The victory at the northern pass spread through the Voss Kingdom faster than wildfire.
Soldiers spoke of it in hushed tones, their voices filled with disbelief. A warlord defeated without a prolonged battle. An enemy army broken before it could truly clash. The generals praised strategy, timing, and discipline.
And always, quietly, one name followed the whispers.
Lucien Voss.
He stood in the council hall as the generals discussed the aftermath, his posture humble, his gaze lowered. Yet he could feel it—eyes lingering longer than before. Voices pausing when he entered. Respect, yes… but also something colder.
Suspicion.
His eldest brother, Ragnar Voss, leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. Ragnar had always been strong—born for battle, forged by qi and steel. He had never once considered Lucien a threat.
Until now.
The second brother, Kaelric, watched Lucien more carefully. Kaelric was sharp, ambitious, and far more dangerous than Ragnar. His gaze lingered on Lucien not with anger, but with calculation.
That was worse.
"Well done," Ragnar said at last, his voice loud enough to fill the hall. "I didn't know you had such talent for war, little brother."
The words were praise.
The tone was not.
Lucien bowed slightly. "I only spoke what I observed. The victory belongs to the soldiers."
Kaelric smiled. "Observation alone doesn't break armies."
Lucien said nothing. Silence, he knew, was often louder than defense.
That night, Lucien walked the outer corridors of the estate, the moonlight casting long shadows along stone walls. His steps were slow, measured, as if he were still the harmless fourth son.
But his mind was racing.
They are watching me now.
He replayed the day's events, searching for miscalculations. He had meant to influence, not to reveal. To guide, not to command. But war was a magnifying glass—it made even subtle genius visible.
And in the Murim world, visibility was danger.
Lucien stopped near the ancestral shrine, hidden behind carved pillars. Two voices drifted toward him—familiar, sharp.
"…you saw it too," Kaelric murmured."He planned that battle," Ragnar replied. "Every step.""A mind like that," Kaelric continued, "doesn't belong to someone so weak."
Lucien closed his eyes.
So it begins.
Ragnar was uneasy. Kaelric was already thinking ahead. They would not strike immediately—doing so would raise questions. But accidents happened. Duels were common. Weak sons died quietly in the Murim world.
And Lucien would not survive a single mistake.
For the first time, fear brushed against his thoughts—not of death, but of hesitation.
If I wait, I die.If I move first… I live.
By dawn, his mind was calm again.
Elimination did not always require a blade. In fact, the cleanest deaths were those where no hand could be blamed. Pride, ambition, and trust were far sharper weapons than steel.
Lucien returned to his quarters, his expression soft, almost tired.
To the world, he remained the fragile fourth son.
But inside, a decision had been made.
His brothers had noticed his fangs.
Now, before they decided to pull his throat apart, Lucien would ensure they never got the chance.
And when one of them fell, the world would argue endlessly over who was at fault.
That was how true victory was achieved.