A young man, lean but strong, walked silently through the marble hallway of the estate. It was a normal day, like every other. His black hair was tousled, his eyes an icy blue that carried a quiet weight, and his skin a pale tan, faintly kissed by the sun.
At 21 years old, he had the grace of nobility, but none of it was showing. Maids and servants passed by, their gazes lowered, their footsteps quick and hushed. Without offering a single greeting, they were all trying to avoid the young man's gaze.
Lucan noted their hurried steps, a familiar chill settling in his chest. It was always like this; no one dared to meet his eyes. It wasn't that he was a bully or that he beat the servants; they just acted this way because he didn't use swords much and didn't listen to his father.
Delicate vases lined the hallway, each filled with fresh flowers that did little to mask the cold atmosphere. The walls had a beautiful texture in the light.
Click… clack… click… Lucan's polished boots echoed against the stone floor, each step a declaration in the silent hall, where there were only servants.
After several more steps, a servant approached from the opposite end. As they crossed paths, the servant bowed politely, not even looking Lucan in the eye.
"Young master," he said with urgency, "The lord awaits your presence in his office. He requests you to come immediately; he says you have work to do."
Lucan gave a brief nod. He felt a familiar knot of tension tighten in his stomach. 'Now what? Another lecture? Another disappointment in me?'
Without another word, the servant turned on his heel and guided him through the twisting hallways.
Eventually, they reached a heavy oak door at the end of a corridor. The servant knocked twice—a dull thump-thump—before slowly pushing it open with a deep creak.
Inside, a man sat behind a grand desk. He had black hair and eyes colder than Lucan's. He was Lucan's father, his hands folded, his cold eyes fixed upon him.
Lucan stepped inside and bowed respectfully. "Father, the servant said you needed me for some work. What is it?"
His father's eyes flicked up and down, assessing him with unreadable thoughts. After a pause, he finally spoke.
"Yes," he said slowly. "There is a matter that requires your attention. We've claimed a piece of land—a troubled state named Fineras—and it needs someone to oversee it. I've decided you will go there, assess the situation, and rebuild it."
Lucan froze at the words. Fineras was a wasteland. There was no one living there, and this man behind the grand desk wanted to send Lucan there.
The words struck like thunder. This wasn't a request or an assignment; it was an exile. There wasn't a single hint of sympathy in his father's voice. He truly wanted to send Lucan away.
'Why?' he thought bitterly. 'Why is father sending me away? There is nothing there except a wasteland.'
His mind raced. After thinking for a few seconds, he swallowed and stepped forward, confusion and shock etched on his face.
"Father… I can't go there," Lucan protested.
Not giving his father a chance to speak, he continued, "I've heard rumors. That Fineras and the states around it are cursed. Monsters roam freely. The villagers have abandoned it. And the soil—it's not even fertile—"
His father raised a hand, silencing him. The gesture was absolute, a lord's gesture to silence anyone, and here it was silencing Lucan.
"You will go," he said firmly. "It's a Lord's order. The carriage has already been prepared. Pack your belongings and depart. You'll be there in a few days."
Then, turning to the servant beside him, he added, "Karl, help him prepare his things. And give him this."
He slid a pouch across the desk—a metallic clink—its weight unmistakable. It was filled with coins.
"These are three hundred gold coins. Use them wisely on your land."
As Lucan took the gold pouch and slowly walked toward the doorway, his father's voice called out once more, with what sounded like a mocking tone. "Lucan… do a good job there."
Without replying, Lucan stepped out, his eyes clouded. He felt a cold resolve harden within him: 'Fine. If this is how you're going to do it, then I will make that land better than this state here.'
He followed the servant back through the estate until they reached his room.
Just outside, his younger brother stood in the hallway, smiling innocently as he always did—completely unaware of the storm about to take Lucan away.
Lucan stopped.
He wanted to say something, to explain—but what was there to say? But his brother had another thought. When he saw Lucan coming, he walked toward him and said, "Brother, how are you doing? Look, Father got me a new sword!"
His brother took out the sword he was wearing and showed it to Lucan.
Lucan wasn't jealous. If his father wanted to give his brother something, who was he to say anything? He couldn't have enmity with his brother. Lucan then said, "Finn, I have work to do. I will talk to you later. Why don't you go and spar with the knights?"
Finn, hearing this, wasn't pleased, but since Lucan said so, he replied, "Yes, brother," and ran off to spar with the knights in the courtyard. Lucan quietly entered his room.
It was a space filled with sketches and dreams.
Blueprints were scattered across the floor—designs for shelters, rain collectors, roads, and fortifications. The scent of parchment and ink hung in the air. This was his only way out of this world. He walked over to his closet, opened it with a soft pull, and took out his clothes, tossing them onto the bed without a word.
The servant began folding each item with care and placing them into a large leather bag. The soft rustle of fabric filled the silence.
After some time, the packing was nearly done.
Lucan picked up a hand-length sword resting near his desk and handed it to the servant, who carefully tucked it into the bag with a muted thump. Then, he gathered several blueprints—only the most vital ones—and placed them on top of the clothes.
Finally, he crouched beside his bed and reached underneath, pulling out a silver locket. It gleamed softly in the light. Inside were two small portraits—one of himself, the other of his mother.
As his fingers traced the markings on its surface, the metal shimmered with a subtle warmth. He wore it around his neck, its weight comforting, a small anchor against the current of his father's will.
Turning to the servant, Lucan asked, "Is everything packed?"
The servant, startled by the question, composed himself and bowed slightly. "Young master, I packed everything you gave me: five sets of noble attire, two sets of work clothes, socks, three pairs of glasses, and the pouch of gold. Is there anything else?"
Lucan nodded, placing a hand on the servant's shoulder. "No, that's all. Let's go. The carriage Father prepared is waiting."
They walked in silence through the estate gardens. Birds chirped in the distance, and the wind rustled gently through the hedges.
The carriage stood by the gate, polished and waiting.
Thud—the luggage was loaded with a dull sound. Creak—Lucan stepped inside, the leather seats sighing beneath him.
The carriage rumbled to life, wheels grinding softly against the gravel path as it pulled away from the estate.
Past the gates, the world opened up—fields stretched on either side, where farmers toiled beneath the sun. Trees blurred past, leaves flickering in the wind like whispers.
Lucan stared out at the changing scenery, etching the view into memory. His old life was fading with every turn of the wheel.
Then the driver spoke, his voice cautious. "Young master… why are you going to the Cursed Lands?"
Lucan's gaze stayed forward, unmoving. After a pause, he replied, "I'm not going to the Cursed Lands. The land I'm going to is… near it. It was given to me by my father."
A moment passed. The silence in the carriage was thick.
"And shouldn't you be focusing on driving?" he added, softly but sharply. "Less talking. Smoother travel."
The driver immediately nodded. "Yes, my lord. Sorry for asking." He said no more.
Lucan leaned back and closed his eyes—but his thoughts didn't rest. He remembered the whispers he'd heard earlier in the estate…
'The Lord's sending the young master there?'
'I heard that land is cursed—anyone who goes there dies early.'
'It's a place where monsters roam freely…'
Lucan's grip tightened on the locket, the cold metal grounding him.
He didn't know what lay ahead. But now, there was no turning back. His path was set, for better or worse.
Lucan was heading to the southern edge of Mythorn, near the infamous Cursed Lands. The region known as Evanor was in the southeast of Mythorn, and within it lay the territory of Fineras—the specific land he was to take over and rebuild.
As Lucan approached Fineras's border, he saw that the entire territory was destroyed. Crumbling buildings dotted the landscape, but he continued toward the center. There, a steaming river formed a natural border, separating the lands of the living from anything cursed.
Thirty percent of the land had been officially annexed by the estate, but the rest was his to mold, reclaim, or expand as he saw fit. This was his work, his not-so-good opportunity. It was freedom for him, but in reality, it was an exile.
Lucan decided to start at the southern edge, furthest from the Cursed Lands. His plan was to reclaim and build slowly, gradually expanding his influence toward the center of Fineras.
This strategic approach, beginning away from the immediate threat, offered a better chance for success. Lucan pulled his luggage from the back of the carriage with a soft thump and looked around.
Wherever his eyes wandered, there was nothing but desolation. The earth was dry and gray, as if life had been drained from it. Charred, crumbling buildings dotted the landscape, their skeletons barely upright.
Shattered wood, burned stone, and broken carts littered the roads. The wind carried the stench of rot. Here and there, the bodies of former villagers lay where they'd fallen—untouched, unmourned. In the distance, monstrous claw marks scarred the remains of a town that once stood proud.
And yet… the sky was eerily clear, a cruel mockery, as if pretending nothing had ever happened.
Lucan stood at the edge of what was now his territory. 'This is it then. My inheritance. A grave.' He stepped forward.
Crunch.
The sound of gravel underfoot echoed like thunder in the silence. Then—suddenly—his vision flickered. He blinked, a jolt of alarm shooting through him. 'What was that?'
A soft hum filled his ears, growing in intensity. A glimmer of blue light formed before him, pulsating faintly.
[SYSTEM INITIATION]
[Territory Lord Protocols Booting...]
[Welcome, New Lord of Unnamed Land]
Lucan stumbled back, his breath catching in his throat. His heart hammered against his ribs. "What the hell…?" he gasped, his mind reeling. 'This isn't right. What is this?'
A translucent panel floated in midair before him, shimmering. He waved his hand through it instinctively—his fingers passed right through.
"A hologram? No, magic? Is this some kind of illusion spell?" he muttered, trying to rationalize the impossible. "Like one of those pranks where you step into a cursed ruin and get hit with a fake vision…?"
But the screen didn't fade. It didn't flicker. It just waited, an unwavering blue light. Lucan clenched his jaw, his disbelief warring with a strange sense of awe.
"Right. I need shelter first. I'll deal with floating ghosts later." Or whatever this bizarre thing was. He trudged toward the half-collapsed cabin that had likely once been the town's mayoral office—or maybe a guard station.
The door hung broken on a single hinge, creaking as the wind nudged it. Two corpses lay just outside, long decayed. Their weapons were rusted; their armor, cracked. The windows were shattered. The roof sagged ominously.
Still, Lucan stepped inside.
The interior smelled of damp wood and stale blood. As he entered, the glowing screen followed him and then pulsed brighter.
[Core Sigil Detected. Initializing Territory Overview...]
Lucan groaned. "You're still here? Illusions usually fade after a few minutes—mana burns out. So either you're running off a permanent source, or…" He trailed off, his eyes narrowing, a flicker of comprehension dawning.
"You're not an illusion, are you?"
The screen shimmered again.
[Status: Tier 1 – Hamlet-Holder]
[Vitality Rating: Critical]
[Threat Level: Low–Mid]
[Population: 6]
Lucan blinked. "Population… six? Are those people alive? Monsters? Or are you counting the dead?" He felt a new wave of bewilderment. 'This is far beyond any magic I know.'
He looked around the decrepit cabin, the gears in his mind turning rapidly. He had been sent to a desolate, cursed land. Now, a strange, persistent system was appearing before him, calling him its "Lord" and giving him stats.
This wasn't just exile; it was something entirely new, something potentially dangerous, but also… interesting. Lucan exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the panel, a grim, determined glint appearing in their icy depths.
"...Alright, let's see how I can rebuild this land that I've inherited."