Darkness clung to Lucian like a heavy shroud, wrapping him in its suffocating embrace. His mind was ablaze, a tumultuous sea of emotion that warped his perception of reality, and his pulse pounded like war drums in the distance, echoing the chaos within. Every breath he took was labored, each inhale sharp and desperate, as a singular thought consumed him entirely.
"I will kill him."
The words electrified his veins, causing his fists to clench involuntarily. His nails sank painfully into his palms, yet he barely registered the sharpness of the bite. Instead, the unbearable heat of his rage coursed through him, a wildfire that refused to be contained.
"Kill, kill, kill. I won't let him survive. That bastard—how dare he?! AGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
His furious roar shattered the heavy stillness of the room, echoing off the cold stone walls like a thunderclap. The sheer force of his hatred sent a shiver down his own spine, a visceral reminder of the primal instinct that had been awakened within him.
He had never felt rage like this before—raw, suffocating, a whirlwind of fury that felt almost alien, as if it belonged to a creature born of darkness itself, something that was no longer entirely him.
Lucian exhaled sharply, pressing his trembling hand to his forehead, trying to quell the storm within. His white hair, damp with sweat, clung unceremoniously to his skin, further testament to the turmoil raging inside him. This wasn't merely his anger; it was the seething rage of the original owner of this body, the tortured remnants of a soul shattered by profound suffering.
"What type of madness is this?" he whispered, the question escaping his lips hoarsely, almost in disbelief at the depth of his own despair.
The room around him was dimly lit, shadows creeping along the wooden walls, shifting and twisting like restless phantoms. Quietness blanketed the air, yet it was a silence laden with tension, heavy as the oppressive weight of winter.
The chill that pervaded the space was nothing compared to the raging storm inside him, a volcanic eruption that threatened to consume everything in its path.
"You should have just let me die, Jugo," Lucian spat bitterly, a bitter taste of regret lingering on his tongue. "Even I can't bear to witness this. Would life on Earth have been the same had Nexus energy been know to all? Now, I understand all too well what you meant when you said—'Humans are the kindest, yet also the cruelest beings in existence.'"
Just then, a familiar voice echoed within the dark recesses of his mind—a mechanical, emotionless whisper that felt both distant and eerily same.
"User, this emotion of hatred and rage belongs to the original owner of this body. Do you wish for me to erase it? There is a certain probability that you will make irrational decisions because of it. I suggest erasing it."
Lucian fell silent, the offer hanging in the air, heavy with implications. For a fleeting moment, the idea was enticing—a siren call to escape the turmoil that threatened to drown him.
To be liberated from the shackles of this torment, to have his mind unburdened from the weight of suffering. But then, unbidden, the face of her visage flashed before him once more.
His mother.
Bound in chains, her once vibrant blue eyes now hollow and lifeless, trapped in a nightmarish existence crafted by Hakon's malevolence. A prisoner forced to endure unimaginable suffering, her spirit flickering like a candle in a tempest.
If she were dead, perhaps he could stake his claim on returning home, perhaps he could focus on escaping from this hell. But she was not. She was alive—trapped in a living hell, her very essence dimmed and enslaved by cruelty.
And so, the inferno of his emotions raged on, fueled by an unquenchable desire for vengeance and a desperate need for justice.
Lucian knew that he could not—would not—simply erase this fury. It was the fire that would propel him forward, the force that would ultimately guide his hand when the time came to face the one responsible for her suffering.
The time for reckoning was drawing near, and he would not rest until the weight of his vengeance was satisfied. Lucian clenched his jaw.
"There is no need, I can handle it." he said coldly.
He was lying. He couldn't handle it. But he wouldn't forget—not until Hakon was dead.
With a deep sigh, he lay back down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. His heart was still pounding, but the fury had dulled into a simmering ember. He needed answers.
A soft knock broke through his thoughts. He barely had time to steady himself before the door creaked open, revealing a slender figure bathed in pale moonlight.
Leora.
She stood at the entrance, arms wrapped around herself, her white hair disheveled. Her voice was quieter than usual.
"Nightmare? Are you still afraid?"
Lucian narrowed his eyes and thought 'You're shivering yourself.'
"No," he said, forcing his voice into something steadier. "But I don't think I'll get any sleep tonight." He glanced at her. "Sister, what's the plan now?"
Leora sighed, stepping further into the room. She lowered herself onto the edge of his bed, her fingers absently tracing patterns against the fabric.
"The Tournament of Ascension will be held in December," she said. "We have eight months. If we want to rise from commoners to High Fief, we need to be strong enough to compete. The max limit for a High Fief is a Rank-4 Wizard. I'm Rank-2, and you're Rank-1. We need to improve. Fast. We will get Mother back as soon as possible."
Lucian frowned. "Will we two be enough?"
A sharp silence filled the room. Leora's lips parted as if to respond, but no words came. Her fingers clenched into fists. The candlelight flickered, casting shadows over her face, and Lucian saw it—the fear, the hesitation, the doubt she tried so hard to hide.
She turned away quickly, but not before he caught the glimmer of unshed tears clinging to her lashes. Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"We will talk tomorrow."
Lucian's chest tightened. Idiot. How could he speak so casually? She wasn't as emotionally hardened as he was—he needed to control his careless tongue.
He was about to console her but she had already left.
"System," he called out internally. "Explain the Tournament of Ascension."
The familiar artificial voice hummed before responding.
"Understood. Retrieving stored memories... 11%... 42%... 99.99%. Scan complete. Compiling relevant information."
Lucian closed his eyes, listening.
"The Tournament of Ascension is the primary method for commoners and lower nobles to rise in status within the Kingdom of Norlandia. It was established centuries ago by the founding High King to ensure that strength and talent, not just bloodline, determined one's place in society. It is held annually during the winter months, drawing competitors from all over the kingdom."
Lucian frowned. So this was their way of maintaining a balance between nobility and commoners?
"The tournament is divided into multiple tiers. Commoners may compete for the title of Fief, while Fiefs may compete for the title of High Fief. Higher nobility—such as High Fiefs—can challenge for the rank of Lower Jarl. However, thralls are prohibited from participating unless granted permission by their owner, which is extremely rare."
The system paused briefly before continuing.
"Each tier has strict rank limitations. The competition for High Fief is only open to Wizards of Rank-4 and below. Anyone above Rank-4 must compete in the Tournament for Lower Jarl. Similarly, only Rank-5 Wizards may compete for the title of Lower Jarl, and so forth. This ensures that battles remain within reasonable power limits."
Lucian's fingers tapped against his blanket as he processed the information.
"And how is the tournament structured?"
"The tournament has no fixed format. Referees hold absolute authority over its rules and conditions. They may decide on one-on-one duels, group battles, survival challenges, or even large-scale war simulations. The duration and difficulty are entirely at their discretion. Favoritism, bribery, and external influences are highly probable."
Lucian scowled. Rigged. That meant Hakon could manipulate the referees. He wouldn't just let them rise in status—he'd make sure they never left the tournament alive.
His fingers tightened around his clothes.
"System," he muttered. "What are my odds of winning?"
"Insufficient data. Your current strength is inadequate for competition. However, rapid growth is possible with intensive training."
Lucian sighed. He already knew that.
The exhaustion weighed down on him. With the system's words still lingering in his mind, he let his eyes close. Tomorrow, he would start preparing. No more hesitation. No more doubt.
And then, he slept.
Lucian awoke to the rhythmic clash of metal against metal. The crisp morning air carried the scent of sweat and damp earth.
He groggily sat up, rubbing his eyes. Sunlight streamed through the window, painting golden patterns on the wooden floor. The distant sound of grunts and swift footfalls filled the air.
Curious, he stood and made his way outside.
The training yard stretched before him—a vast space lined with weapon racks and dummies, its ground worn from years of combat practice. At the center of it all, a lone figure danced with a sword.
Leora.
Her white hair glowed like silver in the morning sun, her piercing blue eyes locked onto an invisible opponent. The blade in her hands moved flawlessly—each stroke precise, each step calculated. Sweat glistened on her brow, but she didn't falter.
Lucian watched, amazed. She was strong. Stronger than he had realized.
Then, she stopped, her breath coming in short, steady intervals. Turning, she met his gaze.
"Lucian, you're just waking up now?" she called, her voice edged with exasperation. "I knew you were lazy, but how can you be this careless? Every time I think of resting, I remember Mother's suffering."
Lucian clenched his fists.
Leora sheathed her blade, her eyes narrowing. "You were lazy before. That ends now." She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I gave you rest today because you were exhausted from that chase and fight. But from tomorrow?" She leveled him with a hard stare.
"You train with me."
Lucian swallowed, watching the fire in her eyes. This was no longer just about strength. It was about revenge and their mother suffering.
And he couldn't afford to be weak.