Lucian panted, helmet shattered, one eye glued shut with blood. His armor was a ruin—metal rivets still clung to flesh shredded by claws and teeth. Arrows protruded from his shoulders and back, while a severed misbegotten head hung grotesquely from his leg. He'd run through two Cerulean and one Crimson Flask already.
The Stormhawk Deenh had retaliated spectacularly, eliminating most of the Winged Misbegotten singlehandedly. But without a tuning ceremony to harmonize with Lucian, it could not unleash its full strength from life, and in the end fell to their fangs.
His Flame Crest Wooden Shield was battered beyond use, splintered into pieces under repeated blows. The Ash of War: Storm Stomp had been invaluable—without its repeated bursts to clear groups of enemies, Lucian might have been cut down and hacked into mince long ago.
Unfortunately, the halberd's shaft had been chopped in two by a Scaly Misbegotten's long-handled cleaver. Even so, the remaining half had been driven into its skull.
The Lordsworn's Greatsword was still buried in the forehead of another misbegotten; under attack from others, Lucian hadn't had the chance to retrieve it before being driven back by new attackers. So he broke necks with his bare hands and swung a stolen iron cleaver. Crude, yes—but it cleaved through misbegotten as if made for the task.
With each kill, his wounds deepened, but their numbers thinned. Finally, he severed the head of the last misbegotten before him. Blade in hand, he advanced toward the remaining dozen who dared not approach.
They broke.
They could not understand how a creature could endure such wounds and still live.
The being before them was not human. Humans were fragile—when surrounded and hacked with cleavers, they screamed, they died. But this one—nearly every kin from the city had thrown themselves upon him, yet he had not fallen. Instead, one by one, it was they who had died—Split in half. Pierced through. Decapitated. Executed…
Their knees shook. A foul stink ran down their legs. One, then another, cast aside their weapons and knelt, clutching their heads in the begging posture they had learned from watching humans these past days. If he was truly human, perhaps it would work.
Lucian advanced to the one closest, voiceless. In his past life, he had never suffered wounds that required surgery—now he felt as though all the blood in his body had been poured out, yet he still moved. As one master had once said, the human body is strange indeed.
Pain. His whole being was pain.
At first he could tell which hurt came from the bite to his calf, and which from the slash to his shoulder. Then it blurred. Now it was one continuous agony without edges. The only thought left was simple: kill the enemy, live another moment.
He didn't know what kept him standing—only that if he killed his enemies, he would survive. Simple, clear.
"An eye for an eye. A tooth for a tooth. Now—blood for blood." He brought the blade down across the misbegotten's gaping maw. The upper jaw and skull, brain still inside, flew free; the lower half and body stayed behind to writhe.
Lucian did not give chase. He remained standing atop the heap of corpses, too drained to move. His mind swayed with fatigue; every drop of strength wrung out of him. His wounds needed tending, or he needed to find a site of grace quickly.
He raised a hand to wipe the blood from his eye—only to realize his palm was just as soaked in crimson.
Fighting against the Frenzied Flame was perilous—one blow could mean death. Yet this battle had been worse. He could not count the wounds he had taken, nor the number of misbegotten slain. Still, he felt grim satisfaction. The first wave had been brutal, but there had been so many…
So he had triggered the Wind Spirit Moon Shadow'sRune Gain Multiplier—fivefold, lasting an hour. Now with barely fifteen minutes left. The haul would be enormous.
One charge of the Wind Spirit Moon Shadow remained. He could have used it to refill his focus, sweeping the field clean with ease—but that was his last lifeline, reserved for survival alone. Fortunately, it seemed today he would not need it.
He meant to set out for Irina's father—but as he took a step, his knees buckled and he dropped onto the corpse mound.
"Seems… this many enemies is still too much for my current strength." His voice was barely a whisper, though it felt like he was speaking to someone unseen.
A black crossbow bolt hissed toward him from his blind side. The storm rose again—Ancient King's wind tilted the shot, so it only grazed his ear before burying itself in the corpses.
Lucian twisted sharply, hurling the iron cleaver in one motion—showing no sign of the exhaustion from moments ago. The attacker was no novice; a cleaver was never meant for throwing, and with a sidestep he avoided it easily.
But the act exposed his form: black armor, black hand-crossbow, a double-headed iron sword on his back.
A messenger from the Roundtable Hold.
Near the lift stood two three- or four-meter watchtowers—the assassin had been hidden atop one. He advanced step by step, stowing the crossbow and drawing the Twinblades.
"You're quite the warrior. Twice you've thwarted my ambushes. As a fellow Tarnished, I'd rather not be your enemy. But if I can't kill you, I can't reach the blind girl. My mission fails."
"If stealth won't work, then I'll just take your head by hand. Don't blame me for striking when you're weak—the Lands Between are nothing if not cruel."
Lucian had not collapsed from weakness—he had done it to bait him out. The last traces of his magic had gone to the King's wind, diverting the bolt. Yet he truly had no strength left for another battle. No weapon in hand.
Still, he wasn't afraid—because the Ancient King had whispered: another storm was already at Morne's gates.
The assassin leapt, Twinblades whirling toward Lucian's head—Only to be struck from mid-air by a halberd wrapped in storm, and sent crashing down.