Even before the caravan rolled out of the trade town, Lucian had doubts.
Six guards for a six-wagon convoy? That was normal — on paper. But the way they moved…
Too synchronized.
Their postures were rigid. Eyes forward. No chatter. No shift in authority or routine. No formation discipline either — no lead scout, no flank watchers, no check-ins at departure. They rode like soldiers following orders they didn't want to explain.
And the wagons?
Lucian had passed them during loading. He glanced at the inside bolts out of habit — the kind of detail most overlooked. Most were bent or worn down. But a few? A few had been smashed — from the inside.
He remembered the way one latch hung off its hinge, still splintered from a recent break.
No trader does that to their own lock.
He had whispered to himself, low, cold, certain:
"These wagons weren't meant to keep people out. They were prepped to keep people in."
His stomach had turned. But it was already too late.
Now, in the fog-choked forest, it began.
From the rear, the masked bandits poured in — lean, fast, and silent. One slammed his boot into the last wagon's side. The door cracked open.
A voice — sharp, unbothered — barked:
"Everyone out. NOW."
The guards didn't flinch.
Not a hand moved toward a blade. Not a single step forward.
Lucian watched, stunned, as a trader pushed back.
"This is robbery! We paid for safe—"
The blade entered his gut mid-sentence.
No flourish. No warning.
Just a dull, wet impact. The man crumpled. Blood soaked the leaves.
That was the moment the panic broke.
Screams. Shouts. Chaos.
People were dragged from the wagons like sacks of grain — kicked, shoved, slapped down to their knees in a crooked line beside the road. Lucian felt a hand slam into his back.
He stumbled out. His sword dropped at the wagon entrance.
A bandit grabbed him, pressed a knife against the nape of his neck.
"Try anything, boy. I'll carve that tongue first."
Lucian's mind spiraled.
He could feel his mana now — flaring, like it wanted to fight. He could taste the edges of Mana Bolt at the back of his throat. His hands twitched — maybe Levitate, maybe a burst of kinetic force.
He could do something.
But then he looked around.
A toddler clung to her mother's skirt, too stunned to even cry.
The stabbed trader was still twitching, gurgling in the dirt.
And one of the guards — a guard — knelt beside a satchel, calmly shaking it for coins. He passed a small pouch to a bandit with a casual nod.
Like this was routine.
And that's when Lucian realized:
This wasn't random.
This was planned.
A sound of boots in rhythm. A tall figure stepped forward — black leather coat, hood shadowing his face.
The leader.
"You give us your coin. Your jewels. Your heirlooms."
His voice was smooth, even polite.
"And you get to keep your tongues. Maybe even your lives."
He turned his head — slowly — toward the man dying in the dirt.
"Refuse… and you've seen how that ends."
A silence. Stretched. Smothering.
Then, a sob — an old woman removed her bangles, trembling as she dropped them into the mud. Another followed, shaking as he opened his coin pouch.
But then—
A younger merchant stepped forward. Shoulders stiff. Face pale but proud.
"I'll die before I hand my life's work to filth like you."
A pause.
Even the fog held its breath.
The leader sighed — long, slow. A theater actor, disappointed by the line.
Then he gestured.
Two bandits stepped forward, gripped the man by both arms.
A third drew a blade across his throat like slicing parchment.
The spray hit the dirt in a clean arc. The body fell limp.
Lucian was shaking.
His hands gripped the grass like it might anchor him. His breath came fast, shallow. Panic beat like a war drum in his chest. He had killed before, yes. But it was a beast, killed fir the purpose of food. To end another human with thoughts, dreams, maybe a family to return to in just the blink of an eye...felt very terrifying.
He wanted to cast. To act.
His mana was there — hot, violent, begging to be shaped.
But he knew—
One wrong move here and he'd catch a blade in the back. Or worse — they would kill all of them. The toddler. Everyone.
This wasn't a duel.
This wasn't training.
This was death.
So he forced the fear down. Bit by bit. Breath by breath. His eyes flicked left. Right. Mapping. Counting. Watching who was distracted. Which edges weren't guarded. Who had drawn steel — and who hadn't.
He thought.
He adapted.
"They're organized. Fast. But they're not watching the perimeter."
They're not using magic.
I have tools they don't.
But if he acted too soon…
Everyone would die.
He lowered his head.
Waited.
Planned.
He was afraid. Truly afraid.
But beneath that fear — something sparked.
Not instinct.
Not desperation.
Fire.
This wasn't just about surviving anymore.
This was about stopping something evil — from inside the belly of it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Lucian knelt in the dirt.
Blood. Moss. Rusted metal. The scent clogged his lungs.
The bandit behind him stood lazy — blade drawn, half-focused. Eyes forward. Watching the "fun" up front.
Lucian tilted his head. Quick glance.
The other passengers — same as him. Kneeling. Heads down. From all six wagons. Herded. Helpless.
A bonfire crackled by the roadside. Orange light licking the fog.
Then—
"You touch me, and my brothers from the Hollow Fangs will tear your intestines out by sunrise!"
The shout came from up front. Loud. Defiant.
A beat of silence.
Then confusion.
The guards-turned-traitors paused. Looked at each other. Whispers. Hesitation.
"Who the hell—?" the bandit leader barked.
Tension snapped.
Shouting. Accusations. A dagger drawn. Bandits yelling over each other. Shoving. Swearing. The threat might've been a bluff—but it worked.
One bandit stayed behind.
The one watching Lucian.
Distracted now. Arms slack. Eyes forward.
Lucian felt it — mana, coiled under skin. Quiet. Controlled.
Like a second heartbeat.
Sensory Drift. Show me the blade
A pulse.
Blue flicker. Back in the rear wagon. Under hay.
His sword. Still there. Still faintly resonating.
Lucian pressed his palm to the dirt. Whispered. Minor Levitation.
A pebble behind the bandit lifted. Floated. Dropped.
Clack.
The man jerked.
"The hell was that?"
He turned. Took three steps toward the noise.
Lucian moved.
Up from the ground. Low. Back still hunched.
No one saw. No one moved. Too scared.
Lucian crawled to the wagon. Slid under the tarp.
Fingers groping—wood. Rope. Grain. Then—
Cold steel.
Handle.
He wrapped it in his cloak. Drew it slow. Quiet. Metal against cloth.
The bandit turned back.
Saw him.
"Oi—what do you think you're—"
He never finished.
Lucian lunged.
Not wild. Not angry.
Precise.
The blade slipped under the ribs. Armor gap.
The man gasped. Eyes wide. Hand reached—
Lucian twisted. Pulled back.
Soft grunt.
The body collapsed.
Lucian caught him. Lowered him. Silent.
Breath heaving. Hands trembling.
First real kill.
No fear. Just calm.
Like something necessary.
No time to think.
He turned.
The traders stared — frozen.
Erza's eyes locked on him. Bruised. Wide.
"How…?"
"Quiet," he whispered. "They'll be back soon."
His eyes scanned fast.
Loot piled near the fire. Torches stuck in the mud. Oxen tied. Wagons angled tight.
He wasn't going to fight all of them.
He was going to break their rhythm.
Split them. Misdirect. Bleed their control.
The wolf had drawn first blood.
Lucian had:
A sword.
His mana.
And a mind sharp enough to cut steel.
He was just getting started.