The air shifted around him.
Lucius stood barefoot in the heart of the forest he now called home. The trees were familiar. The soil no longer felt foreign. He had laid each stone of the small house himself, chopped wood for the hearth, and carved shelves with worn hands. A modest structure — sturdy, unassuming, nestled between thickets and wildflower patches.
No banners. No servants. No Valehart insignia.
Just him.
A single wooden chair sat outside beneath a canopy of silver-green leaves, where he sipped tea in the morning and watched the fog roll in. The cat — the beastkin girl — had been left in the care of a trusted attendant back at the estate. She was safe. That was enough.
Lucius had no intention of living like a fugitive.
He simply preferred not being seen.
And now, standing at the edge of the pond behind his cabin, he stared at his own reflection — and frowned.
"…Still not used to it."
Black hair, darker than pitch, swept over his forehead. His skin, once pale with noble softness, had gained a faint bronze hue. He was leaner now — not muscular like a knight, but lithe. Built for movement, not brute strength.
But it was the eyes that unsettled even himself.
Red.
Crimson. Burning. Not from magic or a curse. They had simply… changed. As if something dormant inside him had stirred and bled through his gaze.
A slow wind picked up. Leaves rustled. The surface of the pond shimmered, breaking the illusion.
Lucius closed his eyes and breathed in.
The mana in his body responded sluggishly. It was thin — immature. It swirled behind his heart, still trying to form a proper core. He wasn't like Rowan. The original protagonist's core had been golden by now — refined, potent.
Lucius's was still dark-blue. A half-step above green.
A joke, if compared to the "hero."
But Lucius didn't laugh.
He had chosen not to race him.
Instead, he focused on what he could control — his movement, his instincts, his reactions. The foundation for the ability he sought.
Wind of the God.
He stepped onto the center of the mossy stone by the pond.
No chants. No dramatic awakening. No flashy surge of magic.
Instead, he closed his eyes… and listened.
To the wind.
To the silence between each heartbeat.
The Wind of God ability was not something that exploded outward. It wasn't a weapon. It was awareness. Precision. Speed that defied reason — not through strength, but through stillness.
He exhaled.
His surroundings slowed.
The sway of branches, the rustle of leaves — they became distant.
The wind gathered at his heels.
Then—
He moved.
A blur.
Across the pond, over the stream, onto a high branch in the span of half a breath.
His body ached. Not from pain — but from resistance. His muscles weren't used to this level of movement yet. His core wasn't stable enough to sustain prolonged usage.
But it had worked.
He stood atop the branch, wind curling around him like a loyal pet.
"…Just enough," he muttered. "Not for war. But to escape. Or strike, if needed."
A quiet grin tugged at the edge of his lips.
Lucius didn't need to be the strongest.
He just needed to last.
That Night
A small flame crackled in the stone fireplace of his new home. No lavish chandelier, no silken sheets. Just warmth and quiet.
Lucius sat at his desk — a rough wooden thing — pen gliding across parchment.
He made a list.
Wind of the God — Acquired.
Speed, reflexes, divine awareness. Cost: physical strain. Core compatibility: 32%.
Shield — Acquired.
Defensive power locked within heart. Severe cost if overused.
Hellfire — Location: Dwarven territories. Requires volcanic entry pass. High risk of diplomatic complication.
Blood Viper — Appears in the Land of Death in six months. Must be ready.
He leaned back.
Six months.
Six months to stabilize his core, refine his movement, and prepare for the most dangerous ability of the four — Blood Viper. Not for himself. But because if it fell into the wrong hands, the continent would bleed.
He had no plans to be a hero.
But he didn't want to clean up someone else's mess, either.
Lucius glanced toward the mirror.
The man staring back had red eyes, a still expression, and no desire for fame.
Just enough power to be left alone.
And enough speed to outrun trouble if it came too close