Erza's heart had not stopped pounding since he left.
The charming young master — Lucian — had run off into the woods, dragging half the devils with him.
And now… only four were left behind. Three bandits, and the one they all listened to, the leader— the tall man with the black hood and mean, squinting eyes.
The guards were not threatening anymore. Not really.
They just stood around like they didn't know what to do without orders.
It should have felt safer.
But it did not.
The fire crackled. The woods were quiet now. Too quiet.
A few merchants tried to pretend it was normal — hands folded, heads low — but no one believed it.
Some wept. Others prayed in whispers.
One old man just kept muttering "forgive us" over and over.
Erza… she just stared into the trees.
Where are you? Please, please don't be...
Then, she saw it. Flickers of blue light in the forest.
Like stars had fallen behind the leaves.
Then — screaming. Sharp. Fast. Stopped too suddenly.
And then… nothing again.
Her chest ached. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
She closed her eyes and mouthed a prayer. To the gods.
It was said that they were dead.
But maybe… just maybe, the dead still listened.
"Please… please be safe."
Across the fire, the bandit leader hadn't moved.
But she saw it.
A shimmer on his brow.
Sweat.
One of his men whispered behind him, nervous:
"You think the mage is dead, boss?"
The leader didn't turn.
"If he was, we would d have heard the cheering, fool."
Then…
something moved.
At the edge of the clearing, a figure stumbled out from the trees.
Cloaked. Blood-smeared.
Sword dragging across the dirt.
One leg limp. One arm hanging useless.
The firelight didn't reach his face.
Erza's breath caught. Her stomach dropped.
"...No."
That was a bandit...that means the young master...
It looked like a bandit.
Or maybe it was him.
It was too hard to tell. Too much shadow. Too much blood.
The figure dropped to one knee and wobbled.
"He… the mage… ngh—"
Then collapsed onto both hands.
The merchants stirred — some gasped, others leaned forward, squinting.
A younger bandit rushed over.
"I got him, boss — he looks messed up—"
Erza's eyes locked onto the sword the figure had. A pale, shortsword with a small hilt. One she had seen from the start of the journey. One the young master carried on his waist earlier.
It twitched, tense.
She saw it.
So did the bandit master.
"Wait—!"
Too late.
Lucian's eyes opened.
Steel grey.
Sharp as a butcher's knife.
He struck like lightning.
One quick pull. One stab.
Straight into the neck.
The bandit didn't even scream — just gurgled and fell.
Lucian calmly dropped the body by himself and stood up straight.
Calm. Cold. Unshaken.
The scent of blood filled the cold air.
The camp went real quiet.
Even the bonfire did not dare crackle too loud.
A guard took a step back. Another bandit turned and threw up right there.
Erza just stared in awe.
Couldn't even think.
That… that was him?
The boy she had sat beside? The one who smiled like the world didn't matter? The one who kept his sword on his lap like a kid scared of the dark?
That boy was gone. He was a wolf in sheep's clothing all along.
Lucian stepped forward. His cloak slipped off his shoulders.
His tunic was torn, soaked through.
Mana crackled faintly along his arm.
But it wasn't the magic that made them feel dread.
It was his face.
Calm as still water.
But his eyes?
They were furious in a quiet, cold way she did not know how to name.
He looked across the fire at the bandit leader.
His voice was low. Barely above the wind.
"You asked where the mage is."
He opened his arms just a little.
Not showy. Not proud. Just… sure.
"He's here now."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The clearing buzzed with chaos and silence.
Two bandits still stood. The rest — dead, fled, or forgotten.
The guards?
Frozen.
Confused.
Ashamed.
Lucian's boots crunched softly against dirt and gravel as he stepped forward. Fire crackled at his side. The blood on his cloak steamed faintly in the chill.
The bandit leader hadn't moved yet — still reeling from the image of one boy tearing down five men.
His storm grey eyes glanced at the guards
"You call yourselves guards," Lucian said, voice calm, low, deadly clear.
"You stood there while they beat unarmed people. You let them drag a child from her mother. You let them stab a man just for speaking."
Silence.
Even the flames leaned in to listen.
"You weren't protecting us. You were protecting your place in their world."
One guard dropped his sword. It hit the ground with a soft, final thud. Another knelt, shame written across his face.
Lucian turned — his voice now carrying, not yelling, but heavy with weight.
"And you," he said, eyes sweeping across the kneeling merchants, "You think you're powerless. You're not."
They stared back — uncertain, wide-eyed, holding their breath.
"They fear me because I wield magic. But what they should really fear—"
He raised a hand.
"—is what happens when people like you stop kneeling."
And something sparked. Not hope— not yet — but something older.
Fire.
A man rose to his feet, fists clenched. Another followed.
Then another.
They weren't fighters — just tired, angry people who had had enough.
One bandit panicked and turned tail, sprinting into the woods.
A few men chased him without thinking.
Another tried to follow—only to be cut down by the bandit leader himself.
Steel flashed. Blood spilled.
"Traitor," the man growled. Just like that, he stood alone.
He didn't shout.
He howled.
Mana poured from him like smoke from a furnace. Hot. Wild. Hungry.
Lucian staggered back as the pressure slammed into the clearing.
The bandit's blade glowed red, thin cracks of raw power running along the steel. Lucian was a novice in the martial world, but this guy...
He was Warrior Rank.
The crowd parted around him in fear, but Lucian… didn't move.
He watched. Waited.
Let the fire build in his lungs.
He's stronger than me. But not smarter. Not better. Just louder.
The bandit stomped forward.
"You think tricks and sparks make you strong, boy? I'm Borgan! The Iron Wolf of these woods! I've butchered men for less than a glance"
Lucian lifted his sword just in time to block the swing.
Steel slammed against steel.
CRACK.
Pain rattled through his bones. His arms shook. His boots slid back across dirt.
But he held.
And then—
"You talk too much."
Borgan pushed harder, spitting rage.
"You think power makes you a king?" Lucian growled.
"I've met nobles who thought the same. Treated me like trash because they had a name. Because they were jealous of something they couldn't own."
Lucian's free hand lifted — palm open.
Telekinesis surged, unseen force pushing Borgan's blade sideways.
The bandit grunted, struggling.
Lucian stared into his eyes.
"You're no wolf. You're a weed. A thing that grows by choking out everything else."
A swirl of mana ignited at Lucian's wrist.
A spell circle formed at the tip of his blade — glowing red-orange, sigils burning.
"And if that's what you are…"
Lucian's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Then I'll burn down everything you stand for."
He stabbed the blade forward, deep into Borgan's chest.
"[Ignis]."
BOOM.
A bonfire fuelled by rage erupted inside the man.
Light poured from the cracks in his armor. His scream tore through the trees. Mana buckled around him — his aura shattered — and then he collapsed, a burning husk still twitching, smoking, destroyed.
---
Lucian stood over the corpse, chest rising. Falling.
His hands trembled — not from fear — from how much it cost.
His mana was gone. His legs barely worked.
He turned to the crowd.
Wide eyes.
Tears.
Awe.
One merchant dropped to their knees, not in fear — in reverence.
Lucian smiled, crooked and tired.
"So… how long till Drea—"
And dropped.
Face-first into dirt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They rushed to him. Others followed, carefully lifting the young mage into the wagon.
He didn't wake.
Didn't hear the voices.
But the people spoke.
"He saved us." "Who is he?" "Did you see the fire? Gods…"
The guards couldn't look anyone in the eye.
The merchants gathered what little was left of their dignity, their coin, their strength.
And as the wagons rolled on through the sleeping woods — bound for Drea…
Whispers flew ahead of them.
Faster than horses.
Faster than fire.
Word of a boy mage.
Word of rebellion.
Word of a spark that lit the night.
Unbeknownst to him, whispers of a hero flew like the wind through the town of Drea.