Dawn broke over the Voss estate, the eastern mountains glowing pale gold. The northern scouts had returned with troubling news: a small band of rival Murim soldiers, remnants of the Iron Claw Clan, had regrouped near a remote pass.
Ragnar, eldest son of the Voss Family, was quick to act. Pride blazing in his eyes, he immediately called for a strike. His soldiers moved swiftly, and the training halls were alive with preparation, swords clanging, soldiers' qi flaring.
Lucien stood silently to the side, his pale eyes calm. He had already foreseen every move. Every path, every misstep, every possible mistake. And in the shadows, he laid the threads of Ragnar's downfall.
"Brother," Lucien said softly as Ragnar tightened his armor, "the eastern ridge is unstable. A frontal assault may put you at risk. Perhaps a flanking maneuver would be safer."
Ragnar glared, pride warring with caution. "I do not need the advice of the weakest son to command my army."
Lucien bowed slightly. "I only seek to protect you, eldest brother. You are… vital to the Voss Kingdom."
The words were soft, almost tender. They struck the perfect balance between trust and subtle manipulation. Ragnar paused, just long enough to adjust his plans—but not long enough to notice Lucien's true hand guiding the path.
The soldiers advanced along the pass, Ragnar at the forefront, his pride and qi blazing. And then it happened—a sudden landslide. Rocks tumbled from the ridge, crushing several soldiers beneath. Ragnar's foot slipped on the loose terrain. He caught himself—but only partially.
Lucien's eyes, calm as ever, tracked every movement. Just as planned. Just enough to teach humility… yet to push Kaelric toward doubt.
Kaelric, watching from the second flank, felt a pang of alarm. "Ragnar!" he shouted, but he could not reach him in time. Soldiers scrambled, weapons clanging, qi flaring chaotically.
Ragnar managed to steady himself, but a large boulder, loosened by Lucien's careful mapping of the ridge days before, struck near him—enough to injure him severely. Pain shot through his arm, blood mingling with dust.
The soldiers evacuated him to safety, but Ragnar's pride was shattered. He glared at Lucien, suspicion flickering in his eyes. He is no longer just weak… he is dangerous.
Later that night, Lucien observed Kaelric practicing alone in the moonlit courtyard. The second son's movements were sharp, precise—but there was an edge of hesitation now, an undercurrent of guilt and doubt.
"You did well today," Lucien said softly, stepping from the shadows. "But even the strongest must learn that overconfidence is dangerous. Do you understand, brother?"
Kaelric froze, sensing the subtle truth behind the words. He did not yet realize that he had been led to witness Ragnar's near-fall under Lucien's design. Confusion and guilt began to gnaw at him, like a silent blade against his mind.
Lucien smiled faintly, almost invisible in the moonlight. The first thread is set. The second will follow soon… and when it does, the fall will seem like fate itself.
Meanwhile, Ragnar lay in his chambers, quiet and brooding, the shadows of suspicion deepening in his gaze. He had seen Lucien's fangs. The eldest son's mind raced with unspoken fear—but he had yet to understand how sharp and lethal they truly were.
The fourth son remained calm, his pale eyes reflecting the moonlight.
And somewhere in the shadows of the Eastern Continent, the game of blood, mind, and power had begun in earnest.