The white void stretched endlessly in every direction.
Lucien stood alone, hand on Edge of the End, watching as the Shadow Knight emerged fully from the rift.
The knight was tall... taller than Lucien by half a foot and clad in black armor that seemed to drink in light. His cloak billowed despite the absence of wind, trailing tendrils of shadow like living smoke. The horned helm obscured his face, but through the visor, one eye glowed faintly.
Blue.
Pale, cold blue.
The rift behind him sealed with a hiss, leaving only the two of them in this impossible space.
The Shadow Knight turned slowly, taking in the white void. His breathing was harsh, distorted by the helm.
"Where...?" His voice echoed strangely. "What IS this place?!"
Lucien said nothing. He simply drew Edge of the End, the blade singing softly as it left its sheath.
The Shadow Knight's gaze snapped to him.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then the knight's fists clenched. "You. The System pulled me from Old Jerusalem... because of YOU."
Lucien settled into his stance. "If you want answers, you'll have to beat them out of me."
The Shadow Knight laughed... a bitter, harsh sound. "Beat them out of you? Boy, I trained knights like you when the world was young!"
He drew his sword, a massive blade of blackened steel, jagged and cruel.
"I am Thibault de Beaufort," the knight declared, his voice trembling with rage. "Knight of the Temple of Jerusalem. Brother of the Order. And I will NOT be humiliated by a whelp who doesn't even remember his own name!"
Lucien's eyes narrowed. "Thibault..."
The name meant nothing to him.
But the style... the way the knight held his blade, the stance, the weight distribution...
That, he recognized.
"You were a Templar," Lucien said quietly.
Thibault froze. Then he laughed again, colder this time. "Were? I AM a Templar. As are you, whether you remember or not."
He leveled his sword at Lucien.
"The Master has waited centuries for your return, Lucien de Mireval. He wants you brought back alive. But if you resist..."
The shadows around Thibault thickened, coiling like serpents.
"Then I will drag your corpse to his feet and beg forgiveness later!"
He charged.
Their blades met with a crash like thunder.
Lucien skidded back, his boots finding no purchase on the featureless white ground. Thibault pressed forward, his strikes heavy and brutal, each one designed to crush rather than cut.
But beneath the raw power, Lucien saw it.
The technique.
The footwork.
The rhythm.
The Jerusalem style.
He'd seen it before. Felt it in his own movements. It was instinct, muscle memory carved into his bones by years of training he couldn't remember.
"You recognize it, don't you?" Thibault snarled, driving Lucien back with a flurry of strikes. "The way we fought! The way WE ALL fought!"
Lucien parried, riposted, dodged. "We were brothers?"
"WERE?!" Thibault roared. He swung wide, and Lucien ducked under the blade. "We ARE brothers! You, me, Hugues, Matthieu, Renaud... all of us! We stood together at Acre! We bled together at Jaffa! We took our vows together!"
Lucien's chest tightened. "Then why are you a monster?"
Thibault froze for a fraction of a second.
That was all Lucien needed.
He raised his left hand and activated [Dominion].
Thibault's sword was ripped from his grip, flying twenty feet away and clattering uselessly on the white ground.
The Shadow Knight staggered back, staring at his empty hands in shock.
"What...?!"
Lucien didn't give him time to recover. He lunged, Edge of the End aimed for the gap in Thibault's armor at the neck.
But Thibault vanished.
Not retreated. Vanished.
Lucien spun, instincts screaming.
A blade materialized from the shadows behind him.
He twisted, raising Edge of the End just in time. The impact sent a jolt through his arms, and he stumbled forward.
Thibault reappeared five feet away, sword back in hand, breathing hard.
"Clever," the knight hissed. "But you'll have to do better than that."
He raised his free hand, and the shadows around him split in two perfect copies of himself materializing on either side.
Three Thibaults.
All identical.
All armed.
They circled Lucien slowly.
Lucien's grip tightened on his sword. He reached for Imperium with his left hand, pulling the dagger free.
"You think tricks will save you?" one of the Thibaults said.
"The Master taught us everything," another added.
"And you forgot it all," the third finished.
They attacked as one.
Lucien moved on instinct.
He ducked under the first strike, parried the second, and used [Dominion] to hurl the third clone backward with a telekinetic shove.
It dissipated into smoke before it hit the ground.
Illusions.
He spun, slashing through the second clone. It, too, dissolved.
The real Thibault came from above, sword raised for a killing blow.
Lucien threw Imperium.
The dagger spun through the air, and at the last second, Lucien activated [Dominion] again, redirecting its path mid-flight.
It struck Thibault's helm, cracking the visor and throwing off his strike.
The knight crashed to the ground, rolling to his feet with a snarl.
Lucien recalled Imperium with a thought, the dagger flying back to his hand as if pulled by invisible strings.
Thibault touched his helm. The visor was split, revealing half his face beneath.
Lucien's breath caught.
The face was gaunt, pale, almost skeletal. But the features...
He looked like Hugues de Sangreal.
The same sharp jawline. The same narrow nose. The same cold, aristocratic bearing.
Brothers.
"You see it now, don't you?" Thibault said quietly, his voice less distorted without the full helm. "You see what we've become."
Lucien's hand trembled. "What did you do?"
"What we had to." Thibault straightened, gripping his sword with both hands. "The Master offered us eternity. Power. A way to survive the fall of our Order. We took it."
"And became monsters."
"We became IMMORTAL!" Thibault roared. "We preserved the legacy of the Templars! We protect the Graal! We serve a purpose greater than you can imagine!"
"By killing innocents?" Lucien shot back. "By slaughtering families? By turning into shadows?"
Thibault's face twisted. "The girl's family was... unfortunate. But necessary. They had something we needed."
"The key."
"Yes." Thibault's visible eye gleamed. "And now you have the other half. The Master will be pleased."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "I'm not giving you anything."
"Then I'll take it from your corpse."
Thibault raised his sword... and the shadows around him exploded outward.
This time, the clones weren't illusions.
Four perfect copies materialized, each as solid and deadly as the original.
And all of them moved at once.
Lucien barely had time to think.
He used [Dominion] to shove two back, slashed through a third with Edge of the End, and threw Imperium at the fourth.
But they kept coming.
Relentless.
Overwhelming.
A blade sliced across his shoulder. Another grazed his ribs. A third caught his thigh.
Pain flared, hot and sharp.
Lucien staggered, blood seeping through his shirt.
The clones pressed in, and Thibault himself hung back, watching with cold satisfaction.
"You're strong," Thibault admitted. "Stronger than I expected. But you're alone, boy. And I am LEGION."
Lucien's vision blurred. His breathing was ragged, his body screaming in protest.
But he couldn't stop.
Not yet.
He activated [Dominion] again, this time on himself... launching his body backward in a desperate leap to create distance.
He landed hard, barely keeping his feet.
The clones advanced.
And then Thibault spoke, his voice quieter now. Almost... sad.
"Come back with me, Lucien," he said. "Please. The Master misses you. We all do. You don't have to do this alone."
Lucien looked up, blood dripping from a cut above his eye.
"I was never alone," he said hoarsely. "I had brothers. Real brothers. Not whatever you've become."
Thibault's expression hardened. "Then you've made your choice."
He raised his sword.
"Die as a fool, then."
The clones charged.
Lucien's hand moved to Edge of the End.
And he made a decision.
He sheathed the blade.
Thibault faltered, confused. "What...?"
Lucien took a breath. Centered himself.
The clones were ten feet away.
Five feet.
Three.
He raised his left hand and activated [Dominion] one last time.
All four clones were ripped apart by invisible force, scattering into shadows.
Thibault staggered, the backlash hitting him like a physical blow.
And in that moment...
Lucien's hand settled on the hilt of Edge of the End.
His eyes locked onto Thibault.
The knight saw it. Understood what was coming.
His visible eye widened. "No..."
"EDGE!"
Lucien drew.
The blade moved faster than thought, faster than light, a single perfect arc of silver.
Time seemed to slow.
Thibault tried to raise his sword. Tried to dodge. Tried to vanish into shadow.
But he was too late.
Edge of the End passed through his neck.
Clean.
Silent.
Perfect.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then Thibault's head slid from his shoulders and tumbled to the white ground.
His body stood for a moment longer, swaying.
Then it collapsed.
Lucien staggered, barely keeping his feet. His vision swam, his body screaming in pain.
The System's notification appeared.
[Shadow Knight Defeated: Thibault de Beaufort] [Trial Complete] [Skill ??? Progress: 9.66%] [Skill ??? Blocked - Next Trial: XX Days] [Vision Unlocked...]
Lucien fell to his knees, gasping.
Thibault's body was already dissolving, breaking apart into black smoke.
But before it vanished completely, the knight's head turned slightly.
His lips moved.
"Sorry... Brother..."
And then he was gone.
Lucien closed his eyes.
The vision began.
Jérusalem. 1291.
Lucien stood in a stone chamber deep beneath the city.
Torches lined the walls, casting flickering shadows across the faces of twelve men gathered in a circle.
All wore the white surcoat of the Templars, the red cross emblazoned on their chests.
Lucien recognized some of them.
Thibault. Hugues. Matthieu. Renaud.
And standing beside him...
Luc.
His brother. His mentor. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a scar across his jaw and eyes that burned with fierce loyalty.
At the center of the circle stood a man in black robes. His face was hidden beneath a deep hood, but his voice was calm, commanding.
The Master.
"Brothers," the Master said quietly, "what I am about to show you must never leave this room."
He gestured, and two Templars stepped forward, carrying a cloth-wrapped object between them.
They set it down carefully and pulled back the cloth.
Lucien's breath caught.
It was... something. He couldn't see it clearly... the image was blurred, as if his memory refused to hold the details.
But he felt it.
Power. Ancient and Divine.
The Graal.
"This," the Master said, "is what we have fought for. What we have bled for. The true treasure of the Temple."
Murmurs rippled through the group.
"We will protect it," the Master continued. "At any cost. Do you all swear?"
"We swear," the twelve answered as one.
Lucien heard his own voice among them.
Young, fierce and certain.
The vision shifted.
Chaos.
The walls of Acre burning. Screams echoing through the streets. The Saracens had broken through the gates.
The Order was falling.
Lucien ran through the smoke, sword in hand, searching.
"LUC!" he shouted. "LUC!"
A figure emerged from the flames... Luc, bloodied but alive.
"Lucien! Thank God..."
"We have to get the Grail out!" Lucien said. "The Master said..."
"I know." Luc gripped his shoulder. "It's already gone. Hugues and the others took it. We're the rear guard."
"Then let's go!"
But Luc shook his head. "You go. I'll hold them here."
"No!" Lucien grabbed his arm. "I'm not leaving you!"
Luc smiled... sad, resigned. "You don't have a choice, little brother."
The vision blurred again.
Darkness.
Lucien was riding hard, his horse's hooves pounding against the dirt road.
Ahead, he saw them.
Six riders. Templars.
Hugues de Sangreal at the lead, something wrapped in cloth strapped to his saddle.
The Grail.
"STOP!" Lucien shouted. "HUGUES!"
They didn't stop.
Lucien spurred his horse faster, closing the distance.
He leaped from his saddle, tackling Hugues and dragging him to the ground.
They rolled, grappling in the dirt.
"What are you doing?!" Lucien shouted. "Where are you taking it?!"
Hugues shoved him off. "Somewhere safe! The Order is dead, Lucien! We have to survive!"
"Not like this!"
Lucien lunged again...
And then a voice cut through the chaos.
"Enough."
The Master.
He appeared as if from nowhere, his black robes billowing.
Lucien froze.
"Master, I..."
"I know, my son." The Master's voice was soft. Almost... sad. "I know."
He stepped closer.
Lucien saw the hilt of a sword in his hand.
"Master?"
"Forgive me, Lucien."
The Master raised the pommel.
"This is for the future of the Templars."
And he struck.
Pain exploded through Lucien's skull.
Darkness swallowed him.
And the last thing he heard was the Master's voice, distant and fading.
"Is Is all... for the futur of the templars."
Everything went black.
Lucien gasped, his eyes snapping open.
He was back in the Trial Space.
Alone.
Thibault's body was gone. The white void stretched endlessly.
And before him, the System displayed its final message.
[Trial Complete] [Returning participant to origin point...]
Lucien stared at the notification.
His chest heaved. His hands trembled.
He'd killed a brother.
Thibault. A man he'd once fought beside. A man he'd trusted.
And he still didn't know why.
Why the betrayal. Why the Grail. Why any of it.
The rage built slowly, then all at once.
Lucien stood, his sword still in hand.
He raised Edge of the End.
And with a roar of fury and anguish, he slashed at the System notification.
The blade passed through it, cutting the glowing text cleanly in half.
It flickered and reformed.
Mocked him with its indifference.
Lucien slashed again. And again. And again.
But nothing changed.
The System didn't care.
It never had.
Finally, Lucien lowered his sword, breathing hard, his vision blurred with tears he refused to shed.
"Why?" he whispered hoarsely. "Why did you make me do this?"
The System had no answer.
[Returning participant...]
The white void began to fade.
And Lucien de Mireval disappeared.
One week later.
The road through southern France was quiet, lined with vineyards and olive groves. The late afternoon sun cast everything in gold.
Marcus Ashford drove in silence, his hands steady on the wheel.
He'd made this journey only twice before. Both times, he'd left with more questions than answers.
But the Founder had summoned him. And when the Founder called, you came.
The estate appeared as he rounded a bend... a sprawling manor of pale stone, surrounded by gardens and overlooking the Mediterranean.
Marcus parked and stepped out, his breath catching slightly at the view.
A beautiful place, peaceful and timeless.
He walked through the gardens, past fountains and rose bushes, until he reached the far edge of the property.
And there, beyond a small gate, was the beach.
Private. Secluded.
The waves rolled gently against the sand, and a golden retriever bounded along the shore, chasing a thrown ball with joyful abandon.
An old man stood at the water's edge, his white shirt open and billowing in the breeze. His hair was silver-grey, his posture still strong despite his years.
He looked to be in his late fifties, perhaps early sixties. Weathered but vigorous.
He threw the ball again, and the dog raced after it.
Marcus approached slowly, his footsteps soft on the sand.
When he was ten feet away, he stopped.
And he knelt.
"Founder," he said quietly.
The old man didn't turn. He simply watched the waves, his expression unreadable.
"He defeated the first of the Twelve," the Founder said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes," Marcus replied.
Silence.
The dog returned, dropping the ball at the old man's feet. He picked it up and threw it again, watching it arc through the air.
"Then he will begin to remember," the Founder said softly. "Piece by piece. Fragment by fragment."
He paused.
"And when he does... he will understand that everything began with him."
The wind picked up, tugging at his open shirt.
And for just a moment, a fleeting, terrible moment, Marcus saw it.
The mark.
Burned into the old man's chest, just above his heart.
The Jerusalem Cross.
Five crosses forming one.
Identical to the mark Lucien bore.
Marcus's breath caught... but he said nothing.
The Founder turned slightly, his profile silhouetted against the setting sun.
"Go home, Marcus," he said gently. "Watch over them. Protect them. And when the time comes..."
He trailed off, his gaze distant.
"When the time comes, bring him to me."
Marcus bowed his head. "Yes, Founder."
He rose and turned to leave.
Behind him, the old man stood alone on the beach, the wind whipping his shirt, the waves crashing endlessly against the shore.
And on his chest, hidden once more, the mark of the Templars burned silently.
A promise and a curse.
FIN ARC 1: THE LAST TEMPLAR