That moment I saw the assassin, I already knew—
This shit's gonna be tough.
Something about the way he moved. Like a ghost walking in daylight. Like a blade remembering its edge.
And in that moment, I couldn't read him. Couldn't tell if he hated me or just pitied me. But then—he shouted.
> "My name is Vakill Ray!
I am the servant of Lucien Veyrarax—Veyrax the First!
150 years ago, he gave me power. And with that gift, I will not meet my demise… before I kill you."
His voice cracked the air, old but burning with purpose.
> "You dare wear my master's body after his disappearance? That is blasphemy! A stain on the Veyrax royal bloodline!"
Then he charged.
No hesitation.
Just full speed, big-ass armor, sword gleaming like it was alive.
I could already tell—this guy's form was high.
6.8?
No. 6.9.
Direct servant of Lucien.
The body I wore right now—Lucien's former vessel—probably still smelled like him. Of course this guy would know Flash Cut. Probably taught it to some poor bastard 100 years ago.
I couldn't underestimate him.
But I had something new. A little trick I'd been working on in the dead hours between sleep and war:
> Material Hardening.
By channeling Starcore energy into my hand and reshaping the molecular pattern temporarily, I turned bone and flesh into something far stronger.
A swordless Flash Cut.
A living blade.
As he drew his weapon and shifted stance, I recognized it.
> Armoured Sword Style.
Defensive. Efficient. Meant to wear you down until you break your blade—or your soul.
I felt that flicker in my gut.
He's dangerous.
So I didn't wait.
Didn't think.
I threw my arm forward and whispered—
> "Flash Cut."
Barehanded, hardened, starcore-charged.
I aimed straight at his weapon hand, not to kill—just to disarm.
But he snarled, twisting his body with surprising speed, and his sword flashed up to meet mine.
> "Don't use my master's move!" he roared.
The clash rang out like steel on steel.
Clang.
And just like that, he'd blocked me.
Even with all that armor, he moved fast—faster than he should've.
He countered immediately with one heavy stroke.
But I was ready.
> Beteraxe, still in shield mode, absorbed the blow. The exoskeleton attached to my arm groaned under the pressure, but held firm.
Old man or not—he still had fire in his bones.
That's when I felt it.
A ripple inside me.
Lucien.
After two years of silence, the sleeping monster stirred in the back of my mind.
And what I felt wasn't rage or pride.
It was... sorrow.
He didn't want Vakill to die.
Damn it.
That made things complicated.
I tightened my grip and made a decision:
No lethal force.
I'd just disarm. Subdue. Knock him out cold and let the past sleep in peace.
I lunged again.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
Flash Cut after Flash Cut—but all deflected.
His style ate my attacks like rain off a shield.
I went for his ribs, thinking the shockwave might hurt him through the armor. Probably did—but not enough.
Tried to go for his chest.
But just before my hand reached, his slower blade curved like water—redirected my strike like it was nothing.
I poured more energy into my hand, trying to break through.
Still nothing.
Then I heard it.
> "Hah... you stupid ass," Lucien laughed inside my head. "Trying to Flash Cut an Armoured Sword Style user? That move won't work unless your hand moves a hundred times faster than sound."
> "Use Sudden Heat instead."
My breath caught.
I nodded once.
Lucien was right.
This guy's armor wasn't just thick—it was practically heat-resistant. Beteraxe in attack mode might not even kill him. Just amputate at best. The blade was only 30 centimeters—not enough for a clean kill against this wall of iron.
So I changed tactics.
> I triggered Beteraxe into attack mode.
The blade slid out, gleaming orange with overclocked heat.
He wasn't going to strike first. That much was clear.
Armoured Sword Style relied on countering—not initiating.
But then...
He charged.
What?
I didn't understand.
Why abandon his defensive doctrine?
No matter.
I shifted stance.
> Sudden Heat.
A spiraling motion. Heat channelled through momentum and willpower.
My blade spun like a circular saw charged by fury and focus.
As we clashed again—
His sword met mine, and melted.
The armor next.
Not cut.
Burned.
Warped.
Melted.
Both his arms fell, severed at the elbows. The rest of his armor was marked, scarred by searing heat.
He dropped to his knees, stunned, still breathing.
I stepped closer, wary, and began peeling the armor off to check his vitals.
And then—Lucien spoke again.
> "So… how was it? Sleeping inside the Hall of Memories for two years?" I asked, half-smiling.
He chuckled.
> *"It was fine. I dreamed of what you saw. What you lived. You're around Form 7.2 now. Grew about *eight times stronger."
I smirked. "Not bad."
> "Also," he added, "this small talk just drained half my soul energy. So let's not do this again unless you're dying."
And just like that—
He vanished again.
Silence.
I stood over Vakill, blade still hot, heart still racing.
One old man, one young ghost, and a body that didn't belong to either of us.
---
The sharp scent of molten steel still clung to the air like a ghost refusing to leave. Bits of scorched armor hissed faintly in the wind, echoing the last clash that had just ended moments ago.
Vakill lay on his back, his arms severed just below the shoulder, smoke curling from the stumps. His breathing was shallow but steady—his eyes, though bloodshot and tired, still held clarity. Not fear. Not hate. Just... quiet disbelief.
I stood above him, my own breath slowing down, Beteraxe humming softly in my hand—its attack mode dimming, cooling down. The heat technique had worked—"Sudden Heat" was a gamble, but one that paid off. Not with death. But with survival. For both of us.
I knelt beside him, feeling Lucien's lingering presence fade in the back of my mind, like a door slowly closing.
Vakill didn't look at me at first. He looked up at the sky.
Then, finally, his voice—broken but still sharp—cut through the quiet.
"…Why didn't you kill me?"
I sighed, lowering Beteraxe completely and sitting on the ground beside him, elbows resting on my knees.
"Because… you're not my enemy. Not anymore."
His eyebrows twitched. "I was going to end you."
"I know," I replied. "And I was trying not to kill you while you tried."
His lips moved like he wanted to laugh, but it came out as a bitter cough. Then silence.
After a pause, he spoke again. "You… used his body. Lucien Veyrarax. My master. My liege. I saw you move like him. But you're not him."
I turned my eyes to him.
"I'm not," I said. "My name is Kael."
There was a strange stillness in him, like the world froze for just a second to let that name sink in. He didn't interrupt, didn't snarl. So I kept speaking.
"I'm not from here. Not from Veyrax. Not even from this world."
Vakill turned his head slowly, eyes narrowing. "What…?"
"I died," I said quietly. "Three years ago. In another world. My soul—whatever that means in the grand cosmic scheme—was pulled into this one. Into Lucien's body. He was already gone… at least, mostly. I've been living inside his skin ever since. Trying to understand why. Fighting through wars I never started. Wearing a crown of bones I never asked for."
Vakill blinked slowly. "So… you're saying…"
"I'm saying I'm not him. But I carry what's left of him. In pieces. In instincts. In echoes. And sometimes… in dreams."
There was a long silence between us.
Then Vakill turned his eyes away again.
"Veyrax didn't fall," he said after a moment, as if suddenly needing to defend it. "You need to understand that."
I nodded. "I know. It rose."
His eyes darted back to me. "You know?"
"I've seen it. In letters. In faces. In the way people whisper his name like a holy curse. The Kingdom of Veyrax stood taller after he vanished. The people took his disappearance as prophecy. His bloodline carried the name of the kingdom. They made it sacred."
Vakill grunted. "He would've hated that."
"Yeah," I said, smirking. "He doesn't seem like the 'statue-in-the-square' kind of guy."
A hint of a grin cracked the corner of Vakill's lips.
Then I stood up, walked over to my pack and pulled out something wrapped in black synth-fiber. I walked back and gently unwrapped it on the ground beside him.
It was an old exoskeleton arm—battle-scarred, weathered, but still functional. A piece of relic tech from the early Veyrax wars. I had refurbished it with Lucien's leftover schematics weeks ago, unsure who I was saving it for.
Now I knew.
Vakill's eyes widened.
"You can still fight," I said softly. "You're not useless. Your limbs can return. But maybe it's time you fight for something again. Not just in memory of the past."
He stared at the arm like it was a relic from a past life.
After a while, he whispered, "This was standard issue… for palace guardians. Early model. Lucien wore something like this."
I nodded.
He looked up at me.
"…Why give this to me?"
I crouched again, meeting his eyes.
"Because the war coming isn't about kingdoms or old oaths anymore. It's bigger than us. And I could use someone who's been to hell and back… and still believes in something."
He looked at the arm again. Then the sky.
"Kael," he said, the name now laced with a strange respect. "You carry more than Lucien's body. You carry his burden. Maybe even… his second chance."
I didn't respond. The wind did instead, rustling ash and burnt leaves around us.
Vakill closed his eyes. "Help me put it on."
I did.
As the mechanisms whirred to life and locked into his shoulder, a part of him returned—not just muscle, but purpose.
Maybe redemption.
The scorched battlefield steamed with the stench of burnt metal and vaporized blood. Vakill's armor hissed as it cooled—his arms severed, his breathing ragged, but his eyes still locked on mine. They weren't eyes of hatred anymore.
They were tired.
Broken.
Resolved.
I stood over him with Beteraxe humming in attack mode, still glowing with residual heat. But I didn't swing again. Lucien's voice had faded back into silence after that last laugh, and now it was just me—Kael.
No killing blow.
No triumph.
Only the weight of a fight I didn't want.
Vakill coughed blood, but still managed a dry chuckle. "That… wasn't Lucien's style."
I knelt beside him, detached the exo-brace from my arm, and extended it toward him.
"Then maybe it's time you learned mine."
---
[SCENE – LATER THAT NIGHT – CAMPFIRE]
The night sky stretched wide, dotted with stars unfamiliar to me. Three years, and I still didn't know this world's constellations.
Vakill sat propped against a rock, one of my old exo-skeleton arms attached to his shoulder. It was primitive—scrap-fitted and barely functional—but it worked. His fingers flexed with grinding resistance, each motion a creaking echo of the warrior he once was.
I stirred the fire absently. The wood crackled. Sparks danced up like ghosts.
"You said something earlier," Vakill muttered.
I looked up.
"You said you weren't Lucien."
I nodded slowly. "That's because I'm not."
He raised an eyebrow. "Explain."
I hesitated. But only for a moment.
"My name is Kael. I'm not from this world. I died in another one—some place with concrete streets, glass towers, and machines that could speak. And when I woke up… I was here. In Lucien's body."
Vakill stared at me, unblinking.
I kept going.
"I don't know how or why. Just that it's been about three years since. At first, I was just trying to survive—figure out what this body could do, why people feared the name. And then Lucien's memories started bleeding into mine. Slowly. His skills. His regrets. His burdens."
Vakill's expression darkened, but he didn't speak.
"You should know," I added, "I didn't want this. I didn't steal him. I'm just… living inside the shell he left behind."
There was a long silence. Then Vakill exhaled hard.
"If you were anyone else," he said, "I'd run you through for that."
"Not much left to run me through with," I pointed at his melted sword.
He didn't laugh. But he didn't attack either.
Instead, Vakill reached into a leather pouch at his belt—barely intact from the fight—and pulled out a sealed scroll tube. He handed it to me across the fire.
"Then make this life count."
I opened it carefully.
Inside were documents. Charts. Seals. Secret ledgers.
And a name at the center of them all:
Eastborn.
Chancellor of the Council. Political tactician. A spider in a web spun from laws and half-truths.
Lucien stirred in the back of my mind—subtle, annoyed. I could feel his irritation bubbling like an itch.
"He never liked Eastborn," Vakill said. "Never trusted him. But Lucien always believed power could be kept in check with honor. That Eastborn would expose himself in time."
I scoffed. "That's not how men like him fall."
"No," Vakill said, looking into the flames. "That's how they rise."
He gestured to the scroll.
"I've been collecting this for years. Smuggling reports, coded communications, redirected military funding, foreign 'donations' to Veyrax nobles who suddenly flipped allegiance. It's all there. But I couldn't move without Lucien's blessing."
"And now?" I asked.
He looked at me.
"You have his face. His voice. You walk with his name. The council will listen. They must."
Lucien stirred again—still quiet, but no longer resisting.
"Strange," I said. "He's not angry. Just… watching."
"He was always a strategist," Vakill said. "Maybe now he's realizing that this world can't be saved by swords alone."
We sat in silence again, save for the fire.
I looked at Vakill—once my enemy, now my ally. Then down at the scroll of secrets that could bring a kingdom to its knees.
"So what now?"
Vakill's eyes narrowed.
"We expose Eastborn. Not with force. But with precision. With truth sharpened like a blade."
"Lucien?" I asked inwardly.
And in my head, faint but real, came the reply.
"...He always was a snake. Fine. Let's skin him slowly."
---