The eastern sky only gleamed dully. It wasn't burning; it was just the morning light asserting itself reluctantly. Sea mist hung low, dragging itself over Ordein—a port that felt like a discarded place on the edge of the great Eastern Empire. The air here was sticky; a mix of rotting fish, rust, and old salt that never truly left. You could hear the shouts and curses of sailors, mixed with the creaking of sodden, heavy mooring lines.
A man, his gray hood pulled low over his face, stepped off a small, fragile merchant vessel. He moved with no rush, his pace slow and unremarkable. That was the important part. He was just another traveler, and no one cared.
Lucien adjusted the brim of his wide hat slightly.
He wore a faded leather coat that had seen too many roads, plain gloves, and a single cloth bag that looked empty slung over his shoulder. He looked like a failed merchant. But his eyes—behind that stare, there was something ancient and weary moving silently.
Every empire, yes, has two sides, he thought, looking at the gloomy wooden warehouses that seemed ready to collapse any moment. One is gilded with gold in the palace. The other? It's here. Filthy. If you want to know how strong a king is, don't look at his banner. Just look at where his people hide.
He walked past the remnants of the fish market. Tired, hardened faces stared blankly. Imperial soldiers marched past, the weight of their boots feeling too heavy for these small streets. Merchants bowed low and immediately; the fear was palpable, like a contagious disease. In the distance, a child was caught stealing bread. The guards just let out a dry laugh and let him go, but only after ensuring the child's shoulder was bruised.
Lucien didn't look. He just stopped in front of a small temple whose wall had partially crumbled—left that way. Inside, a stone statue of a young emperor with a raised sword. The statue's face was worn down, unrecognizable. The incense had long gone out; maybe a year ago, maybe ten.
"Rudra. What a shame," Lucien muttered. He stared at the stillness for a long time.
His steps led him to a narrower street behind the temple. The scent of bitter black tea and cheap, sharp cigarette smoke mingled. There, tucked away in the quiet bustle, was an old tavern. Its sign was dark wood, its paint peeling. He stepped inside.
The small brass bell above the door gave a slow chime, a sound that felt pathetic.
There was only one customer. A blond, bearded man, sitting in the darkest corner. His gaze was sharp, but his lips were curved in a smile. Lucien knew who he was—instinct told him, not information.
"Where are you from, Sir?" The man spoke, his voice sounding soft, but there was a metallic layer beneath it. "Your face… is too relaxed for someone who just landed in this Empire."
Lucien took the chair across from him, uninvited. "From a place that is better off not being on any map."
"Interesting." The man slowly sipped his tea, his eyes never leaving Lucien. "Most people here look for money. Power. Or, well, death. You don't seem to want any of those common luxuries."
Lucien stared at the tea in his cup; the reflection of the morning light made it look muddy. "I just want to know if the story about the Immortal Emperor is true. They say he's been alive for thousands of years."
"Ah," the man gave a small smile. "But?"
Lucien looked up. His eyes were weary yet steady. "Something that lives for too long… they forget what it's like to be human. They forget what it feels like to die."
A thick, loaded silence filled the room.
The tea between them went cold.
The man then laughed. Not a mocking laugh, just the sound of someone who was honestly entertained and intrigued. "You are an interesting person. What is your name, if I may ask?"
Lucien returned a faint smile, almost imperceptible. "Lucien. And you?"
The man set down his cup slowly, then sat straighter. "Damrada."
The name made the air a little tighter, like someone was holding their breath.
Lucien stared at him. His eyes were flat, but beneath them was an unspoken tremor. "This isn't a coincidence, then."
Damrada shrugged. "In the Empire, coincidence is a good myth."
They fell silent again. Then Damrada spoke, this time lower, like sharing a secret.
"People like us know… this world is fragile. Woven from thin threads. So, what are you looking for here, wanderer without a path?"
Lucien looked out the window. Outside, two soldiers were slapping a ragged fisherman over taxes. "Destiny," he said, after taking too long to think.
Damrada looked deeply into him. "You sound like you know what you're talking about."
Lucien gave a small smile. "Maybe. Or maybe just a guess."
The bell on the door chimed again, marking the shift into the afternoon. Damrada stood. He placed a silver coin on the table—a payment.
"I will convey your regards to the air," he said lightly. "But, be careful, Sir Lucien. In the Empire, even the air has ears."
Lucien watched his back disappear into the busy street. He smiled, a smile that vanished as quickly as it appeared. "I know."
The temple bell far away chimed six times—a signal of failure.
The mist began to descend from the sea, enveloping the port with numbness—like the night concealing a bad secret.
——
A fine, soft mist descended upon the stone garden of Hilmenard Castle. Amidst the marble pillars and the reflecting pool that looked nearly frozen, Lucien's steps echoed lightly. He arrived without escort, without insignia. Only silence was his companion.
The guards in the castle did not find him.
The studio door was half-open. From within, the scent of oil paint mingled with the cold air. Mithra Hilmenard sat before a large canvas. The painting was unfinished—the shadows of a woman and two small children were still vague, emerging from the brushstrokes.
Lucien stopped a few steps behind him.
"Duke Mithra."
Without turning his head, the man replied softly, "I dislike that title. Here, just call me Mithra. I'm merely a father who happens to have been born in the wrong place."
Lucien studied his back for a moment. "And I am merely an unlucky guy who happens to have been born at the wrong world"
The silence between them thickened.
Mithra placed his brush down and turned around. His face was rigid, devoid of eyebrows, but his eyes were soft—weary, like a person who had long stopped arguing with the world.
"I don't know who you are," he finally said. "How you got in here is irrelevant."
Lucien simply looked, neither confirming nor denying.
"I have one request," he stated flatly. "I came to ask your permission to take your Skill—Villain."
Mithra stared at him for a long time. There was no fear, only honest curiosity.
"And why ask permission? With the power you possess, you could simply copy or steal it."
Lucien offered a faint smile. "Because there is a difference between stealing and understanding. Your Villain isn't merely a function. It was born from the way you live—from how the world looks at you and how you look back at it."
The words rendered Mithra silent for quite a while. He then walked to the window, gazing at the mist outside.
"That Skill… it's not something I cherish. It makes me seem like a Man without a heart. When all I really want is to paint, and be home before dinner gets cold."
He turned, looking at Lucien. "But you are not a person I can read. What will you do with something like Villain?"
Lucien stepped forward, standing in the twilight glow falling from the window.
"The world will soon view me as a threat, regardless of my intentions. Villain will make that easier to accept. I only intend to use it as a mask."
Mithra stared at him, then nodded slowly.
"Very well. You have my permission, then. But remember, that Skill reflects perception. The more you are revered, the sharper the hatred bounces back at you."
Lucien raised his hand; a delicate dark purple light swirled around him. Dolos pulsed within his soul—a formless yet living system.
In silence, Argus initiated the connection.
The air subtly rippled. There was no lightning, no incantation. Only a small tremor, like two waves of consciousness touching without clashing.
A few seconds later, everything was calm again.
Lucien lowered his hand. "It is done."
Mithra blinked. "That's it?"
Lucien looked at him. "You gave permission. The rest is my concern."
Mithra offered a stiff smile, but there was relief in it. "You make a monumental thing sound like changing a paintbrush."
Lucien replied lightly. "Both are about balancing colors."
"What is your name, Your Grace?" Mithra asked.
"Lucien."
Silence once more. Outside, the mist began to lift, revealing the garden below.
Lucien turned toward the door, but before he stepped out, Mithra spoke again:
"Lucien-dono… if one day the world decides you are the villain, make sure you know why you're playing the part."
Lucien paused for a moment.
"If I forget, I hope your Skill reminds me."
And he left—like a shadow that was never truly absent from the room.
——
Rain fell softly upon the Imperial Capital. But the softness felt fake. The gray sky wrapped the towers and banners in a heavy, suffocating layer of mist. On the main road, patrol troops moved with a rhythm that was too perfect—not discipline, but the motion of a machine driven by fear.
Lucien stood on the balcony of a modest inn, watching the scene without emotion. Rainwater dripped from the ends of his hair, and he made no effort to avoid it. Villain was now fully integrated into his soul; the faint aura of the skill pulsed in harmony with Dolos—forming a kind of psychological mist around him. Anyone who looked at him too long would feel a warning bell clang in their mind, without knowing why.
Argus whispered in his thoughts, flat and without irony.
Lucien sighed, a soundless weariness. "Sometimes, the fastest way to the palace is through chains."
He descended from the room, walking down the inn's hallway. At the reception desk, the owner bowed deeply without realizing why he did it. Villain worked passively, suppressing the inquisitive instincts of those around him. Lucien left a few gold coins, stepped outside, and headed toward the main square where the garrison headquarters stood, like a man who knew his train schedule.
A few hours later, the report had already spread, tucked between the soldiers' coffee and cheap cigarettes:
"Foreign man with a cold stare refused inspection."
"Would not show documents and looked... threatening."
It didn't take long. Six soldiers surrounded him in the street, as if cornering a stray dog.
"Name and purpose!" one of them shouted, his voice cracking slightly out of nervousness, not bravery.
Lucien looked at them calmly. "I came to see the Emperor."
They laughed at his answer—a loud, nervous laugh—but the laughter quickly died as the air around them felt like hardening concrete. One soldier stepped forward with a magical dagger in hand—and suddenly froze. His hand was stiff, unable to move. Lucien merely stared at him, and without realizing it, a cold, sickening dread crawled beneath their skin.
"Take me to your superior," he stated flatly.
And they obeyed.
The interrogation room beneath the central fortress was silent, dark, and smelled of old dust. Cold blue crystal light illuminated the stone walls and the metal table in the center. Lucien sat on a chair; his hands were free. He could leave at any moment, but he had an appointment.
The door opened. Damrada walked in, followed by two guards who immediately closed the door behind him with a final click.
"Your method of entry… is unusual, Sir Lucien," he said softly.
Lucien shrugged. "If I came by official invitation, it would take three weeks and seven bureaucratic stamps. Now, I am here in one afternoon."
Damrada looked at him, then let out a small laugh, a laugh that didn't reach his eyes. "Hahaha. You are very amusing, Sir Lucien." He pulled up a chair, sitting across from him. "So, what is it you are truly looking for here? I know 'observing' is just a polite opening line."
Lucien didn't answer immediately. He stared at the table's surface which faintly reflected his face, like a shadow in murky water.
"I want to see the Emperor before something inside him completely fractures."
"Something?"
"Michael," he replied without turning his head. "You already know this, Damrada. Every time Rudra loses consciousness, that feeling emerges—not a human, not a spirit, not a familiar, or anything else. But something far more complex"
Damrada was silent. His eyes sharpened, but he didn't deny it. "And what do you want from all that?"
Lucien looked at him now, his tone lower, almost a confession. "I am merely curious. I want to see the thin line between the entity and its host"
A long silence. Only the sound of the rain outside could be heard, like the world weeping softly.
Finally, Damrada leaned back in his chair. "If I didn't know you could escape at any time, I'd call you insane"
Lucien smiled thinly. "You already know I don't need permission to leave."
"True." Damrada stood, then walked to the door. "But perhaps permission to stay would be more useful." He paused at the doorway, turning halfway. "Rudra hasn't received a foreign guest in a long time. But I think… he might want to hear something that even I wouldn't dare utter."
Lucien gave a slight nod. "Thank you."
Damrada looked at him once more, then said almost in a whisper, "You know, in this world, only two types of people come to the palace: those seeking salvation… and those bringing destruction."
Lucien stared back, his violet eyes calm and frozen. "And if I come bringing both?"
Damrada gave a faint smile. "Then I hope you know when to choose."
Lucien only offered a slight smile.
——
A few hours later, Lucien's footsteps echoed in the palace corridor toward the throne room. Soldiers and servants stopped talking as he passed. Villain reflected their perception—they didn't know why, but every gaze upon him turned nervous. As if they were seeing the shadow of something far greater and more menacing than just a man.
Lucien walked on without speaking. Ahead, the golden doors opened. A soft light welcomed him, and at the end of the room, sat the figure he sought.
Rudra Nam Ul Nasca. The Immortal Emperor of the Eastern Empire.
Lucien walked closer without bowing. His movement was silent, his steps barely echoing. Every guard on the side of the room felt something strange about the man—not an outright threat, but a presence that refused to be defined.
"Such disrespect toward the Emperor! Seize this man immediately!"
Rudra raised his hand slowly. "Enough. Let him approach. All of you may leave, except for Damrada."
All the guards retreated and exited the room.
Lucien stopped at the foot of the dais. The crystal light danced in his eyes.
"So you… are Rudra."
Rudra looked at him for a long time. "And you… are an interesting man."
"So are you."
Silence hung between them. The air in the room felt dense, as if two realities were weighing the balance.
Rudra finally spoke, his voice flat yet soft. "I heard about you from Damrada. Yes, I am quite satisfied."
Lucien stared straight at him. "How long can you last? How long until your foolish game with Guy ends? How long until that something inside you replaces you?"
Rudra offered a faint smile, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Living inside me? You speak as if I am a vessel, not a man."
Lucien didn't answer immediately. He just stared deeper—and in that gaze, something shifted. For a moment, Rudra's aura faded, replaced by a piercing white light, as if another being were staring back from behind the curtain of his body.
"Michael," Lucien whispered silently.
Rudra closed his eyes, then chuckled softly. The laugh was tired, but sincere. "You really can see it."
"The world is indeed fascinating, isn't it, Rudra," Lucien said.
"Is that so? So be it." Rudra leaned back against his throne, his gaze penetrating the crystal ceiling. "It's been a long time since anyone spoke to me like that. Guy... I've met an interesting person. If the three of us could have met then, perhaps we could have made this game more engaging."
Behind that soft laugh, his face looked older than his body. His eyes, though seemingly young, held the weight of centuries of time.
"Every time I am reborn," he said slowly, "I lose a small part of myself. At first, it was just memories. Then feelings. Then the reason to rule. Now, I don't even know if the one speaking is still me."
Lucien didn't reply. He simply stood still, listening to the confession never meant to be heard.
"Michael granted me immortality," Rudra continued. "But he also took away every reason that made that immortality worthwhile. I am just waiting for the day he no longer needs this vessel."
Lucien stared intensely. "When that time comes, the world will collapse with you."
"And you came to prevent it?"
Lucien nodded slightly. "Or to ensure the destruction is quick and clean."
Rudra looked at him for a moment, then smiled again—a small, strangely calming smile. "You are like a mirror, Lucien. You speak like an enemy, but your tone is that of someone who understands."
"Because I understand."
Before Rudra could answer, the air in the room vibrated. The temperature rose sharply. The crystals on the ceiling reflected a red light, like a bloody warning.
From behind the fractured air, a figure of a blue-haired woman emerged—her eyes golden like the newborn sun.
Velgrynd The Scorch Dragon.
"Rudra," her voice boomed, but her eyes immediately turned sharply toward Lucien. "And this… who is this?"
Rudra looked at her with genuine weariness. "A guest."
Velgrynd stared at Lucien without blinking. In an instant, her magical energy flooded the room. But Lucien just stood calmly, like a stone amidst a foolish storm.
Velgrynd narrowed her eyes. "Strange… I can feel nothing from you. What are you?"
Lucien inclined his head slightly. "I have no intention of hiding from you, Velgrynd. But I am not yet ready to destroy the balance of this world."
Velgrynd growled softly. "Big words for someone without an aura."
Rudra smiled weakly. "Gryun, he is not an enemy."
The woman stared at Rudra for a long time, then lowered her pressure slightly. Yet her eyes remained wary. "If he tries anything—"
Lucien cut her off gently. "If I desired destruction, I wouldn't be standing here talking."
Velgrynd was silent. In that silence, their auras measured each other. Between the unquenchable fire and something that could not be seen.
Rudra finally straightened up, looking at Lucien. "Whatever you seek, I won't ask you to stop your path. But if your destiny and mine meet again…"
Lucien made a threatening remark. "Then we will speak again—either as allies, enemies, or as a reminder that even gods can die."
Rudra chuckled softly. "You are truly fascinating, Lucien."
Lucien turned without waiting for permission. As he walked out of the hall, his steps made no sound. But before he reached the door, Velgrynd's voice called from behind.
"Lucien!"
He paused.
Velgrynd stared at him with faintly glowing eyes. "I don't know who you are. But if you stand in Rudra's way, I will hunt you to the ends of the world and kill you."
Lucien turned his head slightly, his sharp violet eyes looking at her over his shoulder. "Then be prepared to lose the people you cherish."
Silence swallowed the room.
Velgrynd did not reply. But in her eyes, something trembled—between anger and fear she refused to acknowledge.
Lucien walked out of the hall, passing through the long corridor lit by crystal lamps. Damrada was waiting at the end, his expression flat.
"You made the Emperor laugh. That hasn't happened in a very long time."
Lucien looked at the gray sky, which was starting to break.
"That means he's still alive."
Damrada looked back at him. "And if he dies?"
Lucien walked without turning around. "Then I will make sure the one who replaces him knows the meaning of fear."
—
A few hours later, high above the clouds, the black silhouette of the Void Strider glided slowly, leaving the Empire behind.
Elise stood at the control room window, looking at the reflection of the sky. "How did it go?"
Lucien stood beside her, his eyes on the horizon, which was slowly dimming.
"He is not saved. But that was not my objective."
Elise turned. "Then what was?"
Lucien only offered a faint smile and did not answer.
He closed his eyes, and behind his eyelids, Rudra's face flashed—smiling.
"Michael…" Lucien whispered.
The Void Strider disappeared into a rift, leaving the Empire's sky serene—and in the palace, Rudra looked at the same horizon, smiling slightly as he whispered,
"Lucien… thank you."