The capital looms before him, a city of gold and opulence. Grand spires scrape the sky, and the market hums with the constant motion of the elite, their lives full of wealth and hollow pursuits. The air smells of fresh bread, burning incense, and the stench of corruption — a place so full of life that it suffocates, strangling its inhabitants in the weight of their own ignorance.

  Lucian walks in the shadows, unnoticed. His black cloak drapes over him like an extension of the darkness itself. His steps are deliberate, measured, and yet, he blends seamlessly into the crowd. No one looks twice.

  “They smile because they don’t know the end is walking among them.”

  As he roams the marketplace, Lucian takes mental notes, mapping out the entire city. He mentally tags key locations: the palace, the magic towers, the teleportation gates, the knight barracks. Every corner of this city is mapped in his mind — each building, each shadow, each alley.

  Lucian leaves behind shadow wisps — harmless, innocuous, or so they seem. These wisps float through the city, listening, observing, gathering information. Nothing goes unnoticed.The moment is fleeting, but the mark it leaves is deep.

  Lucian passes by a noble brat, strutting with his head held high. His robes shine with the emblem of the House of Gallen — prestigious, rich, and full of themselves. A group of followers surrounds him, and laughter fills the air.

  The noble brat spots Lucian — a peasant, worn and ragged, with nothing but the dirt of the road clinging to his clothes. His eyes gleam with the cruel delight of a predator finding an easy target.

  “You there,” the noble brat sneers, his voice dripping with condescension. “What are you doing here? This is no place for your kind. Get back to the gutter where you belong.”

  He raises his hand, and a quick flash of magic erupts from his fingers, a crackling bolt of energy aimed straight at Lucian’s chest.

  Lucian stands still, offering no resistance. The magic strikes him — and it does nothing. It dissipates like mist against stone.

  Lucian smiles, an eerie calm in his expression.

  The brat frowns, his smugness faltering for a brief moment. “What the—?”

  And then it happens.

  Lucian whispers, barely audible, a breath against the wind. “Pathetic.”

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  The noble brat’s shadow trembles, writhing as if alive. For half a second, the brat’s eyes widen in horror as he sees it — Lucian’s true form. The swirling darkness, the abyssal power that coils around Lucian like a living thing, and the cold, merciless gaze that pierces into his very soul.

  The brat falls to his knees, screaming in terror. His followers watch in stunned silence as he soils himself in front of the crowd, shaking uncontrollably.

  Lucian vanishes into the shadows without a sound. No one else sees what happened — no one but the noble brat, who is left shaking, drenched in fear, and completely broken.

  The city seems to quiet as Lucian’s gaze falls on her. Lydia. The woman who betrayed him. The woman who caused it all.

  She’s standing on a balcony, laughing with some knight or noble, her presence exuding confidence and arrogance. She is everything Lucian despises — an embodiment of privilege and self-serving power.

  Lucian’s eyes narrow. His mind races with cold fury and hatred. He can hear her voice from across the street, her laugh piercing through the air. His heart tightens in his chest, his fist clenched around the darkness that pulses from his arm.

  “Three children, huh?”

  The thought emerges from his mind like a whisper, dark and venomous. “What a wonderful thing you've got... I wonder how their screams sound.”

  The words echo in his head, sharp and cruel.

  Lucian doesn’t move. He simply watches, standing in the shadows of the city, hidden among the crowds. He doesn’t need to approach. He doesn't need to say anything. His presence is a message in itself.

  His shadow extends, reaching across the street like an ominous omen, a reminder of the darkness that waits.

  And then, as quickly as he came, Lucian vanishes. The city moves on, oblivious, unaware of the grim fate hanging over them.

  Lydia turns, her smile fading, her gaze searching for the person who spoke. But the streets are empty. There’s no one around, only the distant sounds of the bustling market.

  She shakes her head, dismissing it as a trick of the wind. But something tugs at her gut — something she can’t explain.

  Just then, a scream pierces the air. It’s sharp and full of terror.

  Lydia’s heart skips a beat. She turns on her heels, rushing toward the source of the sound. Her footsteps echo in the silence as she rounds a corner, her breath shallow.

  And then she sees it.

  The body of the knight she was talking to moments before — skinned, beheaded, and hung upside down. His body sways gently, lifeless, as if mocking her very existence. Blood drips from his remains, pooling beneath him like an offering.

  A message, written in blood, stains the ground next to the gruesome display:

  “SOON.”

  Lydia stumbles backward, her face ashen, her hands trembling. Her eyes dart around the darkened street, searching for the source, but there is nothing — only shadows, thick and suffocating, like the weight of impending doom.

  The silence is broken only by her shallow breaths and the whisper of the wind.

  Lucian kneels deep in the Sanctum of the Abyss, his newly formed base hidden under Grimwood’s cursed forest. Shadows swirl around him, thick and alive, wrapping the room in an unholy embrace.

  Vorlith, the night serpent, slithers past him, a silent guardian of this dark place. Lucian’s mind is sharp, focused — the capital is his target. His plans unfold, one after another.

  A map of the capital hovers before him, projected in shifting shadows. His finger traces the paths, marking the points of interest, the weak spots. Every movement, every breath, calculated.

  One word appears on the map, glowing like a death sentence:

  “Soon.”