The morning after felt strangely still.
Lucian opened his eyes slowly, letting the golden rays of sunlight wash over his face. Lyria wasn't beside him—her side of the bed was already cold. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the sheets, the only sign she'd ever been there.
He stretched, muscles sore from more than just battle.
The events of the past day buzzed in his mind. The duel. The power surge. The moment with Lyria. And Selene's quiet warning.
He didn't trust easily, and he trusted Selene even less when she got cryptic. Still, her words echoed.
"Power like hers… doesn't come cheap."
Lucian got dressed quickly, pulling on his black combat robes and strapping his enchanted blade across his back. As he stepped into the training grounds, the buzz of early morning sparring filled the air.
But something was off.
People stared at him—not just with admiration, but with curiosity. And wariness.
A figure stood in the center of the grounds, arms folded, radiating calm dominance.
Master Veyron.
"You're late," the instructor said, voice cold and clipped.
Lucian gave a nod. "Didn't know I was expected."
"You're always expected when you shake the foundations of the courtyard with your aura."
Lucian said nothing. A crowd was already gathering.
"You've drawn attention, Lucian. Not just here. Outside. The Elders are watching."
"Let them," Lucian replied. "I didn't ask for their approval."
Veyron smirked. "Spoken like someone who doesn't yet understand how thin the line is between being a prodigy… and being a threat."
Lucian met his eyes evenly. "Maybe I'm both."
The training session that followed was brutal.
Lucian was pitted against three advanced cultivators simultaneously—each with distinct elemental affinities: wind, earth, and flame. It was clear this wasn't training. It was a test.
And someone wanted him to crack.
He didn't.
His movements were precise, his strikes relentless. The battle dragged for nearly twenty minutes, his body burning from exhaustion by the end, but he stood victorious.
Breathing hard, he turned toward Veyron. "Satisfied?"
The instructor gave a short nod. "For now."
But Lucian knew the message was clear: they were watching.
Elsewhere in the courtyard, Lyria knelt in a hidden chamber, dark robes clinging to her frame. Before her, a glowing sigil pulsed on the ground—ancient, forbidden magic.
She was alone. Or so she thought.
"Still playing with fire, sister?" a voice echoed.
Lyria stood, her face tightening. "Valen."
A man stepped from the shadows—tall, pale-eyed, and dangerous. Her older brother.
"You've entangled yourself with that boy. The one with the cursed bloodline."
"He's not cursed," she said sharply. "He's evolving."
"Exactly why he's dangerous. You think you can control him?"
"I don't need to."
Valen chuckled darkly. "Then I'll do it for you."
Before Lyria could react, Valen vanished.
And the sigil on the ground flickered… then died.
That evening, Lucian walked the halls of the arcane archives, hunting for answers.
He'd found a page from an old grimoire during his last visit—one that referenced a ritual known only as The Wyrm Bind, a legendary technique used by high cultivators to lock away unstable bloodlines.
His bloodline.
There were whispers. Secrets buried under centuries of false records.
As he reached the hidden alcove, a familiar voice made him freeze.
"You're digging too deep."
Selene emerged from the shadows again.
Lucian didn't turn. "Then help me."
She stepped beside him, placing a hand on the dusty tome he was reading.
"You don't understand what you're made of, Lucian. That blood in your veins? It wasn't meant to thrive in this world. It was forged in something older."
Lucian clenched his jaw. "I need to know."
"You will. But not like this."
Selene snapped her fingers. The torches flared—and every book around them turned to blank pages.
"What the hell?"
She leaned in close, lips near his ear. "Truth has a price. Don't spend everything before the real war begins."
Then she was gone.
Lucian stood alone, surrounded by the silence of erased knowledge.
And a single name pulsing in his mind: Valen.
Who the hell was Valen?
And why did that name make his blood freeze?
Lucian didn't sleep that night.
He couldn't.
The name Valen echoed in his mind like a ghost clawing at the edges of his sanity. There were no records. No bloodline ties. No public archives that spoke of him. Yet Selene's warning and Lyria's evasive silence had triggered something in him—an instinct honed by battle and betrayal.
So he turned to the only place no one dared to search.
The Forbidden Vault.
It was midnight when he slipped past the outer perimeter of the Elders' Tower, using a shadow veil talisman Lyria had left "accidentally" in his study weeks ago. It wasn't enough to grant full invisibility, but it bent light around him just enough to fool the casual eye.
He descended six levels underground before reaching a sealed stone door.
Two glyphs guarded it—one of flame, one of frost. Opposing sigils. If activated wrong, they would incinerate or freeze him instantly.
He placed a hand over both, pushing his aura into them at once.
Pain lanced through his arm—flame seared the veins while frost burned the muscle. But the door responded, recognizing the paradox of dual forces.
It opened with a heavy grind.
Inside, the air was stale, thick with suppressed power. Ancient scrolls lined the walls, their edges glowing faintly. Bloodline sigils hovered above certain relics, warning away intruders.
But Lucian wasn't looking for artifacts.
He found it in the third chamber—buried beneath layers of psychic wards: a dusty tome with the mark of the Ebon Court.
The Ebon Court—an ancient council of bloodline manipulators, long thought destroyed.
The pages inside revealed unspeakable rituals.
And then… a name.
Valen Drakar.
There it was.
Lucian's breath caught.
Valen wasn't just some rogue. He had once been a high inquisitor of the Ebon Court. A prodigy. A bloodline purifier. And his most dangerous experiment?
The creation of Hybrids.
Lucian's hand trembled as he turned the page.
"Subject XIII: Cultivator born of Celestial Flame and Nether Wyrm essence. Unstable. Power output exceeds containment. Last recorded guardian: Valen Drakar."
He was Subject XIII.
He wasn't just a bloodline accident.
He was engineered.
The room spun.
Suddenly, a presence flared behind him.
Lucian spun, blade out—but it was too late.
A powerful wave of psychic pressure slammed him to the floor. Books scattered. Lights extinguished.
And then, a voice:
"Well done, little brother."
The torches reignited.
Valen stood in the doorway, a cruel smile on his face.
Lucian's voice was a whisper. "Why…?"
Valen approached, boots echoing. "Why do you think I watched from the shadows? Do you really believe your growth was natural? Every test. Every near-death experience. Every encounter... I orchestrated it."
Lucian's aura flared in defiance. "You used me."
"No," Valen said. "I forged you."
And then he vanished again—like smoke dissipating into the darkness.
Lucian fell to his knees, the book clutched in his hand.
The truth burned brighter than any flame.
Meanwhile, Lyria was on her knees before a council of hooded figures—an ancient tribunal known as the Eyes of Balance.
"You disobeyed the Order," one of them rasped. "You gave him tools. Sigils. Secrets."
Lyria's voice was firm. "Because he needed them."
"You jeopardized the Wyrm Binding. The containment is failing."
"Because he is growing," she snapped. "And the seal is outdated. He is evolving faster than the lock meant to cage him."
"The fault lies with the architect. Valen."
"And what if Valen returns?" she challenged.
There was silence.
Then: "Then Lucian must be ready to end him."
The fire in her heart twisted painfully.
She didn't know if Lucian could do that.
And worse—she didn't know if she wanted him to.
Back in his chambers, Lucian traced the scar running along his right arm.
He had always thought it came from a battle he barely remembered.
But now he knew—it was surgical.
Proof of what he was.
Subject XIII.
The weapon Valen never finished building.
But Lucian would finish himself.
Not as a weapon.
As a force of his own.
He picked up his blade. The runes glowed in sync with his pulse.
"Come find me, Valen," he whispered. "And see what you created."
At dawn, the city of Arcanis stirred slowly, its golden spires bathed in morning light. Merchants shouted as they opened their stalls, street urchins darted between alleys, and cultivators began their early routines with sacred chants and focused breathing.
But in the far eastern wing of the Grand Academy, the mood was far from peaceful.
Lucian stood atop the highest balcony of the Flame Sanctum, staring into the horizon. His eyes, once calm, now burned with a purpose too sharp for anyone to mistake. The discovery from the Forbidden Vault haunted him. Not in fear—he had no time for that now—but in urgency.
The hybrid experiment.
Subject XIII.
Valen's voice had triggered something deeper—a memory. A flash of being submerged in fluid, wires drilled into his spine, a voice murmuring equations in his ear. He'd always dismissed it as a nightmare from his childhood.
But it wasn't a dream.
It was conditioning.
He had been altered.
Modified.
Controlled.
Selene found him there, as if sensing the storm he had become.
"You didn't sleep," she said softly.
Lucian didn't turn. "Can't afford to. Valen's back."
She moved closer, the wind playing with her silver-blonde hair. "You saw him?"
"I did more than that. He made sure I knew who I was."
"And?"
"I'm not just Lucian. I'm the thirteenth prototype of a failed weapon project by a now-resurrected madman."
Her hand gently touched his. "You're still you."
He finally looked at her. "You're wrong. I'm the result of someone else's plan."
"Then make it your own. That's what scares them."
Lucian didn't respond—but the fire behind his eyes flared brighter.
In the underground sanctums of the Crimson Chain—a secret order once loyal to the Ebon Court—Valen paced in front of three cloaked disciples.
"He's progressing faster than predicted," one said.
Valen's tone was casual. "As he should. I didn't go through decades of silence to nurture mediocrity."
"But what if he resists you?"
"He will," Valen said with a grin. "And that's what will make him perfect."
He turned to a large metallic sphere suspended in the room's center—inside it, a figure floated unconscious.
Female.
Runes pulsed across her skin. Her body was infused with both celestial light and shadow flame.
"Begin awakening Sequence 7," Valen ordered.
"Are you sure, master?" one disciple asked hesitantly. "She's unstable."
Valen's smile was predatory. "So is he. Let's see what happens when they collide."
Later that evening, Lucian stood before the Grand Council. Ten figures, all masters of different sects, formed a semicircle around him.
"This tribunal is not to accuse," said the High Chancellor, "but to understand."
Lucian nodded, fingers interlaced behind his back. "Then ask."
"Your power has grown exponentially," said one elder. "Faster than any cultivator in centuries."
"I've trained harder than most."
"Lyria helped you," another accused. "Illegally."
"She helped me survive. If you want to punish her for that, then at least wait until I'm dead."
Gasps rippled through the room.
"You're dangerously arrogant," snapped a robed woman. "You broke into the Vault."
"I did."
"You trespassed—"
"I found the truth," he cut in. "About Valen. About myself. And about the threat we're facing."
The room fell silent.
Lucian's voice dropped to a hard whisper. "Valen's back. He has resources, a following, and a new weapon. And we're already three steps behind."
The chancellor's fingers drummed slowly. "You want war."
"No. I want preparation."
"And if we deny you?"
Lucian stepped forward, eyes glowing. "Then I'll fight without you."
Outside, Selene was waiting with two horses.
"You're leaving," she said, already knowing the answer.
Lucian nodded. "There's someone in the southern marshes—an exiled prophet who once served the Ebon Court. If anyone knows Valen's endgame, it's him."
She mounted her horse beside him. "Then I'm coming."
Lucian gave her a long look. "If things go wrong—"
"They will," she interrupted. "But you're not doing it alone."
He smirked. "You're getting stubborn."
"Blame you."
As they rode into the night, neither of them noticed the cloaked figure watching from the trees.
The figure raised a black crystal.
It pulsed once.
And somewhere far away, in the depths of an abandoned fortress, Valen smiled.
"They've taken the bait."
The Southern Marshes were unlike any region Lucian had encountered. Fog lingered even under the noonday sun, twisting into shapes that whispered forgotten names. The marsh breathed—he could feel it—as if some ancient thing slept beneath, dreaming in cycles of decay and growth.
Selene rode beside him in silence. She was focused, but the way her hand never strayed far from her blade told him she felt the same tension he did.
They were near the Prophet.
Or near a trap.
"Do you trust this source?" she asked.
"I trust the desperation of someone who once defied Valen and lived to regret it."
"Not exactly comforting."
"No," he agreed. "But it's something."
Eventually, they reached a narrow wooden bridge stretching across a swamp pond coated in violet moss. At its end stood a small shack, crooked as if it wanted to fall into the water but hadn't yet made up its mind.
Lucian dismounted, hand glowing faintly with runic energy. "Stay here."
Selene raised a brow. "Not a chance."
Inside, the hut was dim and humid. A small lantern flickered near a parchment-strewn table. Behind it sat a woman with matted gray hair and pale skin. Her eyes were blind—but not sightless.
"You finally came," she rasped, not looking up. "The thirteenth shadow."
Lucian stepped forward cautiously. "You know who I am?"
"I knew what they made you to be. I was there when the first prototype screamed itself to death."
Selene stiffened behind him.
"You served Valen?" Lucian asked.
"I served the vision. He stole it."
"What vision?"
The woman coughed, something wet rattling in her chest. "A new world. Not ruled by power, but by design. Calculated harmony. Order."
Lucian frowned. "Valen doesn't want order. He wants control."
"They're not so different, child. But yes—he twisted it."
She reached slowly beneath the table, pulling out a crystal vial glowing with dark amber light. "This contains memory—mine and others'. You'll see what the first cycle cost us."
Lucian took it.
"And what does it cost me?"
The prophet's face turned grim. "Your comfort. Maybe your humanity."
He held the vial tighter. "Then I pay."
That night, miles from the marsh, Lucian sat by the fire. Selene watched him as he uncorked the vial.
"Sure about this?" she asked.
"No."
He drank.
The world fell away.
He was somewhere else—somewhen else.
In the vision, he saw a laboratory: hundreds of chambers filled with screaming subjects. Each one broken, reforged, tested until they either evolved—or perished.
He saw Valen, younger, more idealistic, filled with mad hope.
He saw Subject XIII—himself—being awakened for the first time.
He saw himself killing Valen.
And then…
He saw Valen resurrected, not through spirit or soul—but by the will of a being beyond the mortal realm. Something old. Something watching.
He gasped as he returned, nearly choking on the air.
Selene was there, gripping him.
"What did you see?"
He looked into the flames.
"It's not just Valen."
Selene blinked. "What?"
"There's something else. Something older. He made a pact with it when he died. That's how he came back."
Selene's voice was hollow. "You mean… like a god?"
Lucian shook his head. "Worse."
They sat in silence.
Finally, she asked, "What now?"
Lucian stood.
"Now we prepare for war. Not just against Valen... but against whatever brought him back."
---