The Eastern Continent was silent that morning, the mist rising from the river like smoke from a smoldering fire. The Voss estate seemed serene, yet beneath the calm, every shadow whispered of tension and hidden blades.
Lucien Voss observed Kaelric from the balcony, his eyes as pale and still as winter ice. The second son had grown confident under Lucien's guidance, yet that confidence was fragile, shaped entirely by the Lucien's influence.
Kaelric prepared to inspect the southern border fortifications, believing that a minor border skirmish could solidify his reputation. Soldiers lined the courtyard, swords gleaming, qi swirling faintly around those trained in internal arts.
Lucien approached quietly. "Brother," he said softly, "the southern approach is treacherous. The rocks shift easily, and enemy scouts may have laid traps. If you push forward too aggressively, you may stumble…"
Kaelric paused. "I understand. But I trust your guidance."
Lucien's lips curved faintly. Trust is the blade I wield, and soon, it will cut where they never see it coming.
Ragnar watched from the shadow of the inner hall, arms folded, jaw tight. The eldest son had begun noticing patterns—the subtle ways Lucien guided Kaelric, the whispered corrections, the quiet hand that seemed to bend soldiers' actions. There was brilliance there, yes—but also danger.
"Something is growing in him. And if I do not act carefully, that growth will be our undoing," Ragnar thought.
The southern border ridge was narrow, lined with jagged rocks and unstable cliffs. Lucien had carefully studied the terrain days ago, planting subtle miscalculations in Kaelric's patrol maps, making it appear that the safest path was the one that would force the second son to overextend his qi.
As Kaelric led the soldiers, Lucien's whispers echoed in his mind like a ghost: "Focus, maintain control… do not falter…" The second son did not realize these were exactly the words that would push him into the trap.
A loose stone shifted beneath Kaelric's foot. His qi flared in panic, forcing him to overcorrect. Soldiers scrambled to maintain formation, some slipping dangerously close to the edge.
Lucien remained behind a ridge, observing. The scene was perfect: Kaelric appeared to be leading boldly, yet every mistake had been carefully orchestrated. The soldiers' murmurs of alarm only strengthened his control.
Ragnar's unease deepened. He wanted to intervene, to warn Kaelric—but something in Lucien's calm, measured stance, the way he seemed to anticipate every movement, froze him. The fourth son's fangs were no longer hidden.
By the time Kaelric returned to the estate, shaken but unharmed, he was convinced he had survived due to his own skill—and due to Lucien's guidance. Lucien bowed slightly. "You performed admirably, brother. But even the best strategy is meaningless without control of the mind."
Kaelric nodded, pride mixing with relief, unaware that the trap had been Lucien's creation from the start.
That night, in his chambers, Lucien gazed at the Eastern Continent's horizon. The first thread of Kaelric's loyalty had been fully woven. Ragnar's suspicion had begun to grow, but it was still cautious, tentative.
Lucien whispered to himself, almost like a prayer:
"They trust me. They underestimate me. And before they can strike, I will ensure they are nothing but pieces on my board."
The fourth son of the Voss Family had shown his fangs.
And now, in the shadows of the Murim world, no one would stand in his way—neither rival warlords, nor his own brothers.