The Combat hall smelled of oil and old leather. Racks of weapons lined the walls like silent sentinels; light from high, barred windows slashed across polished wood and iron.
The instructor, Garrik Thorne, stood at the front: a bald, scar-creased veteran with the carved shoulders of a man who'd survived too many battles. His tunic hung thin and threadbare; his sleeves were rolled back to reveal arms knotted like iron cables.
Students formed neat rows. A ripple of voices ran through them like wind through dry grass.
"Prince Reiner went missing."
"They said his balcony door turned to dust."
"I heard kidnappers."
"They found poison in his room."
"You think he's dead?"
"Alright, settle down!" Garrik's voice cut through the murmurs. "We'll start with one-on-one sparring based on Tuesday's evaluations." He swept his gaze across the room and paused when it landed on Lucian. "Before we begin, I'd like to see what our new student can do. Zion, step forward."
Lucian walked with a quiet precision that made the floorboard creaks sound unnecessary. He took his place at the front like a shadow finding its place in the light.
"Zion, why don't you demonstrate your Technique for the class?"
Eyes leaned in. Rumor breeds appetite; the classroom became an audience.
Lucian extended his hand. Darkness pooled like oil, compact and breathing. It condensed into a sphere—dense, viscous, alive. It shifted, fluid and obedient, rearranging itself into shapes that obeyed his will: a blade, a chain, a staff, a spear—each form a thought given flesh.
"My Technique is known as Black Matter. It grants me the power to conjure anything I desire—limited only by the bounds of my imagination."
Though Black Matter was only a fragment of what his Technique truly contained, it was versatile enough to convince a crowd.
A hush spread. Some faces brightened. Others squinted with skepticism. Lucian kept his expression placid, and if any pride flickered, it was hidden behind the calm of someone who had learned to measure the world before speaking.
Garrik's brow pinched. "How exactly did you qualify as a Special Talent? With a Technique as underwhelming as that, one would need exceptional physical prowess to compensate. Yet, according to those who sparred with you yesterday, it seems you lack that as well." His voice hardened. "Sounds like nepotism to me."
"As I mentioned, Teacher—my Technique excels precisely because imagination is its only limit."
"Imagination is useless if your opponent outclasses you in skill." Garrik's voice was a rasp of offended dignity.
A student raised a hand. "Sir, isn't imagination important in battle?"
"Yeah, seems like you have an agenda," another muttered.
Garrik's patience broke. He reached and seized the black rod Lucian had shaped from nothing. "Give me that!" he barked.
He slammed the rod against his knee.
Nothing. The rod didn't bend. It didn't even scratch.
A nervous ripple ran through the room. Garrik's pride flared red; he tested the rod again and again, each strike ringing hollow against a material that refused to yield. The sound echoed through the hall like a question.
Lucian stood motionless. *Humans,* he thought, private and cool.
A faint pulse pricked the back of his mind—an intrusion, clumsy and impatient. Someone was trying to read his thoughts. Not a precise assault, more like a reach. It failed the instant it touched the invisible barrier: Lucian's Divine Offering, his Cognitive Shield. The ability granted him perfect immunity to all mental interference. A reward earned from enduring a century within the timeless dimension.
[Divine Offerings are similar in nature to Gifts but granted by the Demon God. Unlike Gifts, they can only be earned and are never given at birth. They cannot be inherited or bestowed by chance—each one must be earned through experience or strength.
Divine Offerings, like Gifts, are single, straightforward abilities that provide an extra edge. But unlike the Gifts of the Human God, each Divine Offering is proof of one's struggle and evolution—a reward forged through hardship, not mercy.]
Lucian's gaze drifted subtly across the rows of students. The teacher was still struggling uselessly with the rod—so the culprit had to be among them.
No one looked suspicious.
*Did you sense that, Malphas?*
*Yes,* the spirit murmured within his mind.
Garrik finally stopped his futile display, rubbing his knee and glaring at the unbroken weapon.
He straightened, conceding with a short, reluctant nod. "Wow. Your Black Matter is stronger than I expected." His bitterness, however, remained; it was a bad taste in his mouth Garrik did not bother to hide.
"Alright, class, plans have changed. We'll save formal sparring for next session. For now, pair up with whoever you like."
Students moved in knots, choosing partners. Lucian drifted among them, still listening for the ghost of the mind-reader beneath the surface of ordinary conversation.
A voice approached, calm and deliberate. Silver hair framed a sharp face, purple eyes set like polished amethyst—cold and appraising. He carried himself like a blade—smooth, honed, and designed to pierce.
"Zion, is it? I am Kairo. Let us be sparring partners today."
*So, this is the one from the papers—the prodigy prince of the Great Kingdom of Nivara, Kairo Seren,* Lucian thought, recognition flicking through the folds of his memory.
"Prince Kairo… a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Lucian inclined his head with measured politeness.
"I appreciate your offer, but tell me—why choose me of all people?" he asked, voice smooth and intentional.
"Because you're a Special Talent—so you're supposed to be one of the strongest in the class."
Lucian offered a faint shrug. "It would be wise not to raise your expectations… but very well, I accept your offer."
They found an open patch of floor. No weapons. No Technique. Just bodies and skill. The classroom seemed to hold its breath; every pair paused to watch. Garrik watched from a distance, still seething from earlier humiliation, arms crossed tight as if to contain it.
Kairo moved fast — clean, practiced, and sharp. Every motion carried precision. Lucian read it easily, too easily. His body wanted to react, to counter without thought, but he forced it still.
He let a jab slip past his guard. The knuckles hit his cheek. He stepped back, unbalanced, feigning a clumsy recovery. Another strike came — this one to the ribs — and he didn't dodge. The breath left his lungs in a soft exhale.
The prodigy pressed forward, confident now. Lucian's blocks came late, his footing uneven. He stumbled once, twice, then let a sweeping kick take his legs out from under him. The floor met his back with a dull sound that echoed faintly through the room.
A pause followed — brief but heavy.
Lucian stayed down longer than necessary—long enough to let the pause breathe, to let Kairo's confidence settle like dust. When he rose, he brushed dust from his clothing with the casualness of a man untroubled by defeat.
Whispers resumed, smaller now, edged with disappointment. Kairo's face didn't bother to hide his. The spark he'd expected to ignite hadn't.
"Guess I should have taken your advice and lowered my expectations. I won't get any better sparring with you—I'll need to find someone else."
Lucian's mouth stayed a soft, natural line—no smirk. "Yes, my abilities are nothing remarkable. It would be best for your own growth to seek out a new opponent."
Kairo left with a faint, contemptuous roll in his posture. Few watched him go; more watched Lucian like one surveys a body of water wondering if it hides sharks.
A moment later, a different presence approached. Deep blue hair—like moonlight over water—fell in an impeccable frame around a face that could have been carved for portraits. Her eyes matched the hair: calm, unnerving, and unnaturally perceptive. Her presence carried an elegance so precise it felt rehearsed.
She offered a practiced smile. "Hello, Zion. I'm Seraphina. I noticed your bout with Kairo. If you wish, I can offer to train you."
*Seraphina Navi… the princess of the Great Kingdom of Oceara. The newspapers portray her as flawless,* Lucian thought, cataloguing the fact as if filing another tool.
Lucian's lips curved into a faint smile—more curiosity than amusement. "Train me? Hmm… is there a catch?"
The moment he thought it, a cold, familiar pressure prickled at the edges of his mind. Someone was probing again.
*So, it was her… interesting.*
*Dammit. I thought it would work if I got closer. I'll have to keep trying.* Seraphina's irritation was a faint undercurrent beneath her smile.
"No catch, I promise. I just want to help you out."
"Well then, if there's no catch, I'll gladly accept your offer."
They squared off. The clang of practice weapons from other students echoed across the combat hall.
Seraphina's focus honed in on him—not his rank, not his rumor, but that silence. She had felt it before, a black absence when her sight reached for his mind. It had been a cracking sensation, like putting a hand against smoke and expecting to meet warmth.
*He's not immune,* she told herself, as she studied him. *He's just… not thinking. Yes. That's all.*
"Let's begin," she said, stepping forward. Her tone was soft but commanding. "Keep your guard up. You're too open when you shift your weight."
Lucian gave a slight nod, settling into position.
Seraphina lunged first — a quick, precise strike. He deflected clumsily, but his reaction time was sharp enough to make her pause. She followed with another flurry of controlled attacks, testing his defense.
He didn't panic. He didn't even flinch.
*Strange,* she thought, moving around him.
She reached for his mind again.
And hit nothing.
No thoughts, no flickers, no background noise. Just stillness.
It wasn't possible.
Her expression didn't change, but her heart gave a sharp, irritated beat. She struck again, harder this time.
Lucian dodged narrowly, his focus unwavering.
Still nothing. Not even a stray thought.
Her grip tightened. She circled him, voice smooth as ever. "You're calmer than I expected. Most people hesitate when sparring with me."
He met her gaze briefly, his smile faint but polite. "Perhaps I've simply grown accustomed to being around those stronger than myself."
Something in his tone — too steady, too knowing — scraped against her nerves.
She pushed again, mentally this time. Deeper. More forceful.
Still… nothing.
Minutes passed. The spar continued. Seraphina's perfect rhythm began to fray at the edges. She told herself it was fatigue, not irritation. But every time her awareness reached for his thoughts, that emptiness mocked her.
It wasn't even resistance — it was like his mind didn't exist in the space she searched.
That had never happened before.
*He's not blocking me. He can't be. Then why… why can't I hear him?*
Lucian stumbled back after a deflected strike, breathing lightly but not winded. "You are holding back," he said.
She straightened. "Excuse me?"
He smiled — not arrogant, not mocking. Just casual. "You are overthinking. That is why your movements are so stiff."
Her pulse spiked. *Thinking too much?*
He had the nerve to say that while her mind screamed in confusion.
She inhaled slowly through her nose. "You presume a lot for someone who hasn't managed to land a hit."
Lucian chuckled. "Perhaps I am simply waiting for the right opening."
There it was again — that confidence. Quiet, but sharp.
And the worst part? She couldn't tell if it was genuine or an act.
Her tool—the instinct that had always kept her safe—had failed.
They broke apart to rest. The silence between them was thick with tension — hers carefully masked, his perfectly natural.
Seraphina's gaze lingered on him as he took a sip of water. He was annoyingly composed, like the entire spar had been a light exercise.
*It doesn't make sense. I can read anyone — trained minds, even my father. No one can hide from me.*
Her fingers tightened on her wrist. *He's not supposed to exist.*
Lucian caught her staring. "Is something the matter, Princess?"
Her composure snapped back instantly. "No. Simply assessing your form."
He nodded, unbothered. "Am I making progress?"
She hesitated. For the first time, she didn't know what to say.
Her instinct was to read his mind for sincerity, to see if he was mocking her — but the void was still there. Always there.
So she simply said, "...Yes. You're improving."
When the session ended, she tried to collect herself, smoothing her hair back and adopting her usual effortless grace. But inside, she was still rattled — her thoughts looping the same impossible truth over and over.
*A person I can't read. It's not possible. There must be an explanation.*
Lucian pulled on his jacket, breaking the quiet. "Thank you for training me, Princess. I have learned much under your guidance."
She smiled automatically, her tone perfectly courteous. "You're welcome, Zion. Discipline suits you."
He paused then, as if considering something.
"I wish to extend my thanks properly." he said. "Perhaps we could have lunch this weekend—my treat, of course."
The words caught her off guard. "Lunch?" she repeated.
He nodded. "A simple meal. As thanks."
Seraphina's composure faltered for a fraction of a second — a flicker of uncertainty, almost… flustered.
"Ah… I see. I thought you meant—" She stopped herself, realizing how it sounded.
Lucian's lips curved faintly. "It is not a date, Princess—merely an expression of my gratitude."
Her shoulders stiffened slightly. "Of course. I didn't assume otherwise."
He gave a polite bow. "Then it is settled."
As Seraphina walked away, her perfect mask slipped for the first time that evening. Her eyes narrowed faintly, expression caught somewhere between curiosity and disbelief.
She told herself she'd figure it out. She had to. There was no such thing as someone she couldn't read. And yet, she felt genuinely uncertain.
Meanwhile, Lucian's thoughts were calm and exacting.
*So, she cannot bear uncertainty. Good.*
*She has relied on that ability her entire life… and now she encounters someone it fails against. That alone will gnaw at her resolve.*
*She is the daughter of a Great Kingdom's ruler. Should I manage to bring her within reach, all manner of possibilities open themselves.*
Lucian's mind turned, sharp and deliberate. Information. Access. Leverage. Those were things no amount of raw strength could replace.
The Great Kingdoms were the foundation of the world's current balance of power — the same kingdoms that had united to destroy his kind. They were the reason the demon realm was reduced to ashes.
To rebuild it, he would have to destroy them one by one.
And to destroy them, he needed pieces inside their walls.
Seraphina wasn't just a princess. She was a key — and she didn't even realize it yet.
The faintest trace of satisfaction flickered in his eyes.
"Yes… she will prove useful."