Lucian said nothing in response to Diallos's repeated thanks. Leaving only his back to Diallos and Lanya, he continued along his planned route.
He had not done it for gratitude. He only wanted to keep Diallos from straying down that defiled path he himself despised.
In the game, Diallos always left players with a sense of wasted potential—like iron that could never be forged into steel. Yet, not all of that was his own fault.
Setting aside the burden of his family, the Lands Between were no stage for a hot-blooded tale where wishes and goals alone led to fulfillment. Even when Diallos took up the path of blasphemy at Volcano Manor, he never truly became a hero.
It was only when he accepted his own mediocrity, when he went to Jarburg that he finally discovered his true heart. He thought himself useless, and yet those very hands could tend to the jars. Only then did he understand why he had been given them.
In that companionship with the jars, he felt what it meant to be truly alive.
And so, when his story reached its end, and Jarburg was beset by poachers, Diallos cast away his former cowardice. For the sake of the jars, he fought to the death.
He failed to protect the village and perished himself, but in that final moment, his thoughts were not of the "hero" he had once boasted of endlessly. They were of the jars.
And in that moment, he became a true hero.
Perhaps what he truly sought was never the mantle of heroism, but simply to catch up to his brother's shadow.
He had not yet found resolve, had not yet discovered what it was he truly sought. That was why he had been lost in confusion.
This time, Lucian had given him an opportunity.
If, deep within, he truly longed to be a hero, then at Stormveil he would undergo his metamorphosis.
If, within the army, he realized he could never be a hero, then at least he would come to understand himself, cherish those beside him, and live his own way upon this cruel yet beautiful land.
Lucian would help any character he could, sparing them from the deaths he had once witnessed.
Though, in their eyes, he was a stranger—Lucian had already been their friend within the game, had borne witness to their lives filled with regrets.
To save them, this had always been Lucian's first wish.
—
Following a worn path through the forest, Lucian and Torrent pressed on.
The trail had once been trodden by many, the earth compacted so tightly that no grass could grow. Now, long abandoned, blades of green had begun to reclaim it.
The creatures of Liurnia were, for the most part, sane, unlike the frenzied beasts of Caelid. Wolves, sensing the aura of a dragon upon Lucian, slunk away rather than approach.
…All but one.
A Giant Crab squatted in the middle of the path.
The road dipped slightly there, forming a rain-fed pool where the crab lazed with several smaller ones, leisurely foraging. Its claws scooped through the mud, bringing up whatever could be eaten—sometimes nothing at all, in which case it simply brought the empty claw to its mouth in a dazed gesture.
But the instant it saw Lucian and Torrent, the great crab charged straight at them, eager for fresh prey.
The dragon's aura did nothing.
As it barreled toward them, Lucian flicked his wrist. A single wind blade cleaved the creature clean in two.
Yellow liquid sprayed out. At first, Lucian thought it was an excess of body fluid—but on closer inspection, he realized it was not. The wind blade had split its abdomen, bursting open a mass of crab eggs.
Torrent sniffed at the spilled roe, then bent down and began to eat with relish.
Curious, Lucian picked one up for himself. Each egg was nearly the size of a chicken's, slick with slime. He sniffed—no foul odor.
He popped it into his mouth. The egg burst across his tongue, flooding him with a rich, sweet flavor that warmed his whole body.
They were delicious—better even than crab meat itself. In the Lands Between, such roe was considered a delicacy, usually reserved for those of status. Crabs and Crayfish were far too troublesome for common folk to hunt.
After tasting one, Lucian left the rest to Torrent, who ate until he was sated. Only then did they continue on.
—
The trees thinned, and suddenly the world opened up.
Two towering spires loomed ahead, joined by a great bridge—the Carian Study Hall, and beyond it, Divine Tower of Liurnia.
From his high vantage point, Lucian stood nearly level with the midsection of the study hall, as though he could leap straight across the chasm and land upon its walls.
He gazed up at the Carian Study Hall, thoughtful.
In the game, its design had been ingenious. After receiving the Carian Inverted Statue from Ranni, one could place it upon the pedestal of the study hall's astrolabe. At once, the entire structure would turn upside down.
And yet, somehow, even inverted, the water would still flow as before—streams running impossibly upward into the sky.
Would the same be true here, in this real world?
Still, the study hall held no shortage of horrors—Fingercreepers, and a certain infamous Preceptor. Lucian had suffered greatly there in the past.
Stepping closer to the cliff's edge, he measured the distance. It was too far to cross.
Looking down, his eyes soon found Jarburg.
This was Alexander's birthplace, the village from which he had set out on his journey of strength. Unlike in the game, the settlement was much larger, teeming with living jars.
To evade poachers, the jarfolk built their homes in hidden places such as this, beneath sheer cliffs where no traveler would think to look.
Some jars had even taken another path—becoming warrior jars, pledging themselves to various powers for protection, and in turn securing a place for the smaller jars. Their strength was considerable, and many factions in the Lands Between welcomed them.
Even Stormveil housed warrior jars and their kin, once sworn to Godrick. Now, they lived as Lucian's people alongside the other races.
Lucian did not leap down to Jarburg yet. He had no need to rush. The jars feared poachers deeply, and would not welcome strangers as they had in the game.
When the time was right, he would come to them, to ask if they wished to move to Stormveil.
For now, night was falling, and Lucian sought a place to rest.
But fate had other plans.
—
As he circled a small lake, ripples disturbed the surface. A crimson glow lit the water.
A Tibia Mariner emerged, its boat drifting across the lake. Around it, corpses of brigands and militiamen rose, twisted into revenants. Their hatred of the living fixed upon Lucian at once.
With a weary sigh, he drew his Swordspear.
He had meant to avoid them—without a way to seal Deathroot, carrying it would be inconvenient. But since they had struck first, retreat was out of the question.
Storm winds tore the revenants apart with ease, while the Swordspear ripped gashes into the mariner's boat.
Though it tried to teleport away, it could not escape Lucian.
Three strikes, five, then more—and the Tibia Mariner shattered into pieces, dissolving into mist and leaving behind a single Deathroot.
With their master gone, the other revenants collapsed, crumbling into heaps of ordinary bones.
Lucian wrapped the Deathroot tightly in cloth and stowed it in a small pouch at his side—crafted along with his gear, matching its style. He rarely used it now, but it still carried his essentials.
Better to keep the root with him than risk harm to Torrent. Tomorrow, he would take it to D.
As he turned to leave, something glimmered faintly in the ground.
He knelt and unearthed it—a crystalline skull, its texture much like Spirit Ash.
Clearly, this too was an ash, though in a different form.
He stroked his chin, struggling to recall which summon it belonged to. He had been in the Lands Between too long; small details slipped his memory.
Best to see directly.
He rang the Spirit Calling Bell. A skeleton wielding twin curved swords emerged before him.
Lucian nodded in sudden recognition—the Skeletal Bandit Ashes.
Yet it puzzled him. Why would a revenant have ashes at all?
Spirit Ashes were formed when a soul lingered within a body's remains. But revenants were already dead, endlessly reviving. If one died, it should simply rise again. How could such a being produce ashes?
He tried to communicate with the skeleton, but its reply was incoherent, senseless noise.
Unable to understand, he dismissed it once more.
Strange indeed… and there would be more revenants awaiting him ahead.
Tucking the skull into Torrent's pack, Lucian pressed on toward a small ruined shack perched on the cliff's edge.
On the way, he searched carefully for the Leyndell Knight who, in the game, wandered here with a Dragon Cult Prayerbook. But no matter how long he looked, he found nothing. No knight, no corpse, no book. Perhaps it had never existed here.
Resigned, he entered the ruined Artist's Shack.
—
Inside, he lit a site of grace before exploring further.
The hut was crude, barely two walls and a roof, so cramped that brushes and paints filled nearly all of its space. Only a corner remained clear enough to work.
Such shacks dotted the Lands Between, quick to build and often serving as temporary shelters.
And yet, within this one lay a work of remarkable beauty.
A painting, perfectly preserved beneath a veil of sorcery, untouched by time.
Words appeared before Lucian's eyes: "Resurrection".
One of the work of a wandering artist. His entire life was poured into these paintings, capturing the final moments of the departed and the sights they beheld.
It was said that by visiting the places depicted, one might find the treasures he left behind.
Even without such rewards, the art itself was priceless—so vivid it was like gazing at a photograph, every detail etched flawlessly upon the canvas.
Lucian resolved to one day bring it back to Stormveil as part of his collection.