voice, though quiet, carried with it a promise—one born from grief, gratitude, and unyielding determination.
"I will make sure… I will repay it back," she vowed, her eyes never leaving the darkened corridor. "No matter what."
The disciples behind her looked on in silence, watching as their young leader stood tall, her expression set with purpose.
And in her mind, the name echoed like a beacon.
Lucavion.
Chapter 338: Take it
The faint crackle of the lantern and the heavy, ragged breathing of the wounded mercenaries were the only sounds filling the room. The air was heavy, thick with exhaustion and the coppery scent of blood. Zirkel sat slumped against the wall, his axe resting beside him, its edge dull with dried crimson. Around him, the surviving Mad Dogs quietly tended to their wounds—wrapping bloodied cloths around gashes, gritting their teeth through the pain, and sharing brief glances of mutual understanding.
No words were spoken. There was nothing to say.
Then—
CREAK.
The door groaned open, its hinges screeching loud enough to cut through the suffocating silence. Every head in the room snapped toward it, hands instinctively reaching for nearby weapons. The lantern's flickering light stretched shadows across the entrance, and for a breathless moment, no one moved.
A figure stepped inside.
He moved with deliberate calm, his boots echoing softly on the creaking wooden floor. The faint light of the lantern revealed him slowly—first the dark cloak that fluttered faintly behind him, untouched by the stale air of the room. Then the slim, polished estoc resting lazily at his hip, the blade still faintly shimmering with an otherworldly glow.
And finally, his face—Lucavion's face. His dark eyes, cold and unreadable, swept over the room with detached precision, lingering for no longer than a second on each man. He looked like he had walked out of a painting, untouched by the chaos they had endured, his sharp features unmarred by exhaustion or injury.
The door clicked shut behind him.
For a moment, no one dared to speak. Zirkel's mismatched eyes narrowed as he pushed himself upright, the scrape of his axe dragging against the floor breaking the silence. The tension in the room was suffocating, a quiet challenge unspoken but understood by everyone present.
Lucavion finally spoke, his voice calm and smooth, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Looks like I'm right on time."
Zirkel's lips curled into a scowl, his voice low and gravelly as he eyed their employer. "You've got some damn nerve showing up now."
Lucavion's smirk was faint, but it carried an edge. "I figured you'd miss me."
One of the mercenaries swore under his breath, his grip tightening around a bloodied dagger. Another let out a bitter laugh, the sound hollow and sharp.
"What do you want?" Zirkel growled, his mismatched gaze burning into Lucavion. "Here to tell us we did a great job? Half my men are dead, and we're lucky to still be breathing."
Lucavion's expression didn't falter. He stepped further into the room, his cloak trailing behind him as he moved with the same unshakable confidence that had unnerved them all from the start.
"You survived," he replied simply, his gaze settling on Zirkel. "That's what matters."
Zirkel's scowl deepened at Lucavion's maddening calm. His mismatched eyes locked onto their employer, searching for something—an explanation, an answer—anything to justify the madness of the last few hours.
"Is that it?" Zirkel growled, his voice low and edged with suspicion. "Is it over?"
Lucavion paused, his dark eyes meeting Zirkel's with an unreadable expression. Then, with a faint nod, he reached into his cloak. "It's over," he said simply.
The motion was quick but deliberate. Lucavion withdrew a small, glimmering object and, without ceremony, tossed it toward Zirkel. Instinctively, Zirkel reached out and caught it midair, his calloused fingers closing around the cool metal. He opened his palm and froze.
A ring. Simple yet unmistakable, its smooth surface glinted faintly in the dim lantern light. Zirkel's eyes widened in recognition.
A spatial ring.
'That!' The thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. Zirkel had seen rings like this only a handful of times before, usually in the hands of high-ranking merchants or nobles. Spatial rings were rare—artifacts that fetched a price high enough to make even seasoned mercenaries stop and stare.
Zirkel's grip tightened around the ring as a spark of greed flickered in his gaze. The other mercenaries leaned in closer, their tired eyes drawn to the object like moths to a flame.
Lucavion's voice broke the silence, calm and direct. "Take this."
Zirkel tore his gaze away from the ring to look at him, his brow furrowing. "What's in it?"
Lucavion's faint smirk returned, though it carried no mockery—only finality. "Fifty gold pieces," he said, his voice carrying the weight of certainty. "Your payment. Assuming that each of you handled five disciples, then the math is complete."
The room fell silent once more. Zirkel's eyes darted back to the ring, his mind racing. Fifty gold. Even after splitting it among the ten survivors, it was an ungodly sum. Enough for each man to live comfortably for years—more money than most mercenaries would see in a lifetime.
"That…" one of the mercenaries breathed, his voice hoarse with disbelief. "That's… real?"
Lucavion turned slightly, his cloak trailing behind him as he moved toward the door. He didn't bother answering, as if the question itself were beneath him. Instead, his voice carried over his shoulder, soft yet clear.
"Goodbye, Mad Dogs," he said, his tone carrying the faintest note of respect. "You were quite fine fellows."
The door opened with a faint creak, and Lucavion stepped through, his figure disappearing into the night like a shadow melting into darkness. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the mercenaries alone in the dim room, the spatial ring gleaming faintly in Zirkel's hand.
For a long moment, no one spoke. The weight of Lucavion's words—and the heavy promise of the ring—hung thick in the air.
Zirkel finally let out a long, heavy breath, shaking his head as he leaned back against the wall. "Haaah… I'm really crazy," he muttered, though a small, disbelieving smirk tugged at his lips.
Around him, the Mad Dogs began murmuring, the tension slowly easing into stunned relief.
"Fifty gold… He really paid up."
"I thought he'd just leave us for dead."
Zirkel stared down at the ring in his palm, his mismatched eyes flickering with greed, awe, and something he couldn't quite name. For all the chaos, for all the madness, Lucavion had been true to his word.
And that was the part that unnerved him the most.
********
The heavy lantern-lit silence of Thornridge's streets embraced Lucavion as he stepped out of the mercenaries' den. His cloak stirred faintly in the still night air, the soft jingle of the spatial ring now concealed in its folds. Overhead, the stars had broken through the clouds, their pale light shimmering against the uneven cobblestones.
For a moment, Lucavion simply stood there, his dark gaze sweeping over the empty street. There was no urgency to his movements, no trace of haste or guilt—just that deliberate calm that followed him like a shadow.
Blood always turns to silence once the shouting stops.
The faint sounds of movement reached him, a distant shuffle of boots on stone. Down the alleyway, the glimmer of lamplight grew closer as Thornridge's knights patrolled the aftermath. Figures in armor, lanterns swinging low, their presence unwelcome but predictable.
Lucavion ignored them. He turned smoothly on his heel, heading toward the stables.
The air was thick with the lingering scent of blood and smoke, but here, farther from the mercenaries and the wreckage of the Crimson Serpent Sect, Thornridge seemed reluctant to acknowledge the chaos. The few souls that wandered the streets—innkeepers locking doors, drunken patrons stumbling home—barely raised their eyes as he passed. Perhaps they'd learned, in this city, that it was best not to look too closely at strangers who walked in blood-soaked silence.
Ahead, the stables loomed in the moonlight, their weathered beams creaking faintly in the breeze. Aether was there. He could sense her.
As he approached, the stable doors swung open with a reluctant groan. A figure emerged, lantern in hand—an older man with hunched shoulders and a soot-streaked apron. His face paled the instant his eyes landed on Lucavion. The lantern's glow illuminated the crimson stains across Lucavion's coat and gloves, the dark smears flecked against his jawline like a grotesque shadow.
The stable owner froze, the hand holding his lantern trembling slightly. "Y-You're… back."
Lucavion stopped in front of him, his lips curving into a faint, amused smirk. "Was there any doubt?"
The man swallowed hard, his gaze darting nervously between Lucavion's face and the unmistakable blood on his boots. "Your… your horse is fine. I gave her the best feed, as you asked. Took good care of her." His voice shook, brittle as dry kindling.
Lucavion reached into his cloak, the movement making the stable owner flinch ever so slightly. He pulled out a silver coin—no ceremony, no flourish—holding it out between his fingers. The coin gleamed faintly in the dim light, but the stable owner's gaze lingered on the blood staining Lucavion's gloves.
"A fair payment," Lucavion said smoothly, his tone soft but edged, as though daring the man to refuse.
The stable owner hesitated before taking the coin, his rough hands shaking as though it might burn him. "Thank you, sir." He tried to meet Lucavion's eyes, but fear made him look away. "If… if you need to stay and—clean up, there's—"
"No." Lucavion cut him off, his voice gentle yet final. "Not here."
The stable owner nodded quickly, retreating a step, his lantern swinging low. Fear was a language spoken fluently in these parts.
He stepped past the man into the stable, the sharp scent of hay and leather mingling with the iron tang of blood on his coat. Aether stood in her stall, her glowing eyes cutting through the darkness like molten fire. The great black mare pawed at the ground once as he approached, her gaze unwavering. She recognized him—of course she did—and with her usual air of regal irritation, she tossed her mane, the shadows rippling with the movement.
"Did you miss me?"
Aether snorted, as though offended by the suggestion.
With a swift motion, Lucavion swung into the saddle, his cloak fluttering in the stable's dim light. The mare shifted beneath him, eager and restless.