The firelight played over Lucon’s face as he stood there—unhurried, loose-limbed, his expression serene.
If not for the shattered camp, the corpses cooling in the grass, and the flaming saber leveled at him, he might have been a man idly waiting for a carriage rather than someone caught in a struggle of life and death. A faint golden glow pulsed around him.
Helto’s eyes narrowed. His saber remained still, his flickering Aura flame seemed to reflect his unease.
“Who are you, really?” he demanded. “The rumors spoke of a Prince of Ruin. A failed monk who was kicked out of the temple . A man with no talent beyond wasting his inheritance.”
The crackle of dying campfires filled the silence. Helto’s gaze swept over the bodies strewn across the ground, then returned to the man before him—one who moved as though he could evade any strike, as if he had eyes in the back of his head.
“You are not that man.”
Lucon’s lips twitched faintly at the title.
Prince of Ruin.
It had stung when it first replaced his old moniker, the Prince of Revelry. After his long string of spectacular failures, it was all anyone saw when they looked at him.
Lucon tilted his head, lazily. “I’m the Young Lord of this land,” he said. “A land with a mountain of debt upon its back. And I will not share its profits with anyone.”
Helto’s winced slightly. The state of Lucon’s mouth was visible when he spoke—charred, blistered, still faintly smoking from the Mana Crystals.
“So, you’re planning to do the same,” Helto accused. “You heard our plan and decided to steal it for yourself, is that it? Cut us out who you see as the middle men?”
“The Mana Crystal objective is an interesting one,” Lucon mused, ignoring the question and pacing a slow, casual circle. “This operation…it would obviously have to go through the Wilderwood. In all the western marches, the Mana is thickest there. Crystals would form in excess, ripe for the harvesting.” He stopped and pinned Helto with a sudden gaze. “It explains why men posing as bandits, led by a mage from the Abandoned Verge, are here in the first place.”
He let the implication hang before pressing his real point. “But it begs a question. What were you going to do about the Mana Beasts?” Lucon gestured vaguely toward the dark tree line. “An operation like this, facilitating crystal growth, would be a beacon. They’d swarm. They’d rampage. They’d destroy villages.”
It was the reason his father, true to his moniker of the Merchant Hero, never bothered with the Mana Crystal trade, despite having the Wilderwood in his own backyard. He would never knowingly put anyone at risk.
For a long moment, the only sound was the wind blowing across the broken tents. The panthers purred lazily as they lay by the fire, unmoving from their commanded place.
Helto’s expression flickered—something between guilt and irritation.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower. “It isn’t our problem.”
He didn’t sound proud of it.
“I’m willing to pay more,” Lucon offered, his tone conversational, as if offering to buy the next round. “Switch sides. Work for me. This plan can go well—better even—if you work from within the barony, with those who own it.”
Helto’s refusal was almost instantaneous, a reflex honed by loyalty or fear. “I would never.”
Lucon’s head tilted. “You’re not at all like the boisterous thug you played in the tavern.”
A shrug. “And you seem to have already guessed I’m no bandit. I’ll keep my cards close to my chest, unlike that loose-lipped barbarian.”
“If Skhav decides to switch sides,” Lucon asked, tone light, “would you come along with him?”
Helto let out a short, harsh laugh. “That barbarian has nowhere to go. He knows his options are limited. He won’t throw his life away so easily.”
Lucon nodded slowly. That was good to know.
Then, without so much as a shift in his stance, he blitzed forward.
[Flash Strike]
His fist, a dart of golden light, shot toward Helto’s nose. It was a cheap shot but he needed it.
Helto’s saber arm came up, the flat of the blade intercepting the punch easily. The force barely made him budge. His eyes blazed with fresh outrage. “You scoundrel! Launching a surprise attack while talking?”
Lucon danced back, the smirk never leaving his face. He knew he couldn’t win by normal means. His only chance was to rely on whatever worked.
“I’m sure a knight like you is just furious with my tactics,” he taunted.
The effect was immediate. Helto’s face went utterly deadpan. More startlingly, the Flow of the world around him—the subtle tells in his muscles, the shifts in his intent—simply…shut off.
Lucon’s smirk faltered. That was…impressively disciplined.
Helto moved.
[Savage Rake]
The saber swiped in a horizontal line of red light.
Lucon bent his upper body parallel to the ground, the blade singing just above his nose.
[Flash Strike]
He snapped upright, fist lancing upward. It was a desperate play for speed, the only arena where he might briefly match the Ember Arisen.
It was a futile hope.
[Bull’s Rush]
The blow hit like a battering ram. Aura-shrouded, Helto slammed into his chest, sending Lucon tumbling backward across the camp. Dirt, sputtering gold light, and blood mingled in the air before he crashed onto the ground.
Before Lucon could fully rise—
[Bull’s Rush]
Helto came again, closing the gap with uncatchable velocity. Lucon tried to dodge, but a glancing hit to his leg spun him in place.
Lucon caught the momentum, using it. His twist became ascent.
[Rising Twister]
He launched himself vertically, a spiraling missile of golden light.
They collided midair—gold against crimson.
[Bull’s Rush]
The shockwave made the tents tremble throughout camp. Lucon was violently overpowered, hurled through the air like a discarded ragdoll.
He hit the ground hard, his body battered. Helto gave him no quarter.
[Bull’s Rush]
[Twin Boulders]
Lucon reacted with both fists, glowing brighter, to intercept. Helto’s saber came down on top of them, nearly cleaving his hands apart. Blood sprayed as steel bit into bone, but Lucon didn’t cry out. His body simply moved again, ready to attack or defend.
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Helto roared, driving forward.
[Bull’s Rush]
Another charge. Lucon was out of options, out of speed, out of tricks. He did the only thing he had left. He planted his feet, drew back a fist.
There was only one unarmed technique the Merciful Temple taught him that could contend with the brute force of Helto’s Battle Skill.
[Merciful Fist]
Gold and red collided again in a brief flash.
Helto was thrown back, skidding across the dirt before catching himself, panting. He looked down at his body, confusion in his expression. No pain. No wound.
Lucon knew why he was bewildered. The [Merciful Fist] was the temple’s ultimate technique for defense and pacification, infused with healing energy to soften its own impact. It was designed to subdue without harm. It was useless for winning a fight like this but its defensive ability was undeniable.
Helto stared at him, seeming unsettled. “You…you don’t seem human.”
Lucon cocked his head slightly, curious.
“I can see your bones through your hands,” Helto said slowly. “Your mouth looks like you’ve eaten burning coals. But you…you don’t even seem to feel it.”
Lucon’s lips twitched upward, that same lazy, unbothered smile.
Helto shuddered despite himself.
Lucon looked down at his ruined hands, flexing his bloody fingers.
“Strange,” he murmured. “Do I really look that odd?”
Did pain have to be acknowledged? No, that seemed wrong. There didn’t seem to be a point in feeling hurt.
[Pray for Mercy]
His golden light grew brighter. The marred flesh on his hands wriggled until they stopped bleeding. His healing magic was just enough for a quick patch up.
“Better?” Lucon asked.
“Somehow worse,” Helto admitted, leaning away slightly.
Something clinked softly by Lucon’s boot. He glanced down.
A bottle of liquor, miraculously unbroken amidst the wreckage.
He bent, picked it up, and gave it a small shake. Liquid sloshed inside.
“Do you mind?” he asked, raised it in mock toast.
Helto made a disbelieving sound, a short exhale that was almost a laugh. He waved his saber dismissively. “Go on. It’ll be your last drink anyway.”
Lucon tipped the bottle back. The cheap, fiery liquid hit his tongue, burned its way down, and the world began to hum.
The Flow—the shifting energies of all things—grew sharper. He could hear it, feel it, be it. The sound of every flickering ember, the heartbeats of the men still alive on the ground, the shifting Aura coursing through Helto’s veins. Everything was laid bare, singing in unison.
He lowered the bottle with a gasp.
Helto raised a brow. “By the gods,” he muttered, “all in one go?” He leveled his saber, flame licking its edge. “Enough games. It’s time to end this. I have a schedule to keep.”
[Bull’s Rush]
Helto charged, his body cloaked in Aura. The impact came before Lucon could register it—a cut of red flame across his neck, the saber drawing blood.
[Pray for Mercy]
Lucon’s hand glowed gold as he clutched his throat, holy light fusing the wound just in time to keep him breathing. Barely.
Helto nodded, a grim finality in his eyes. It seemed he could sense the end was near.
Lucon’s mind raced. Even through the haze of injury, his hyper awareness kept unraveling patterns. He saw it—the way Helto’s Aura moved in perfect rhythm, distributing to each limb in every step of each attack. Every Battle Skill was a series of precise equations of energy and motion. It was obvious the man had trained for years.
Helto came again.
[Bull’s Rush]
The saber slashed. Lucon’s left arm burst with pain. He felt the muscle shear away.
[Pray for Mercy]
Golden light flared, but his arm remained useless.
Another rush.
[Bull’s Rush]
The blade bit into his thigh. Lucon stumbled, nearly falling, leg trembling under him. A final swing came for his skull—he ducked, but not enough. Helto’s shoulder smashed into him, the force cracking ribs like dry twigs.
The world spun.
Lying half-sprawled, Lucon stared up at the stars, thoughts fitting pieces together. He understood now how Battle Skills worked, how every motion was fed Aura differently—but knowledge didn’t equate to survival. His body was breaking apart, and his mediocre healing couldn’t keep pace.
Oddly, he wasn’t afraid. Death felt distant, almost irrelevant. A thought crossed his mind: his family would be quite upset. The barony might celebrate. He shook his head as if passing on tea. No—he still had too much left undone.
His good hand fumbled in a pocket, his fingers closing around the cool metal of the devotional token Francle had discarded. The symbol of the Merciful Temple, an outstretched hand offering light.
[Pray for Salvation]
He glowed gold, not with fervent prayer, but with a casual smile up toward the sky.
“Merciful Goddess,” he asked, “lend a hand, would you?”
The glow grew, then dimmed. His body knitted together—barely enough to stave off death, though his limbs hung crooked, his bones still exposed on his hands.
Helto’s shadow fell over him. Another charge.
Lucon rolled aside, barely dodging the next [Bull’s Rush].
He then looked up again, holding the token higher. “I picked up a wayward soul’s abandoned token of faith,” he said. “Surely that earns a little favor, doesn’t it?”
He remembered her from the vision in his soul—the white dress, the kind eyes. She wouldn't just watch one of her wayward flock be slaughtered…would she?
The golden light erupted from him again, so blindingly bright that Helto skidded to a halt, shielding his eyes.
When it faded, Lucon stood renewed. Whole. His body brand new.
He looked down at the token. A thin crack ran through it, spiderwebbing, the token itself nearly crumbling. A warning—perhaps the goddess saying she is not one to bargain with.
“Message received,” Lucon murmured, grinning up at the sky. “My thanks.”
Helto blinked, momentarily stunned. “I’ve never seen the gods answer a prayer directly,” he admitted, his tone carrying reluctant awe. He shrugged. “But then again, I’ve never tried killing a monk before.”
Lucon nodded to himself as if having reached a private conclusion. “Alright,” he said. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
Helto looked completely unconvinced.
Lucon’s mind raced, replaying the intricate flow of Helto’s Aura. He saw it again—the precise channels, the timed distribution. He looked inward, at the scattered golden motes of his holy power. It was a pittance compared to Helto’s blazing core, but it was what he had to work with.
The Flow showed him the pattern. He focused his energy, forcing the golden light to flood down into his legs.
He activated the holy magic, envisioning not a gentle blessing, but an explosive release.
For a split second, it worked. He felt an unprecedented surge of speed. Lucon took a single step forward—then fell face first into the dirt.
Helto stared down, speechless.
Lucon pushed himself up, spitting out a mouthful of soil. “Alright, let me try one more—”
[Bull’s Rush]
Helto denied him, charging forward. Lucon barely had time to defend.
[Merciful Fist]
The concussive blast of holy force met the charge, rebounding Helto back a few steps. The Arisen shook his head, unharmed but annoyed.
“What a useless technique,” he muttered.
Lucon could see it now—how Helto’s Aura not only empowered but stabilized him. Every time Helto used [Bull’s Rush], Aura didn’t just push him forward—it anchored him. Without it, Lucon’s own power had thrown him like an untethered stone.
It was the difference between a wagon with a driver and a runaway cart on a hill.
[Bull’s Rush]
Helto came again, seeming like a red comet.
Lucon focused his holy magic. The bottom of his feet began to glow gold light, a part of the magic was sent around his body to steady what needed support.
[Golden Step]
He moved—light. His body felt weightless.
Helto’s charge struck only empty air. He stumbled as Lucon vanished from his path, reappearing several paces away—golden light lingering in the dirt, marking the shape of his footsteps.
Helto steadied himself, saber at the ready, the Aura around him burning red.
Lucon was already moving.
[Golden Step]
Golden footprints glowed in the dirt all around Helto—circling, crossing, overlapping. Lucon’s movements were uncatchable, appearing like a firefly darting between tents and firelight.
Helto turned, swung, missed. His eyes tried to follow but his body couldn’t match.
He could use [Bull’s Rush] to lunge at frightening speed, but it was a straight-line charge—a shot arrow without the ability to turn. The moment Lucon saw that flaw, he looked into the Flow for a way in to attack.
He began peppering Helto with blows—light, quick jabs and heel strikes. None devastating, but all landing.
Helto grunted as his saber flashed and failed to catch him.
Still, Lucon knew the truth. An Arisen’s body wasn’t built to break. Every strike that should have cracked ribs only left bruises. Every hit that should have knocked him down only staggered.
He focused his holy energy, mimicking the Aura mechanics he’d observed, using it with his enhanced speed of thought to change his [Flash Strike] into something faster.
[Sudden Flash]
He appeared in front of Helto, golden light coalescing around his fist. The punch connected with the fake bandit’s face—and with a sickening crunch, Lucon’s own hand shattered.
He recoiled, sliding back through the dirt. His fingers dangled uselessly, bent in wrong directions.
Right. He’d forgotten—he wasn’t an Arisen. His body couldn’t match theirs.
[Pray for Mercy]
Light gathered weakly around his broken hand. The golden light flickered over his mangled digits, but the healing was as shabby as it always was. The bones remained shattered.
Helto shook his head, a bead of blood trickling from his lip where the punch had landed.
“You struggle uselessly,” he growled. “I see what you’re doing. It’s like the barbarian—trying to mimic Aura with your own energy. A pale imitation.”
Lucon nodded, understanding Skhav’s manipulation of Mana wasn’t a fluke. He thought back to the precise way the barbarian condensed Mana to defend himself with.
It wasn't just mimicry; it was principles. Concentration. Focus. He didn't have more power, but he could use what he had more efficiently.
So Lucon tried it.
He focused every mote of holy light within him, forcing it to gather, swirl, and compact into his broken hand. The pain was a sign it wasn’t meant to be used in such a way but pain didn’t mean much to Lucon anymore.
[Mandate for Mercy]
The bones realigned, the tendons tightened. His hand flexed open, whole again, shining faintly.
Helto frowned. “It’s still useless. Better healing won’t change the outcome.”
Lucon looked at him as if he had a good joke to tell. “I have something else to show you.”
The air shimmered around him.
Helto’s knuckles tightened on the saber. For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.
[Golden Step]
Lucon sped forward again, a trail of golden footprints following him.
[Savage Rake]
Then Helto swung a counter too wide, revealing an opening Lucon was looking for.
He came to a dead stop, all his speed sacrificed. Every spark of holy power, every blessing, every last drop of energy he could muster, was pulled from his entire body and concentrated into his right fist.
[Merciless Fist]
The blow struck Helto square in the chest.
It landed like thunder. Helto’s eyes went wide, blood and spittle bursting from his mouth as his body left the ground, hurled backward through the air.
