Lucian stepped closer to the fallen Black Knife Assassin. Beneath her, blood had already pooled across the stone—but her breath lingered, faint yet steady.
She was alive.
Even so, Lucian did not touch her outright. Instead, he nudged her hand lightly with the end of his Carian Glintstone Staff. Once. Twice. No response.
He still didn't move to lift her. He wasn't about to gamble. Who knew what lingering effect Destined Death might leave on the body?
Mogh's Bloodflame burned with horrifying persistence, was this power any less? One careless mistake, and he might be forced to burn through another use of Wind Spirit Moon Shadow.
That, Lucian could not allow. The Moon Shadow was meant for battle and survival, not for cleaning up after his own negligence.
So, he kept his distance.
With the staff's end, he lifted the assassin's tattered hood. The storm had shredded it to rags, more like a filthy cloth than a cowl. Long white hair spilled loose from within, strands snapped short at uneven lengths.
Her face was revealed—bloodied and torn. The storm had left no inch of her untouched.
He prodded her cheek once more with the staff. Still nothing.
Satisfied she was truly unconscious, Lucian pried her fingers open and slipped the Black Knife from her grasp.
Without it, she was no longer a threat. Even if she woke, her claws were gone—she would be little more than a cornered cat.
At last, he lifted her.
Only then did he notice her breathing—shallow, ragged, almost gone. She had no strength left.
Certain she could no longer resist, Lucian produced a Flask of Crimson Tears and poured its contents into her mouth.
Her vitals steadied. Breathing slowed, then grew even.
Still wounded, but no longer at death's door.
Lucian thought for a moment, then uncorked a second flask. And a third.
Why not? The flasks replenished at Sites of Grace, and he had more than enough.
Unlike the game, this world was different—here, a single Golden Seed sufficed to carve a flask. No such thing as needing two or three.
True, it would be easier to keep her weakened. But there was no need. Even at full strength, stripped of her Black Knife, she posed no danger to him.
Besides, healing her would show goodwill—an easier road to future cooperation.
So he poured again.
The results were immediate. Her breath grew smooth, wounds closed, bloodflow ceased. Her body began to knit together faster than it had been torn apart.
She remained unconscious, but in truth—she might now be healthier than before the fight.
Lucian picked up a torn scrap of her garment from the floor and wiped the blood from her face.
What emerged beneath the stains was striking: delicate, sharp-featured beauty, paired with her tall, lithe build and flowing white hair. Even disheveled, she carried a cold, commanding presence.
An air of an untouchable noblewoman, or perhaps, more accurately, a deadly enchantress.
Her armor, too, lay in tatters. Though the Black Knife set covered much with metal, the storm had shredded the underlayers—cloth at her shoulders, sides, thighs, even beneath the skirt plates.
Where fabric was gone, pale skin gleamed through—skin so white it was almost startling, like one untouched by sun. Not the silver sheen of the Nox, but a pallor that, on her people, looked natural, not sickly.
Streaked with fresh blood, the sight was strangely vivid, harsh and beautiful all at once.
Lucian shook his head, forcing the thought aside. Now was not the time for idle admiration of foreign races.
He sat opposite her, turning the Black Knife in his hands.
Its design was unusual. Not merely a dagger's single edge, beneath the main blade ran another curved edge, and even the guard split into two more hooked blades.
Four edges in total.
Decoration? No. Function. A weapon made for killing from any angle. He had no doubt assassins trained to exploit each one in ways most could never anticipate.
And there, carved into the steel, was the telltale mark: a jagged fracture, running down the length of the blade.
The scar left by Destined Death.
Lucian knew the story—how Ranni had once performed the ritual, binding the Rune of Death into these knives.
Even a weapon as rare as this could not withstand such power. Cracks bloomed along the steel, impossible to mend.
That was the nature of rituals in the Lands Between: sacred, indelible.
The Sacred Flasks resisted all corruption. Ritual Pots restored themselves after use, unlike common cracked pots. And the Black Knives bore fractures, eternal evidence of the Rune once forced into them.
No ritual could be erased. Not even by those who wished it.
Lucian studied the blade from every angle. Yet he saw nothing more.
How had Rogier gleaned so much from these fractures, enough to know who performed the rite, and what had transpired?
Lucian himself saw only a scar.
But then, he didn't need to uncover its secrets.
He already knew the truth of the story.
When the time came, he could simply show this knife to Ranni. Tell her where he had found it. She would not doubt him.
After all, the blade itself was proof—and Ranni was never one to deny her hand in the past.
So Lucian set the knife aside.
He would bring it to her soon. And not only that, he had another card to play: the Shadow of the Stars katana.
That, too, tied in some way to the Fingerslayer Blade. And though Ranni did not yet possess the blade she sought, Lucian knew when she would.
The Festival of Combat loomed. Afterward, Caria's fate would turn. The path to Nokron would open. And soon, Ranni or her followers would claim the Fingerslayer Blade for themselves.
Once they had it, his katana would lose its worth.
No, he must strike a deal before then.
And this time, he would not serve her as a mere vassal. No longer the pawn of someone else's story.
He would stand as an ally. Equal.
For he had goals of his own.
Like finding a way to grant Melina a body of her own.
Perhaps through Rennala's art of rebirth. Perhaps through some soul-transference like Ranni's own.
But it was worth asking.
Just then, Melina's voice cut into his thoughts, "Lucian… may I see that blade?"
He turned, surprised. She rarely asked for anything.
"What is it?"
Her gaze lingered on the knife. "This weapon… and that woman… they feel familiar to me."
"I wish to hold it. Perhaps, in doing so, I might recall something."
Lucian nodded. "Of course."
But Melina could not manifest within the catacomb itself. They would need to step out, to the Site of Grace by the entrance.
So Lucian hefted the unconscious assassin onto his shoulder, carried her up the stairs, and set her down beside the grace.
For safety, he pulled loose a strip of her own torn cloth, wedging it between her teeth—just in case she attempted to bite her tongue.
Then he rummaged through Torrent's pack, drawing out strong rope.
Though no expert in knots, he tied her again and again until she was bound nearly like a cocoon.
Only then, satisfied she would not slip away, did he rest.
Melina appeared, quiet flame in her hair.
She reached for the Black Knife.
The moment her fingers closed around its hilt, a wave of recognition swept her.
Unbidden, her body moved—testing, slashing, parrying. At first hesitant, then flowing faster, sharper, until the blade danced in her hand with ease.
Lucian's brows furrowed. The sight was uncanny. It was as if he were watching the assassin herself.
Could it be… Melina awakening fragments of a past life?
The thought nagged at him. It was a feeling he knew well—like in the game, stumbling on certain items that seemed to stir buried memories.
But in truth, it made sense. In the game, Melina's combat style mirrored that of the Black Knife Assassins. Even her use of the Destined Death skill was near identical.
Her sealed left eye—the Eye of Night. The very mark of the Gloam-Eyed Queen, mistress of Black Flame and Destined Death.
And yet, Melina had said nothing when he learned Black Flame. Had she not noticed? Or had she simply chosen silence?
He didn't know.
At last, Melina lowered the dagger, handing it back. A small smile touched her lips.
"Lucian… I think I have remembered something. Once, I wielded blades like this. The moment I held it, the motions came back to me. Techniques I had long forgotten."
"I do not know if I was truly one of them. But at least… I was no stranger to battle."
Her eyes lowered, softer now. "Though in memory, I recall only incantations of healing."
"Even so," she whispered, almost to herself, "it seems I once lived by the sword."
Lucian exhaled, a trace of relief easing from his chest.
So it was only muscle memory, not mission. Not yet.
He smiled faintly. "Then congratulations. You've taken another step back toward what was lost."
But as Melina met his gaze, her joy dimmed.
Yes, she had remembered. Yes, her skill had returned.
But what use were they, to a spirit with no body?
What could she truly offer him, like this?