The village of Redbrook was an unremarkable place, a settlement of wooden houses, dirt roads, and farmers who toiled from dawn until dusk. To the world, it was insignificant—nothing more than a dot on the empire's vast map.
To Lucian, it was his prison.
The last remnants of House Valefor had been erased from history, and here he was, a ghost among the commonfolk. He worked in the village tavern under the guise of an ordinary laborer, blending into the background, unnoticed and forgotten. But while others saw a simple servant, Lucian saw the world in motion.
The tavern was more than just a place to drink. It was a hub where mercenaries, merchants, and travelers passed through, carrying news, rumors, and secrets.
And Lucian listened.
One name kept surfacing in hushed conversations—Darius Vortan.
The man who had orchestrated the fall of House Valefor. The power behind the empire's throne.
Lucian did not react, did not flinch whenever he heard the name. He stored the information away, each piece fitting together like a puzzle. Vengeance was not a fire to be unleashed—it was an ember to be stoked.
For now, he needed one thing above all else.
Strength.
---
The tavern was particularly crowded that night, filled with men seeking warmth and ale. Lucian moved between tables, serving drinks, his movements careful and efficient.
As he placed a mug of ale on a wooden table, a hand gripped his wrist.
Lucian froze.
The man who had grabbed him was large, his frame broad with the hardened muscle of a warrior. His blonde hair was unkempt, shadowing sharp green eyes that seemed to scrutinize him. A jagged scar ran down his left cheek, a mark of battles fought and survived.
His leather armor was worn but well-kept, and a longsword rested at his hip, its hilt wrapped in faded cloth.
"You move too quietly for a servant," the man remarked, his voice deep and calm.
Lucian met his gaze, his expression unreadable. "Is that a problem?"
The warrior studied him for a moment before releasing his grip.
"Not a problem," he muttered, taking a sip of his drink. "Just an observation."
Lucian gave a slight nod and turned away, vanishing into the sea of patrons.
But he could still feel the man's gaze on his back.
A dangerous man. A cautious man.
Someone who had learned to recognize when another was not what they seemed.
Lucian made a mental note to be more careful.
---
Hours later, as the tavern emptied, a single figure remained near the fireplace.
An elderly man, wrapped in a worn but regal-looking cloak, sat hunched over a book. His silver hair was tied back, and his piercing gray eyes moved across the pages with sharp focus. His hands—aged, but steady—flipped through the parchment with practiced ease.
Lucian had seen him before. The old man came in every few nights, ordering nothing but water, never speaking to anyone. He always sat in the same spot, always reading.
Tonight, however, was different.
As Lucian moved past his table, the old man's voice rang out.
"You have sharp eyes, boy."
Lucian stopped, his expression neutral. "And what makes you say that?"
The old man chuckled, his gaze never leaving the book.
"I've spent decades studying people. You're not a simple servant, nor a villager. Your hands don't belong to a worker, yet you know how to move without drawing attention. That means you're hiding."
Lucian's fingers curled slightly, though he remained outwardly calm.
"You seem to know a lot about people," he said.
The old man finally looked up, his gray eyes glinting in the dim firelight.
"I know a lot about many things," he replied. "Including power."
Lucian remained silent.
He had spent weeks searching for a way to grow stronger, but every path led to closed doors—the nobles controlled all proper training, and mercenaries wouldn't teach a mere tavern worker.
But this old man… he was different.
"Who are you?" Lucian asked.
The man smirked. "A forgotten scholar in a forgotten place." He closed his book and gestured to the seat across from him.
"Sit. If you have the courage to learn."
Lucian hesitated only for a moment before sitting down.
The old man smiled. "Good. Then let us begin."
---
Over the following weeks, Lucian became a student once more.
The old man, who introduced himself as Arden, was no ordinary scholar. He spoke of history not as a list of dates, but as a series of patterns. He taught Lucian how empires were built, how noble houses rose and fell, how power shifted not through strength alone, but through knowledge.
"Wars are not won on battlefields, boy," Arden told him one night. "They are won before the first sword is drawn."
Lucian listened, absorbing everything.
But Arden did not stop at history.
He taught Lucian the theory behind magic.
"Magic is not just raw power," Arden explained. "It is a force to be shaped, a tool to be controlled. Many wield it like a club, but the true masters wield it like a scalpel."
Lucian's hunger for knowledge grew. He learned about Aura, the essence that fueled combatants, and Mana, the foundation of all magic.
He learned how one could rise through the ranks of power—through rigorous training, the absorption of natural energy, and the refinement of one's core.
"Your current state is weak," Arden admitted one evening. "But you have potential. And potential can be forged."
Then, one night, Arden made a proposal.
"I have given you knowledge," he said. "But knowledge alone is not enough. If you wish for true power, then you must claim it."
Lucian met his gaze. "How?"
Arden's eyes gleamed. "The first step is simple. We leave this village."
Lucian exhaled slowly.
This was it.
The moment he stopped running and started becoming.
He nodded. "Then let's go."
Arden smiled.
And so, Lucian took his first step toward his destiny.