Chapter Nine: What Came Back With Him
Lucius returned without a sound.
One moment the dungeon floor was soaked in blood and scorched mana, the next the air folded inward—like the world drawing a breath it had been holding too long. Space warped near the chamber's center, runes flaring white-hot as something was released rather than summoned.
Alicia felt it first.
Her blade dipped, instincts screaming. She spun just as Lucius appeared, standing where the shaft had once been—feet planted, posture straight, eyes open.
Too open.
"Lucius?" she called.
He didn't answer.
The remaining armored intruders froze mid-motion. Even they felt it—the shift in pressure, the subtle rearranging of rules. The dungeon's hostility evaporated, replaced by something closer to deference.
Lucy lowered her staff slowly, knuckles white.
"That's not…," she whispered. "That's not how returns work."
Mike took a cautious step forward. "Buddy?"
Lucius blinked.
Once.
The glow faded from his pupils, replaced by familiar dark irises—though something lingered behind them now, like depth where there had once been reflection.
"I'm back," he said.
His voice was steady. Too steady.
Jak exhaled sharply. "You look like hell."
Lucius glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if testing the weight of reality. "I feel… heavy."
One of the intruders broke.
He lunged, desperation overriding discipline, blade screaming toward Lucius's throat.
Alicia moved to intercept.
She never made it.
The air between Lucius and the attacker compressed violently. Not a spell. Not a barrier. The man hit an invisible wall and crumpled like paper, armor folding inward with a sickening crunch.
Lucius hadn't moved.
Silence swallowed the chamber.
Lucy stared. "Lucius. Did you do that?"
He frowned. "I didn't… tell it to."
That was worse.
The remaining intruders backed away, weapons lowering instinctively. One of them whispered a prayer under his breath—old, half-forgotten.
Jak didn't miss it. "They recognize something."
Lucy stepped closer to Lucius, careful, like approaching a wounded animal. "What happened down there?"
Lucius hesitated.
Images flickered behind his eyes—chains tightening, stars dimming, a throne that wasn't a throne but a function. A burden shaped like authority.
"I didn't take power," he said finally. "I was… acknowledged."
The dungeon trembled faintly, as if affirming his words.
Lucy closed her eyes. "That's worse."
They didn't linger.
The dungeon allowed their exit without resistance, corridors opening smoothly, traps disengaging as if embarrassed by their presence. Even the monsters that roamed the outer halls avoided Lucius, skirting wide arcs around him, heads bowed or eyes averted.
None attacked.
None even growled.
They emerged into dusk.
The forest greeted them with uneasy quiet, leaves rustling without wind. Smoke from the earlier carnage still clung to the air, mixing with the scent of iron and burned mana.
Mike broke the silence first. "Okay. I'm just gonna say it. This is officially above mercenary pay grade."
No one laughed.
They made camp farther from the dungeon than usual, choosing a defensible ridge overlooking a stream. The fire burned low, deliberately small.
Lucius sat apart, staring into the dark water.
Alicia approached him after a long while, sword sheathed but hand resting near the hilt. "You going to tell me what you saw?"
He didn't look at her. "If I do, it stops being just mine."
She considered that, then sat beside him anyway. "I've killed men for less."
He smiled faintly. "I know."
The smile faded.
"There's something sealed beneath that dungeon," he said. "Not an evil. Not a god. A function. A lock."
Alicia's brow furrowed. "A lock for what?"
Lucius finally met her eyes. "For freedom."
She stiffened. "Careful."
"I am," he replied softly. "That's why I'm scared."
Far away, beyond mortal sight, something stirred.
A Higher God opened its eyes.
Not all at once—not fully. Just enough to notice disruption along a familiar chain of causality. A seal had flexed. A variable had responded.
The god tasted the moment and frowned.
"An Apostle?" it murmured.
No.
Too uncontrolled.
Too early.
The god extended a thought-thread toward the mortal plane, brushing against thrones and crowns, toward a young prince already trembling beneath ambition.
It is time to reinforce the narrative, the god decided.
The first dream came that night.
Lucius dreamed of standing before a gate that stretched infinitely upward and downward, its surface etched with names worn smooth by time. Chains wrapped around it in countless layers, each glowing with a different sigil.
One chain pulsed brighter than the rest.
You felt it too, a voice said—not accusing, not kind.
Lucius turned. "You're the throne."
I am the function you touched.
"You said the world didn't choose me."
No, the voice agreed. You chose yourself. That is rarer.
Lucius clenched his fists. "Then why does it feel like something followed me back?"
The gate creaked.
Because nothing that interrupts destiny goes unnoticed.
He woke with a sharp gasp.
Lucy was already there, staff planted, eyes glowing faintly as she completed a detection circle around him.
"Don't move," she said.
"Too late," he replied.
She swallowed. "There's something anchored to you. Not possession. Not a curse. A… marker."
Jak hovered nearby, hand on dagger. "Can it be removed?"
Lucy shook her head slowly. "Not without unmaking what put it there."
Mike cursed quietly.
Lucius sat up. "Then we don't remove it."
They all stared at him.
"We learn to live with it," he continued. "And we make sure whoever notices it regrets looking too closely."
Alicia studied his face. The boy was still there—but layered now. Weighted. Sharpened.
"Power changes people," she said carefully.
Lucius nodded. "That's why I don't trust it."
News traveled faster than they did.
By the time they reached the outskirts of the nearest trade city, rumors were already circulating—of a dungeon that silenced monsters, of mercenaries slaughtered by unseen force, of an artifact that bowed reality around it.
A courier died on the road, throat crushed inward with no external wound.
A priest dreamed of chains breaking and woke screaming.
And in a marble hall far to the east, the First Prince stood before an altar of light, sweat dripping down his spine as a divine presence pressed against his thoughts.
There is a deviation, the Higher God whispered. A threat to order.
The prince swallowed. "Give me the strength to correct it."
Light coiled around him like a promise.
In time, the god replied. First, we must confirm what has awakened.
The prince smiled—tight, desperate.
"Yes," he said. "Let's."
That night, as the party rested behind city walls, Lucius stood alone on the rooftop, staring at the stars.
They looked dimmer than he remembered.
Or perhaps he was simply seeing them differently now.
He pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the echo of chains that weren't there.
"Destiny," he whispered.
Something unseen listened.
And waited.