Lucien clutched his arm as he slid down the wall. The sound of barking, men screaming commands and heavy footsteps prodding, made him nervous. After his successful escape from the manhunt, organisations, many funded or in debt to the skaars-gaard name put out a bounty on the head of their killer. Rumors began to spread that truly, only one man had been responsible for the complete wipeout of the biggest northern European family.
Initially his father had heard the news, the groups too small to be a bother and easy to wipe, but Lucien felt burdened. He had dragged them into a problem and he wanted to handle it, single-handedly. And so he took an official post as the Family's vanguard, a position left vacant due to lack of quality to fill the position.
The Vanguard position of the Aurelius family was the inspiration behind the Vanguard system for S-classes, Set up by Lucien as an act of Rebellion against his family. Unlike the Vanguard Position of an S-class, the Vanguard Position of the Aurelius family meant the protector. The one strong enough to be a pillar for the family. The previous pillar died in battle. A close friend to Lucien, considered his close rival. Unparalleled in every way, or atleast that was how Lucien saw him.
The hangar stood silent beneath the weight of the night. The air was thick with oil, steel, and the faint scent of blood long since dried. Shadows stretched along the tarmac, broken only by the dim, flickering overhead lights.
It had been weeks since the operation began. The enemy believed their reports. They believed their commanders still breathed. They believed their forces remained intact.
Because fear speaks in familiar voices.
Lucien had taught them well.
And now, the wolf had returned to his den.
A column of men stood at attention. They were clad in black, their figures sharp against the dim glow of the hangar lights. A hundred heads bowed. Not in servitude, but in respect. In recognition.
Aurelius was not merely a name.
It was an oath.
It was blood spilled in loyalty, hands dirtied in purpose, lives given in silent devotion.
And here, beneath the iron sky, their vanguard had arrived.
The silence broke as the first voice rose from the ranks.
"The blood of the Aurelius is old."
A second voice followed, deeper, weighted with age.
"The blood of the Aurelius is strong."
Then a third.
"And the blood of the Aurelius will never be shed without vengeance."
Lucien stepped forward.
The men parted, forming a path of bowed heads and bent knees.
A voice called from the front. It was Salvatore, an older man, once a lieutenant in a bygone empire. His face was carved with lines of war, his hands thick with calluses. He had lived long enough to see empires rise and fall, but this? This was something else.
He took a step forward, his voice measured, rich with the weight of old tradition.
"You arrive late in the night, Vanguard."
Lucien did not slow his stride. His coat billowed as he passed through the men.
Salvatore continued, his tone unshaken.
"But the night is where the wolves feast, isn't it?"
Lucien halted.
His eyes, dark as the abyss, met Salvatore's. A ghost of amusement flickered at the corner of his mouth.
"A dog feasts when he is fed. A wolf feasts when he takes."
Salvatore nodded. "Then tell me, Vanguard. What have you taken?"
Lucien turned his head, gesturing toward the hangar, the weapons, the men.
"Everything."
A ripple of satisfaction passed through the ranks. Some nodded, others smirked. This was why they followed him. Not because he demanded it. Not because he held the blood of nobility.
But because he was the knife that never dulled, the fire that never waned.Salvatore, however, was not done. He took another step forward, standing close enough to see the faint sheen of blood on Lucien's sleeve. "The blood of the Aurelius is old," he murmured.
Lucien met his gaze.
"The blood of the Aurelius is strong," another voice added.
"The blood of the Aurelius will never be shed without vengeance," the ranks whispered. Lucien exhaled slowly. His voice was low, measured, like a blade pressing against flesh. "Then let vengeance be our inheritance." A chuckle broke the silence. From the side, a man leaned against a crate, his arms folded. Dario. Scarred, wiry, and built like a viper coiled to strike. "Vanguard," Dario drawled, voice thick with amusement. "You should have seen their faces before they died. The fear of knowing they were already dead before they even fell."
Lucien glanced at him.
Dario grinned. "Some men fight to live. Others fight because they fear death." He tilted his head. "But you, you fight because there is nothing else."
Lucien said nothing.
Dario straightened, stepping forward. "So tell me, Vanguard. What's next?"
Lucien scanned the room. His men. His soldiers. His warriors.
Their hands had been stained in the name of Aurelius.And they would not stop. Not until every last piece of filth that mocked their name had been wiped from the earth.
Lucien turned, his coat shifting as he moved. He walked to the center of the hangar, boots clicking against concrete. He turned to face them all.
And then, in the hush of the midnight air, he spoke. "The world is not kind to men like us. They call us monsters. They call us killers.
And they are right. We are not kings. We are not priests. We do not sit in halls of gold, sipping wine while others fight our wars.
No. We are the knives in the dark.
The hands that break before they bend. We are the last breath of a dying empire, the vengeance of those who will never speak again.
They think power is measured by wealth. By titles. By ink and paper.
But power is measured by who walks away from the battlefield.
And I promise you this—
We will be the only ones left standing." A murmur spread through the crowd.
Fists clenched. Breath sharpened. The air shifted.
Salvatore nodded once, firmly. "Then lead, Vanguard."
Lucien turned. "I will."
And with that, the hunt resumed.
The night was still, a blanket of silence draped over the city. A single figure walked through the slums, a predator in a land of scavengers.
Lucien's black coat billowed behind him as he moved through the broken streets, his footsteps steady, unhurried. His presence was an anomaly here, among the graffiti-smeared walls and rusted metal skeletons of forgotten buildings.
Eyes watched from the shadows.
A gang of lowly enforcers loitered at the mouth of a dilapidated warehouse, their laughter sharp and careless. These were men who thought themselves untouchable.
Lucien did not slow.
The first man noticed him too late.
A single step—a sharp pivot—and Lucien's heel buried itself into the man's temple.
Crack.
The body slumped before the others could react.
"What the f—?!"
Lucien's palm shot forward, striking another under the jaw with such force that his teeth snapped together like a steel trap. The man choked, stumbling back—only for Lucien's fingers to curl into his collar, twisting sharply.
Snap.
Two down.
The remaining three drew weapons, knives, clubs, nothing that would matter.
Lucien moved first.
His foot slid forward, shattering the closest man's knee with a brutal side kick, forcing him to crumple. The gang leader rushed forward, a butterfly knife flashing in the dim light.
Lucien weaved to the side, the blade missing his throat by a breath. His hands found the man's wrist, twisting, redirecting, before forcing the blade into his own gut.
A gurgled scream. A dying gasp. Lucien let go. The body slumped.
The last man dropped his weapon, backing away. "Wait, wait! I can—"
Lucien's fist met his throat. The plea died before it was uttered.
Silence returned.
Lucien stepped over the corpses, pushing the door open.
The warehouse reeked of sweat, gunpowder, and blood.
A dozen men inside, some gambling, others sharpening blades. A radio played in the background, broadcasting some mundane, forgotten song.
Then they saw him.
Then the screaming began.
Lucien moved like a shadow among corpses. One rushed him with a bat. Lucien ducked low, sweeping the man's legs from beneath him before driving a heel into his ribs. Another lunged with a knife. Lucien caught his wrist—twisted—dislocated.
A third opened fire.
Lucien dove forward, the bullet hit, but barely. His palm found the man's wrist, forcing the gun under his own chin.
Bang.
Lucien turned. More were coming.
Good.
He ran to meet them.
Lucien's assault did not end in the slums.
Word spread. He had annihilated the gang's headquarters in a single night. He seized their resources, burned their drugs, butchered their enforcers.
But he was not done.
A city like this did not rot from the bottom. The true filth sat high, behind tinted windows, wrapped in tailored suits, drinking from crystal glasses while others suffered. They called themselves military contractors. Weapons dealers. Investors.
Lucien called them next.
The world does not belong to the righteous. It never has. Power is a privilege of the cruel. It is a gift bestowed upon those willing to claw through the throats of their brothers, to trade truth for lies, to wear the skin of a man while feasting like beasts. Once, men fought wars with swords. Now, they fight with titles, with bureaucracy, with the slow rot of corruption that poisons nations more thoroughly than any blade ever could. A soldier's hands are stained red with blood, but a ruler's hands are stained black with ink, and ink has killed more men than any war ever fought. Power is not merely a weapon; it is a disease. A sickness of the mind, a sickness of the soul.
And Lucien had come to cure it.
The room stank of wealth. Cigar smoke curled through the air, blending with the scent of expensive whiskey and polished wood. Men sat at a long, lavish table, draped in medals, uniforms, and silk, each one a portrait of indulgence and the grave sins. These were men who had never fought. Men who would send others to die but would never bleed themselves. Lucien entered, his coat soaked in the blood of their soldiers, hed snuck in but he deliberately killed the few guarding the door to make a statement. He walked calmly, deliberately, like a predator among cattle. His boots left red footprints on their pristine floors.
The generals looked up. Some smirked. Others watched with detached amusement.
The highest-ranking among them, an old man with sharp, birdlike features, swirled his drink and sighed. "Well, well. You've made quite the mess, boy."
Lucien said nothing.
Another, younger officer chuckled. "You're lucky we respect your bloodline, Saint-Aurel. A lesser man would have been shot on sight."
Lucien's voice was quiet. "You knew."
They shared a look.
Lucien stepped forward, his presence swallowing the room. "You knew what the Skaars-gaard boy did."
A pause. Then, the old general smiled. "Of course."
Lucien's fingers twitched. The air grew heavier.
"We've always known," Another general berated, raising his glass. "You think you're special? You think your story is unique? Boy, we nobles have always done as they pleased. Frederick was simply… more ambitious than most." Lucien's breath was even. Controlled. Deadly. Another officer leaned back, laughing. "He was a bastard, but a useful bastard. You, however… you were nothing." Lucien's gaze flickered. "Nothing?" The officer smirked. "A Saint-Aurel without nobility? Without land? Without a title? You were an attack dog without a master." The old general sighed, setting his drink down. "You have to understand, boy. Hierarchy exists for a reason. You were born beneath us. It was simply your fate."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "He destroyed lives." The old man shrugged. "And? That's power."
A silence settled over the room.
Lucien's voice, when it came, was like ice. "And you all let it happen."
The younger officer smirked. "We didn't just let it happen. We ensured it happened. Frederick was useful to us. His family held power. His depravity kept our pockets full."
Lucien's fingers twitched.
The old general leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You don't understand how the world works, boy. Power does not serve justice. Power serves itself." Lucien's breath was slow. Measured.
"You killed our men," the first general continued. "Slaughtered them like animals. And for what? Some naïve sense of revenge?"
He scoffed. "You think their deaths mattered? We will replace them. We will move on. Power does not mourn the fallen. It simply breeds more soldiers." The old general smiled. "That is why you'll never win."
Lucien exhaled. The silence that followed was deep. And then, in a voice so quiet it was nearly a whisper, he asked, "Would you die for it?" The room shifted. The smirks wavered. The amusement faded. Lucien stepped forward. "You say power serves itself. That the strong dictate the fate of the weak. That men like you will always win."
He placed a hand on the table. "Would you die for it?" The old general frowned. Lucien's voice was low, slow, suffocating. "You sit in your palaces. You send men to die. You shape the world with lies and ink. But would you bleed for it?"
No one spoke. Lucien tilted his head. "No?" He smiled.
Then, he moved. The first man didn't even see it coming. Lucien's blade pierced his throat, silencing his arrogance in a single motion.
The room exploded into chaos.
Chairs scraped. Hands reached for weapons. Lucien was already moving.
A pistol rose, Lucien caught the wrist, twisting, snap. The gun fired, the bullet tearing through another officer's skull. The old general backpedaled, eyes wide. "Wait—!"
Lucien lunged. His knife plunged into the younger officer's ribs, dragging across his lungs. The man gurgled, gasping. Another reached for a hidden dagger, Lucien grabbed his wrist and drove his forehead into the man's nose. Cartilage shattered. The officer collapsed, convulsing.
The old general stumbled, his hands shaking. "You—You can't—!"
Lucien stalked forward.
His voice was a whisper of death.
"I thought power served itself?"
The old general trembled.
Lucien knelt beside him, eyes dark. "Where is your power now?"
The old man opened his mouth— Lucien slit his throat.
Blood pooled. The room was silent.
Lucien stood.
The scent of death hung heavy, clinging to his skin like a second coat.
He turned, stepping over the bodies, moving toward the exit.
He paused.
Then, without looking back, he muttered:
"I would."
And with that, he left the world of cowards behind.
The Aurelius estate had been dragged through the mud, threatened and desecrated. These people had orchestrated it, slandered the name, stripped it of power, turned it into a commodity to be bought and sold. Lucien stood before their fortress, an abandoned military base, left without a leader and now repurposed into a nest of corruption.
They had soldiers.
They had guns.
Lucien had himself.
The first guard barely had time to blink before Lucien's blade sank into his throat. A second later, the alarms blared.
The storm had begun.
The first wave came fast.
Armed mercenaries poured into the corridors, rifles raised.
Lucien weaved through gunfire, his body moving like flowing water, his footsteps soundless.
The first attacker fired, Lucien was already behind him. His hand shot out, grabbing the rifle, twisting it into the man's own stomach.
Bang.
The next soldier swung with the butt of his gun, Lucien ducked, his elbow finding the soft point beneath the ribs. A breath. A pivot. A knife found its home between vertebrae. More men rushed in. Lucien moved faster.
He caught a falling body, using it as a human shield before launching forward. A gun barrel rose, Lucien knocked it aside, his knee driving into a skull. A bullet grazed his cheek. Lucien grabbed a discarded pistol, twisting midair. Two shots. Two kills. He landed, spinning to meet the next wave. They had numbers. Lucien had skill. And skill would always win.
The deeper Lucien went, the more brutal it became. He crushed throats. He shattered skulls with his bare hands. His coat dripped with blood, his movements only growing sharper. He tore through elite soldiers like paper, a phantom weaving through gunfire, a storm with no mercy. By the time he reached the main chamber, the fortress was a graveyard. The man who had orchestrated the Aurelius downfall sat waiting. A businessman. A coward in silk. Lucien approached slowly. "You— You can't kill me," the man stammered. "I have connections! I can make you disappear!" Lucien said nothing.
"You're just a relic! The Aurelius name is nothing! The Saint is dead! His successor is buried! Noth–"
Lucien drew his blade. A heartbeat later, it sang through flesh. The man collapsed, choking on his own blood.
Lucien knelt beside him, whispering, "Then let this be its rebirth."
By dawn, the city belonged to him.
The gangs had been eradicated. The corrupt military had been slaughtered. The Aurelius name had been cleansed in blood.