The weight of a presence that hadn't been there a moment ago. Silent. Absolute. Uninvited.
Lucien didn't react immediately; he tilted his head slightly, catching the figure in his periphery.
A man clad in a black plague doctor's attire, the crow-like mask sharp and smooth, the lenses of his goggles glowing an eerie green, pulsing faintly like something alive. A wide-brimmed hat sat atop his head, casting half his figure in shadow, and a long, black trench coat draped over his seated form, motionless, as if he had been there all along.
The train carried on.
The silence between them thickened.
Lucien let the moment stretch, watching the steam roll past the shattered skyline, waiting for the first word to be spoken.
It didn't come.
So he said, "Well, go on then. Say something cryptic. I know you're dying to."
Vaelle turned his head slightly, the glow of his lenses shifting as if studying Lucien, peeling him apart layer by layer. Then, in a voice like a man speaking through the echo of a grave, he finally responded.
"Did you know a dead man is heavier than a living one?"
Lucien huffed a quiet laugh. "Is that so?"
Vaelle nodded slowly.
"Yes. Because a man with breath carries only the weight of his sins. But a dead man… carries the weight of his eternity."
Lucien clicked his tongue, unimpressed. "That's cute. The Exarch teach you that one?"
"Do you ever think about it?" Vaelle's tone remained unreadable. "The weight of eternity? Of chaos, of destruction, of peace?"
Lucien leaned his head back against the window. "I try not to think at all, really. Thinking leads to questions. Questions lead to headaches. Only thing left is to go find something to fight and forget all about it."
Vaelle let out a quiet breath, though there was no humor in it.
"So you're still the same. Still drifting. Still pretending you're not a force of nature waiting to be unshackled."
Lucien turned his head slightly. "Mm. Good seeing you again too, Vaelle."
Vaelle reached into his coat.
Lucien's gaze flickered down, but he didn't move.
From the folds of dark fabric, Vaelle withdrew something round and damp, still leaking. He lifted it up, holding it between gloved fingers.
A severed head.
The face was twisted in a permanent snarl, the mouth frozen mid-curse, the eyes gouged out, black veins spider webbing across the pale skin. A witch's head.
"She called herself Laeyrinna the Dark Door, a daughter of the coven. She thought she could bend the blood of nuns from a church, make her own throne from their bodies. She did not see the blade that came for her. She almost caused the entire church to be engulfed in the Red Plague, until she was stopped."
Lucien exhaled. "You lot always did enjoy the theatrics. I do the same. But what point are you trying to prove?"
Vaelle studied the head for a moment, then, without warning, crushed it in his hand. Bone cracked, flesh collapsed, a wet splatter of darkened blood staining his gloves.
Lucien didn't bat an eye.
Vaelle wiped his hand off with a cloth, tossing the remains aside.
Lucien scoffed, rubbing his temple. "I noticed. And I know the Inquisition wants me out of here too. What are you really getting at here?"
Vaelle leaned forward slightly, fingers interlocked. "The Black Chapel never forgets its own. I do not want you to allow yourself to be taken or killed by the Exarch. Even with the target on your head."
Lucien's voice dropped into something sharper. "I was never theirs…after a while. Getting bossed around, and all this other shit..don't you get tired of it?"
"I do. But I have my own goals that I wish to accomplish. And before those get handled, I must acknowledge that I am a broken man. And being with the Chapel may fix me. Or either I get fixed fighting you. Forever."
"Telling me you don't want the Exarch to have my head should be tyranny, is it not?"
"Like you, not many can compare to me in raw strength and power. You are my only challenge."
Lucien thought, 'It's gotta be something else with that. He's not exposing too much. Like always. After all, he's always been my pet rival. We've fought each other over 50 times since we were children. We were actually trying to kill each other.'
A long silence panned out. Then, Vaelle asked genuinely, "How is it?"
"How's what?"
"Your freedom. The freedom you craved so much when you were with the Chapel."
Lucien got excited. "It's amazing! No one to tell me what to do! I get to wear and go wherever! No one tying me down or manipulating me! It's great!" Lucien folded his arms and smirked. Even Torch was looking at him with a face that said, "Come on now."
Lucien thought, 'Ha! Most of the assassins would kill for a chance to ask me what it's like being outside and actually living than being in the Chapel. I'm not technically free right now because of the goddess, but I have to make these fools jealous so I can use them to fight the Chapel too.'
Lucien asked Vaelle with smug arrogance, "What? Getting jealous now? Don't be! All you have to do..is just quit! Haha!"
"I am not envious of your situation. You left the Black Chapel to be…a cat lover?"
Lucien froze and looked down, seeing Torch purring against him on purpose to embrass him.
Lucien gritted his teeth and his eye twitched just by the sight of Torch, and said, "I DON'T KNOW WHERE THIS CAT CAME FROM! YOU KNOW I HATE ANIMALS!"
"Doesn't look like it."
Lucien pointed at Vaelle. "Y-You're the one with a bird mask on your face."
"It's a crow. A crow mask. Made by the Exarch."
"Same shit." Lucien looked down at Torch slowly, his unhinged smile never wavering. He whispered, "Think you're funny huh? Haha..haha..I can't wait to eat you."
Torch purred, brushing his tail across Lucien's face in mock arrogance.
Vaelle let the silence stretch, then murmured:
"We are the unseen dagger. The silent sentence. The execution without a jury. The noose that tightens. The shadow in the corner of your eye. The last breath before the throat is cut."
A quiet pause.
The train carried on.
The tension between them thickened, pressing against the air, stretching unbearably—
Then, without warning—they vanished.
A whiff of motion. A crack of impact.
Torch yelped, thrown into the air, eyes wide as he spun weightlessly for a moment.
Lucien and Vaelle collided.
Vaelle's scythe roared to life, its blade glowing a sickly green, dripping with a slow, viscous poison that hissed as it made contact with the air. Lucien caught it barehanded, stopping the strike mid-swing.
The force of the impact was monstrous.
The train windows exploded outward, glass scattering into the storming wind. Half the train's interior collapsed inward, metal twisting like paper beneath the raw pressure of their clash.
Vaelle's eyes burned behind his mask, his voice no longer dry, no longer measured. Now, it was alight with something wild, something hungry.
"There it is. There's the strength I've been waiting for!"
Lucien grinned, his fingers tightening around the blade.
Vaelle tilted his head, excitement thrumming in his voice. "You are still my greatest rival, Lucien. The only one in the Black Chapel who can match me! What's this? Our 55th fight?! And still no winner?!"
Lucien scoffed. "I'm not with you bastards anymore, remember? And yeah, this will be our 55th, and of course no winner, none of us can die that easily!"
"You were always restless, weren't you? Always wanting to do your own thing. But tell me, Lucien—what is it that you truly seek?"
Lucien didn't answer.
'Do I really know…?'
The train groaned beneath them, still moving, still hurtling through the night—
And the battle had only just begun.
The grey sky blurred past in a streak of iron, the thunderous roar of steel wheels carving through the tracks beneath them. The train lurched, shuddering from the raw force of the battle tearing through its walls, metal screaming in protest as two unstoppable forces clashed in a whirlwind of ferocity and precision.
Vaelle struck first, dipping forward like a wraith, his plague doctor's mask gleaming under the flickering cabin lights. His scythe arced through the air, trailing a toxic green mist, its blade shifting between solid and spectral, warping between dimensions like a mirage of death. Lucien vaulted and flipped backwards, boots skidding across the polished floor as the scythe sliced the air where his ribs had been seconds before, leaving a poisonous gash in reality itself.
Lucien retaliated instantly, his red and gold revolver flashing as he fired a point-blank shot. The bullet ignited the air, spiraling with exploding energy, but Vaelle twisted midair, his coat snapping like a whip, the bullet grazing past him as he somersaulted off a handrail and rebounded from the ceiling with impossible agility. He came down like a falling guillotine, scythe flashing in a blur—
Lucien caught it with his bare hands. The bullet from earlier blew a large explosion out of the side of the train, metal and steel and gears shooting out like a rain shower. "Haha!" Lucien laughed in excitement.
The blade should have split him apart. Instead, red flames exploded from his palms, racing along the weapon's length, turning it into molten metal in seconds. Vaelle didn't hesitate—his body disintegrated into smoke, slipping through Lucien's grip like an illusion before materializing behind him, already mid-strike.
Lucien barely twisted in time, parrying with his revolver, the gun's reinforced barrel colliding with the scythe's poisoned edge, sending sparks cascading across the cabin. The train groaned violently, windows shattering from the pressure as the sheer force of their attacks warped the very air around them.
Then Vaelle moved.
His scythe spun like a clockwork executioner's axe, sweeping in a rapid, intricate sequence of cut-thrust-twist-slash, his every motion fluid and mercilessly precise. Lucien dodged and countered in kind, his fists punching and detonating with each impact as he was hitting the scythes blade, the red flames bursting from his strikes carving through steel walls like butter.
A half-second opening—Vaelle seized it.
He slammed his knee into Lucien's ribs, sending him rocketing through a metal door, shattering it in a fiery explosion of torn steel and embers. Lucien skidded across the next train car, rolling into a crouch just as Vaelle emerged through the smoke, his scythe now split into two curved blades, dripping with corrosive, seething emerald venom.
Lucien vaulted off the floor, spinning mid-air, his heel crashing down like a meteor, red energy flaring outward in a concussive shockwave. Vaelle caught the strike on his crossed blades, but the force sent him skidding backward, his boots tearing trenches into the iron flooring.
Lucien charged, closing the gap instantly, throwing a barrage of feral, explosive punches. His fists connected with the air like cannon fire, and for every blow Vaelle parried, another slipped through—shattering ribs, crushing bone, igniting flesh.
"Yes..more!" Vaelle exclaimed as he was taking a heavy beating from Lucien's punches.
But Vaelle was unrelenting, countering with blindingly fast retaliations, his blades carving precise, poisoned lacerations into Lucien's arms and torso, the toxins sizzling on contact.
Their wounds healed almost instantly, flesh reknitting, but the agony was constant, endless.
Vaelle ducked low, pivoting on one foot, his coat billowing like a phantom's shroud as he slashed upward. His twin blades screamed through the air, Lucien bent backward, nearly horizontal, dodging by the width of a breath before snapping forward with a brutal headbutt, sending Vaelle crashing through the train's ceiling—
Lucien pursued instantly, launching himself through the wreckage, the two of them now brawling atop the roaring train, the wind howling as they exchanged an unrelenting hurricane of attacks.
Lucien said, "Haha! I'm glad you're here to keep me entertained! My mind was running rampant!"
"Same here, rival!"
Vaelle moved with inhuman elegance, his form shifting between solid and ethereal, his poisoned blades extending and retracting like they had a life of their own. He vaulted over Lucien's sweep kick, landed on his hands, and used the momentum to twist his entire body into a spinning aerial slash—
Lucien caught his leg mid-spin, slammed him down, and fired his revolver directly against Vaelle's mask.
The bullet detonated in an eruption of red lightning and red fire, tearing the air apart—but Vaelle's form shattered into poisonous smoke, reappearing behind Lucien in a dart of movement, his scythe reforming into a massive glaive, already mid-strike.
Lucien barely spun to block, his forearm erupting in red energy, catching the blade as it sank halfway into his bone. He snarled through the pain and smiled, his other hand igniting as he punched Vaelle point-blank in the ribs, sending him hurtling down the length of the train like a meteor.
Vaelle caught himself last second, using his glaive to impale the roof, stopping his momentum. He wrenched it free, spun it like a bladed hurricane, and then—
He disappeared.
Lucien's instincts screamed.
He dove to the side, narrowly avoiding a black and green spike of pure venom that erupted from where he had been standing. More spikes followed, piercing through the train like spears, the poison sizzling as it melted through iron like acid through paper.
Lucien somersaulted through the chaos, dodging, twisting, vaulting, his every movement an imperfect pattern, a messy counter to the ever-shifting battlefield. Then he saw it—Vaelle moving through the poison, his form flickering between solid and liquid, his very existence flowing like a specter through his own attacks.
Lucien roared with amusement on his face. "It's always the ones with the shitty tricky Soul Alchemy that is the most fun and annoying!"
"You too!" Vaelle roared back.
He could play that game too.
He planted his hand on the train's roof, red energy igniting along the entire surface. In an instant, the entire train became his weapon.
Vaelle went ahead to attack—but the train itself roared to life, red flames surging from every panel, twisting and morphing into whip-like tendrils of molten iron. The metal coiled, surged, and slammed into Vaelle with the force of an explosion, launching him skyward. Vaelle parried and slashed some apart with his hissing poisonous blades, but was caught by some.
'Whatever he touches…he can make it his weapon of chaos?!' Vaelle thought. 'That's not Soul Alchemy..! Where did he get this power from? This has gotten even more exciting!'
Lucien pursued in an instant, spinning through the air, meeting Vaelle mid-fall with an earth-shattering punch, his fist detonating against Vaelle's ribs, sending him hurtling back down like a meteorite.
They crashed through the train's roof, smashing through multiple cabins, tearing through iron walls and glass windows, slamming through seats, doors, and cargo like wrecking balls.
And then—
The train hit a sharp turn.
The momentum ripped them from the wreckage, hurling them out of the train, into the abyss of the storming sky.
Falling
Lucien twisted midair, Vaelle already snapping his weapons back into place, the two of them falling, spinning, closing the gap for one final strike—
And down below..
The Infernal Coliseum roared with life, its towering iron-and-brass walls vibrating from the sheer force of thousands of voices. Gas lamps flickered from massive wrought-iron fixtures, casting the oval racetrack in an eerie golden glow. Steam hissed from underground vents, the scent of burning oil and damp metal thick in the air. This was the heart of Drakehelm underground thrill—
The Iron Stampede.
A death-defying, lawless race where only the most daring—or most suicidal—competed. Riders atop steel horses, machines of polished brass and alchemic engines, lined up at the starting platform. Each mechanical steed was a masterpiece of raw power and reckless innovation, their limbs sculpted to resemble horse-like frames, their internal furnaces roaring with untamed energy. Smoke curled from their exhaust ports, and their metallic hooves sparked against the cobblestone as they pawed at the ground in restless anticipation.
The grandstands, packed with aristocrats, crime lords, merchants, and drunkards, buzzed with chaotic energy.
"Fifty gold on Red Gale!" a man in a plumed hat bellowed, slamming his bet onto a wrought-iron counter, where bookkeepers scribbled numbers with lightning-fast precision.
"You're mad! The Hellfire Mare's gonna take this one!" a woman in an extravagant scarlet corset argued, pointing down at the track, where a sleek black steel horse, etched with hellish engravings, snorted out a burst of crimson steam.
Closer to the pit, mechanics and alchemists scrambled around the competitors, making last-minute calibrations to their arcane-fueled engines. Sparks showered as one of them wrenched a valve open, checking the pressure in the core of a massive, six-legged steed nicknamed Iron Revenant.
"Oi! Your stabilizer's acting up! If it overheats again, you'll be scrap by the second lap!" one of the pit workers warned.
The racer, a tattooed brute with alchemic circuits burned into his skin, spat onto the track. "That's the point."
Up in the VIP booths, nobles clinked their gold-rimmed glasses, indulging in black honey wine and placing outrageous wagers. One of them, a lord draped in gilded furs, smirked as he leaned over to his Inquisition bodyguard.
"I hear three of the riders are exiled Tarot—worshippers. This should be quite the show."
His guard merely grunted, arms crossed.
A mechanical whistle screeched, signaling the final countdown.
Ten. The horses reared, their engines howling.
Nine. The crowd leaned forward, anticipation thick in the air.
Eight. Riders adjusted their goggles, gripping their reins with white-knuckled determination.
Seven. The starting pistons engaged, gears clicking into place.
Six. The announcer's voice rang out, reverberating through the coliseum.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight's IRON STAMPEDE!"
Five. The racers lowered their torsos, bodies aligned with their machines.
Four. The front gates unlocked, mechanisms whirring.
Three. The audience held their breath.
Two. The world froze.
One.
The gunshot cracked through the sky; an ear wrenching, deafening explosion of motion followed.
The steel horses tore forward, kicking up sparks and dust as they shot down the track in a blur of molten brass and crimson fire. Exhaust trails billowed behind them, some leaving streaks of white-hot plasma, others sparks of alchemic blue.
The first turn came in fast—far too fast for the untrained. The leading racer, Hellfire Mare's rider, yanked hard on the reins, forcing his steed into a near-impossible sideways drift, its hooves grinding against the stone, sending a hailstorm of molten debris into the air.
Behind him, Iron Revenant surged forward, its hydraulic limbs extending, vaulting over the competitors ahead like a lunging predator.
A lesser racer hesitated. A mistake.
The moment's hesitation allowed Red Gale to intercept, its rider twisting the reins, sending a controlled burst of fire from the horse's exhaust, scorching the nearest opponent's machine in an instant.
The poor fool's steel horse collapsed mid-stride, its internal mechanisms melting into slag, and the crowd erupted in cheers and screams.
"That bastard just torched Black Vulture!"
"This is madness!"
"This is BLOODY BRILLIANT!"
The racers entered the second lap, the gaps between them narrowing, their steel titans clashing against one another, hooves sparking violently as they jostled for position. Two racers locked arms, grappling atop their mounts in a desperate bid to throw the other off—
Then someone screamed.
A new kind of scream.
"LOOK! UP THERE!"
Heads snapped toward the sky.
Two figures were plummeting from the heavens, their bodies silhouettes against the coliseum lights. The sight alone sent a ripple of panic through the audience, but the terror magnified when they realized—
They weren't just falling.
They were fighting.
Lucien and Vaelle collided mid-air, fists shattering the wind itself, their forms wreathed in crimson fire and poisonous mist. Their impact sent sonic booms rolling across the city, the shockwaves rattling the entire coliseum.
"By the gods…" someone whispered.
Then—
THOOOOM.
The ground split open upon impact.
A fiery explosion engulfed the racetrack, debris and flaming embers raining down like a meteor storm. The shockwave sent racers spiraling out of control, their mechanical steeds toppling like dominos, some erupting into flames, others crashing through the barricades.
The audience erupted into chaos.
Some screamed and ran, pushing past each other in a desperate bid for safety. Others, too entranced by the spectacle, merely stood frozen, eyes locked on the smoldering crater. Some riders even blamed each other for thinking they were trying to sabotage the race to win.
"You bastard! You think cheating is gonna get you anywhere?! That silver will be mine!"
Another rider replied, "Huh?! That's not me!"
The dust began to settle.
And through the rising veil of smoke—two figures remained.
Lucien's hand was buried through Vaelle's chest, fingers clutching his still-beating heart, red energy crackling violently. And the red flaming spectral clone of Lucien's hand was also stabbed through Vaelle's chest. But Vaelle's scythe was buried through Lucien's face, its poisoned edge lodged deep into his skull, venom sizzling against his flesh, the tip of the blade gouging out of the back of Lucien's head.
Neither moved.
Neither fell.
And then—they began to regenerate.
Slowly. Horrifically. Their wounds mended before the crowd's very eyes.
"They're still alive…" Someone pointed out in shock, too interested but scared to just run away like some others.
The words spread like wildfire. Some watched in awe, mesmerized. Others saw monsters where men should have been, their fear turning to sheer panic.
And panic was contagious.
A single bolt of gunfire rang out—then more.
The first shot came from a terrified guard. More followed.
The crowd erupted in chaos.
Lucien, ignoring the turmoil, slowly pulled his head free from the scythe, his skull snapping back into place, bones knitting as if he had never been wounded at all. He spat out blood, rolling his neck with a lazy grin.
"That was fun."
Vaelle exhaled, yanking Lucien's hand from his chest, the hole closing before the final drop of blood could even hit the ground.
They locked eyes.
Vaelle chuckled, flexing his fingers. "This…" He inhaled sharply, his voice thrumming with exhilaration. "This is the most fun I've had since our last fight."
Lucien scowled. "Are you just gonna follow me around forever, popping up out of nowhere I take it?"
Vaelle tilted his head, his glowing lenses flickering. "Some things never change, rival. So you know the answer to that question."
Both men stood bloodied but unbowed, steam rising from their regenerating wounds.
Vaelle took a slow breath, rolling his shoulders, stretching out the tension in his limbs. Then, he exhaled.
His body relaxed. His stance settled.
The fire was gone.
The thrill was gone.
Lucien watched as the shift in Vaelle's presence became palpable. There was no exhilaration now, no lingering echoes of battle's high. No sly remarks, no amusement. Just calm. Just normal.
That contrast—it never got old.
Vaelle adjusted his coat, rolling his sore wrist. His voice, level and controlled, broke the silence.
"You're still hard to kill."
Lucien, still catching his breath, gave a slow nod. "So are you. Leave the Chapel and come work for me as my slave."
"No."
"Eh. Worth a shot."
They stood there for a moment, the smoke curling around them, the distant shouts of frantic civilians fading into irrelevance. The blood between them was already gone, their bodies mending, erasing all evidence of what had just happened—except for the wreckage around them.
Lucien exhaled, dragging a hand through his tangled, blood-matted hair.
"Guess nothing's changed," he muttered.
Vaelle's head tilted slightly. "Not much."
There was a long silence.
Lucien's gaze flicked up. "It's strange," he said after a pause. "When we fight, you act like it's the best thing in the world. Then it's over, and you act like it never happened."
Vaelle's expression didn't shift. "That's how it is."
Lucien looked down at his hands, flexing them, feeling the faint echoes of battle still burning under his skin. He let out a slow "Hey..you heard of a girl named Sel—."
"Sella Varcosta. The Exarch's highly esteemed prodigy. Whom everyone in the family despises due to her connection with him. They will try and kill her."
"Kill her? Am I missing something? You guys can't kill each other. It's against—."
"Not anymore. Ever since you became the target, the Exarch has ordered that assassins may kill one another if they get in the way of them trying to take your head."
"…Does she know that?"
"She is well aware. And so am I."
With that, he turned, stepping over the wreckage, walking away with measured, deliberate steps.
"I'll see you again, Bloodhound," he said over his shoulder. "And we'll do this again."
Lucien exhaled. "Yeah," he muttered. "I know. Keeps me on my toes."
"Hm."
Then—a familiar weight on Lucien's shoulder.
Lucien stiffened.
Torch, his ever-present black cat with burning golden eyes, had reappeared, tail flicking lazily.
Lucien narrowed his eyes, grabbed the cat by the scruff of his neck—
And threw him.
Torch twisted mid-air, landing with perfect grace on a broken crate a few feet away.
A second later, he was back on Lucien's shoulder.
Lucien sighed, rubbing his temple.
"…Of course."
Torch ran back to Lucien, and hopped on his shoulder, and Lucien rolled his eyes, and just started walking, saying, "Let's go then, rat."
'Exarch's changing shit up every second. Rules being broken and rebuilt into something new. The fact that he'll allow his own brotherhood to slaughter each other to get to me is insanity. And Sella still has the nerve to tell me she isn't being manipulated. What's really going on in her head? She's not dumb, by far. What is it?'