CHAPTER 60 - Lucien

  Overlooking the Empire’s wall, one could normally see verdant, rolling hills—fields of flowers swaying in the breeze, orchards heavy with ripe fruit, and glimmering rivers winding through the land like silver threads.

  From atop those battlements, some even swore they had glimpsed paradise itself. It was in moments like these that one finally understood why heroes in those old fantasy tales existed. Why did the main characters of those stories hurl themselves into the jaws of war? Why did they stand firm between peace and ruin?

  Everyone understood the reason. Many believed they had the will to be a hero.

  But very, very few had the capability.

  Lucien D’Roselle had always possessed the capability. The will? Absolutely not. Why risk your neck for grand ideals when life offered warm meals, cold beers, and beautiful women?

  But now—he no longer had a choice.

  Lucien stood atop the Empire’s wall, staring out at the kingdom he had once romanticized. He did not see lush hills or blossoming orchards.

  He saw gray.

  A barren, ashen waste stretched to the horizon. Smoke curled along the ground like hungry black serpents. Ash drifted down upon the battlements in soft, mocking flakes. The paradise others swore existed beyond these walls? Lucien couldn’t see a single trace of it.

  What a drag… Lucien thought, the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders.

  Why was he being dragged into all of this mess? One moment he’d been flirting with a pretty girl and planning which tavern to charm next—and the very next breath, he was apparently the final line of defense for the entire Empire.

  “Lucien!” a voice bellowed from the courtyard below. “You’re being summoned!”

  He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his nose. Of course he was. Of course, someone, somewhere, had decided that he, out of all the actually responsible people in Velhraine, needed to save the day.

  “Fantastic,” he muttered. “Can’t wait.”

  He pushed himself off the stone with all the enthusiasm of a cat being told to take a bath. Lucien dragged his feet all the way to headquarters, every step heavier than his mood. Inside, he was greeted by one of the leading faces of the resistance.

  Raven-black hair. Steely blue eyes. A beauty sharp enough to cut stone.

  Absolutely, undeniably Lucien’s type. And yet—he felt no lust whatsoever. He knew her far too well for that. He would sooner castrate himself than get involved with Elaine Avery. That would be a far kinder fate than whatever storm followed in her wake.

  “Glad you finally joined us,” Elaine said. She was leaning over a tactical table, her expression unreadable.

  Lucien forced a smile that couldn't even pretend to be sincere. “I’m thrilled to be here, Elaine. Really. My joy is overflowing.”

  Elaine raised an eyebrow. She knew exactly how much he wanted to run away and pretend the world wasn't ending. Lucien dragged a chair across the stone floor, deliberately making it screech like a dying boar—his quiet, petty form of protest.

  Why was he here? He knew why. He was boxed in. If he didn't stick with this group of lunatics, he’d perish just like the others.

  “Status report,” Elaine commanded.

  A nervous-looking man rushed forward. “Z–Zack Bellmont reporting for duty!”

  “Well?” Elaine prompted.

  Zack swallowed, adjusting his glasses. “The surviving scouts have returned, ma’am. They report that Ashborne will arrive in ten thousand paces. An hour at most.”

  Lucien froze. An hour? Ashborne could cross that distance in seconds. If the monster wasn't here yet, it was because he didn't want to be. He wanted them to marinate in their own dread.

  “He’s dragging his feet,” Elaine noted. “He intends to make the Empire panic before he strikes.”

  Same conclusion, Lucien thought. Wonderful. Love that I’m mentally aligned with the crazy lady.

  He lifted one hand half-heartedly. “I have a question. Where the hell is Teacher?”

  “He should be out 'messing around,'” Elaine said, as if discussing a mildly troublesome pet. “You know how he is. No one can control him when he gets like that.”

  Lucien groaned. He knew exactly what she meant. The strongest man in the Empire was likely off doing something entirely unproductive while the world burned.

  “Besides,” Elaine added, “he’ll get here in time.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  Elaine smiled faintly—a look that made Lucien’s skin crawl. “It’s a matter of faith.”

  “Faith. Great. Brilliant.” Lucien pressed a palm to his face.

  The Empire’s forces had already been torn apart. People far stronger than Lucien had fallen—some bravely, some pathetically. And now here he was, staring down the same nightmare alone. Why? Because the stronger cowards had run away, and his Teacher was off "messing around."

  “So… what’s the plan?” Lucien asked, hoping for a miracle.

  Elaine glanced at him. “There is no plan. We hold the line here and use whatever resources we have to stop that monster from advancing.”

  Lucien stared at her. “No plan? You always have a plan. You have backup plans for your backup plans. Where are the flowcharts? The contingencies?”

  Elaine shrugged lightly. “Even the smartest person can’t build miracles when they’re pressed for time. So”—she smiled, almost cheerfully—“we’ll just have to rely on brute force.”

  Brute force. Coming from her, that was the most terrifying thing he’d heard all day.

  Everyone else in the room had tremors in their hands. Their voices were tight with the knowledge that the end was close. Meanwhile, Elaine sat there with the serenity of someone enjoying a pleasant afternoon tea.

  Lucien narrowed his eyes. There was no way this woman didn’t have an ace in the hole.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Elaine said, waving a hand with a dismissive elegance that made Lucien’s teeth ache. “Really, Lucien, we just have to keep trying again and again until we succeed.”

  Lucien stared at her as if she’d grown a second head. He let out a sharp, jagged scoff. “There are no other chances, Elaine. No retries. No checkpoints. It’s now or never.”

  Elaine only tilted her head, unbothered. Her expression didn’t even flicker.

  Lucien ran a hand through his hair, utterly baffled. He truly could not fathom this woman—this impossible, infuriating, fearless creature—who talked about retrying against an Empire-ending monster as if they were practicing dance steps for a gala. How could she be so calm when the very fabric of the world was unraveling? He didn't know. But he was almost certain that if anyone survived this nightmare, it would be Elaine Avery... dragging the rest of them along by their collars, whether they wanted to live or not.

  “R-Report!”

  Zack burst into the room, his panic so profound he practically tripped over the threshold. “Ashborne has arrived! He’s at the gate!”

  Lucien groaned. So much for that hour of peace. He pushed himself to his feet, his joints feeling heavier than the steel he wore. Around him, the others rose. Their faces were pale, their hands trembling, but they stood.

  Lucien exhaled through his nose, a final sense of resignation settling into his marrow. What a drag.

  He stood outside the great wall moments later, staring into the gray wasteland beyond. He wondered—truly wondered—how everything had spiraled into this. It wasn’t a single event. It was a thousand tiny disasters, stacked on top of each other until they formed the perfect, magnificent shitstorm now bearing down on the Empire.

  Great job, Elaine, he thought bitterly. You really nailed it this time.

  Then, the smoke began to rise.

  It didn't drift; it crawled. It rolled across the ground in thick, oily coils, swallowing the world in a gray, suffocating shroud.

  He’s coming.

  The smoke thickened... and then parted. A silhouette stepped through the haze. At first, it looked almost inhuman—a figure plated in strange black armor, smooth and organic, like metal that had been grown in a lab rather than forged in a fire. None of them had ever seen anything like it. It was alien. It was wrong.

  At the figure’s hip hung a thin, single-edged sword. A katana, Ray had called it once. Lucien rolled his eyes at the memory. Even at the end of the world, Ray kept his weird naming sense.

  The figure kept walking, slow, deliberate steps echoing in the unnatural hush. The smoke peeled away from him as if afraid to touch the plating.

  Then he came fully into view. Ray Melborne.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this, Ray,” Lucien said, stepping forward despite every instinct in his body screaming for him to bolt. “You don’t have to go through with this massacre.”

  Ray’s helm tilted slightly, the black armor creaking with a sound like grinding bone.

  “But I do,” he answered, his voice filtered through the helm into a calm, melodic chill. “You stand before me... protecting a false king. Protecting a broken code.”

  “I’m not protecting the King, Ray,” Lucien replied, his hand hovering near his own blade. “I’m protecting the people.”

  Ray snorted—a harsh, metallic sound. “People? Lucien, look at them. They’re just useless NPCs. Background noise in a failed simulation.”

  Lucien blinked. There he went again. The same nonsense he’d spouted since the day they met. NPC. Lucien didn't know the word, but he knew the intent. Whatever world Ray thought he was living in... it wasn't this one.

  “Ray... we can talk about this,” Lucien said, raising his palms in a slow, calming gesture. He was treating him like a wild animal, or a blade on the verge of snapping. “Just listen to me for a second—”

  “ENOUGH!” Ray roared.

  The sound cracked through the smoke like a thunderclap, the sheer force of the mana behind it making the nearby soldiers flinch.

  “I’ve had enough of talking!” Ray’s voice trembled with a fury that was raw, wounded, and festering. “I am sick of this world! I am sick of the 'rules' you all pretend to follow!”

  The ground vibrated beneath Lucien’s boots. The very air grew heavy, as if Ray’s hatred were a physical weight pressing on reality. Lucien swallowed hard. He wanted to reach out, to pull this man back from the ledge. But the look behind that visor—the burning, hollow rage—wasn't Ray anymore.

  「この世界に来たその日から――」 Kono sekai ni kita sono hi kara... (Since the day I arrived in this world...)

  Ray’s voice was low, vibrating with a metallic distortion through the helm that made the air feel static-charged.

  「俺は英雄になれると思っていた。困っている者を救い、正義をもたらす存在になれると……本気で信じていた。」 Ore wa eiyū ni nareru to omotte ita. Komatte iru mono o sukui, seigi o motarasu sonzai ni nareru to… honki de shinjite ita. (I thought I could become a hero. Someone who saves those in need. Someone who brings justice... I truly believed that.)

  Lucien tightened his grip on his weapon, his knuckles white. The atmosphere had shifted—the raw fury from moments ago had crystallized into something calm, steady, and infinitely more dangerous.

  「だが現実はどうだ？」 Daga genjitsu wa dō da? (But reality? What was the reality?)

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  Ray took a step forward, the black, organic plates of his armor shifting with a sound like wet grinding stone.

  「悪意。陰謀。あの腐った王子のくだらねぇ政治。玉座で朽ち果てる偽りの王。どこへ行っても、この世界は俺を嘲り、唾を吐きかけた。」 Akui. Inbō. Ano kusatta ōji no kudaranē seiji. Gyokuzā de kuchihateru itsuwari no ō. Doko e itte mo, kono sekai wa ore o azawari, tsuba o hakikaketa. (Malice. Schemes. That damned prince and his petty politics. That false king rotting on his throne. Everywhere I turned, this world mocked me. It spat in my face.)

  The smoke curled around his legs, moving with a predatory intent, as if it were an extension of his own nervous system.

  「この世界は、ただ俺を拒み続けただけだ。」 Kono sekai wa, tada ore o kobami tsuzuketa dake da. (This world has done nothing but reject me.)

  Lucien felt a cold, crushing pressure in his chest. This wasn’t the Ray he knew—the boy who struggled with his power in the sewers, the one who worried about his sister. This was a man who had looked at the "Source Code" of the world and found it wanting.

  「――だがな。」 ...Daga na. (But...)

  The armored figure raised his head, the slit in his visor glowing with an unholy, flickering light.

  「ここからすべてが変わる。」 Koko kara subete ga kawaru. (From here, everything changes.)

  The air around him trembled, a low-frequency hum vibrating through the stone beneath Lucien’s boots. It felt like reality itself was bracing for an impact it couldn't sustain.

  「俺はもう、レイ?メルボルンとしてここに立っているわけじゃない。」 Ore wa mō, Rei Meruborun to shite koko ni tatte iru wake ja nai. (I no longer stand before you as Ray Melborne.)

  He threw his arms out, the smoke erupting into a towering shroud that blotted out the gray horizon.

  「ここに宣言する……俺の名は――タカハラ?ケンジだ！」 Koko ni sengen suru… ore no na wa—Takahara Kenji da! (I declare it here... my name is—Takahara Kenji!)

  Lucien’s stomach dropped into a bottomless void. Ray was speaking that strange, jagged language again.

  Then—he moved.

  Too fast.

  Lucien barely registered the motion before the armored figure spoke a single, clipped syllable:

  “Inventory.”

  Ray’s hands vanished into the empty air—reaching into a void where nothing should exist—and snapped back holding two strange metal devices. They were smooth, matte-black, and utterly alien. To Lucien, they didn't look like weapons; they looked like mistakes in the architecture of reality.

  Ray whispered:

  「黒煙……そして灰霞。」

  “Kokuen… to Haigasumi.”

  (Black Smoke & Ash Mist)

  Lucien had no idea what the words meant, but every instinct he possessed screamed danger. Ray raised the first device, pointing it skyward.

  A sharp click. A pulse.

  Suddenly, a massive sphere of black smoke erupted into existence high above the battlefield, swirling and expanding until it swallowed the sun, looming like a growing moon of darkness.

  Then Ray lifted the second device. His voice shifted—dropping into a low, resonant register that carried a divine, terrible authority.

  「煙灰流奥義?灰天万界」

  Enkairyū ōgi: Kaiten Bankai.

  (Smoke-Ash Style Secret Skill: Ten-Thousandfold Ash-Sky.)

  The world itself seemed to flinch. A small ash bullet—barely the size of a fingertip—streaked upward with impossible velocity. It struck the heart of the smoke sphere.

  Lucien’s blood ran cold. The sphere didn't burst outward; it collapsed inward and then rained down. Tens of thousands of smaller smoke orbs plummeted from the heavens like a storm of malignant, falling stars.

  “FORM THE BARRIER!” Elaine’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

  Lucien turned. The towers etched with ancient sigils ignited, white-hot light surging between them. Lines of power raced across the sky, weaving and converging into a massive, shimmering dome—an impenetrable shield forged of sigils, collective will, and raw desperation.

  The rain of smoke hammered against it.

  BANG—BANG—BANG—BANG—

  Each impact shuddered through the earth, a rhythmic drumming of doom. But the shield held. For a heartbeat, Lucien dared to hope.

  Then Ray spoke again. His voice was softer this time. Almost gentle.

  「煙灰流奥義?灰華乱舞」

  Enkairyū ōgi: Haika Ranbu.

  (Smoke-Ash Style Secret Skill: Dance of the Ash Blossoms.)

  All those falling smoke orbs suddenly unfolded. One by one, they blossomed into flowers—petals made of drifting ash, spiraling down in slow, haunting patterns. Thousands of gray blossoms floated through the air like a sorrowful snowfall. It would have been breathtakingly beautiful if it wasn’t so utterly final.

  Each ash-flower pulsed once—a quiet, eerie heartbeat. Ray—Kenji—lifted his hand.

  「散る」

  Chiru.

  (Scatter)

  Then it happened. Massive, concussive explosions rippled across the dome, yet there was no sound. Not a single one. The earth shook violently beneath Lucien's feet, but the world remained eerily silent, as if the ash had smothered the concept of sound itself.

  Cracks tore through the glowing dome. Hairline fractures spiderwebbed across the sky in an instant.

  SHATTER.

  The barrier fell apart like glass breaking underwater—silent, weightless, and hopeless. With it, the last of the Empire’s confidence disintegrated.

  Ray—Kenji—moved. A whisper of motion. A blur of black armor.

  「煙刃の居合」

  Enjin no Iai.

  (Smoke-Blade Draw.)

  Lucien reacted on pure instinct, throwing himself backward, his lungs burning. But his companions weren't as lucky. The smoke twisted into a blade-like arc, slicing through the front lines with surgical precision.

  No screams. No resistance. They died before their bodies even hit the ground, erased from existence as if they were nothing more than a line of code Ray had decided to delete.

  Lucien swallowed hard, the taste of ash in his mouth. My time has come. He was dead. Absolutely, unquestionably dead.

  Whack.

  Before Kenji could move, something slammed into the side of his helmet with a thunderous, bone-jarring impact. His head snapped to the side, the organic black armor ringing like a struck cathedral bell.

  Lucien blinked, stunned. A massive spiked club—a kanabō—had just crashed into Kenji’s skull. He recognized it instantly; it was one of Kenji’s own weapons from his bizarre, reality-bending arsenal. But this one looked like a rough, almost playful replica.

  The man holding it was laughing.

  He laughed as if this were a drunken bar fight and not the end of the world. He stood tall and loose-limbed, his light brown hair wild and untamed. His body was built like a coiled spring—muscular, elastic, and impossibly ready. Hazel eyes gleamed with warmth and madness in equal measure. It was a gaze that looked heroic at first glance... until you realized he was entirely too comfortable with the prospect of death.

  “Finally... Teacher,” Lucien whined, tears pricking his eyes. “What took you so damn long?”

  “Hahaha! Sorry, sorry!” Teacher cackled, resting the heavy club casually on his shoulder. “I was arguing with some fools and they wouldn’t let me be!”

  “What fools?” Lucien asked, though he already knew. His teacher was rambling again, losing himself in a tangent in the middle of the apocalypse.

  Teacher clapped Lucien on the back hard enough to rattle his ribs. “Well then, Lucien! Let’s do this. Life is precious, after all.”

  There it was. His signature line.

  Then—Lightning.

  Brilliant, blinding arcs of electricity tore across Teacher’s skin and raced into the scorched earth. The air vibrated under a sudden, crushing pressure.

  “Teacher... your vow—”

  “Forget the vow,” he said, his eyes locked on Kenji. His tone had gone from jovial to sharp enough to draw blood. “We have a serious threat to deal with.”

  Lucien stared in disbelief. His teacher had been obsessed with that vow. To cast it aside meant the situation was dire beyond imagination.

  “Teacher,” Lucien whispered, seeing the blue light intensify. “What vein have you activated?”

  Teacher grinned. “The seventh.”

  Before Lucien could scream a warning about the physical cost of the seventh vein, his teacher vanished in a flash of white light. His voice echoed from the center of the battlefield: “Let’s go!”

  They moved like twin dancing lightning blades, weaving through currents of electricity and arcs of falling ash. Every strike Teacher threw crackled with enough power to pulverize mountains. He was a natural-born fighting machine—possessing a savage, intuitive edge that even Kenji’s "Systems" couldn't fully calculate.

  But Kenji—Kenji was a god.

  The black armor absorbed blows that should have leveled cities. Kenji’s ash techniques split the lightning apart like wet paper. His sword flashed with a speed that transcended reflex, forcing even the manic Teacher to retreat.

  This wasn't a fight. It was survival.

  And then, Kenji decided he was done.

  「幽霊斬り」

  Yūrei Giri.

  (Ghost Slash)

  Kenji became a blur. A cut too fast for the eye to follow.

  Teacher’s arm flew into the air, still gripping the kanabō tightly as it spun away into the smoke. Blood sprayed in a violent, crimson arc.

  Lucien froze. His heart stopped. But Teacher? He didn’t scream. He didn’t panic.

  He just laughed. A deep, full-bodied, absolutely unhinged laugh. He turned to Lucien with a serene smile. “Well,” he said cheerfully, “looks like we’re dead.”

  “How can you say that so casually?!” Lucien roared, his world collapsing.

  “I guess I can die with a little laughter in my life,” Lucien thought, a strange peace settling over him.

  Kenji turned, his visor glowing with a cold, predatory light. He launched the same attack again.

  「幽霊斬り」

  Yūrei Giri.

  (Ghost Slash)

  Teacher stepped in front of Lucien. The blade of ash and steel pierced them both, sliding through their chests as if they were made of mist. A single thrust. Effortless. Final.

  Lucien felt the warmth drain from his limbs. His teacher held him upright with his remaining arm, pulling him close as they both bled out into the ash.

  “We gave it all we had,” Teacher murmured, his voice as soft as the drifting snow.

  Lucien let out a dying chuckle. All we had, huh? If there was a next life, he was done with this. He’d find a tavern. He’d flirt with someone like Celestine. He’d feel the sun on his face.

  His last breath left him like a sigh.

  Kenji looked down at the two corpses. There was no flicker of satisfaction. No trace of regret. He was no longer a human reacting to a tragedy; he was a player closing a menu.

  「黙れ信長、俺は気にしない」 Damare Nobunaga, ore wa kinishinai. (Shut up, Nobunaga, I don't care.)

  The words slipped out in Japanese, cold and distorted. He paused for a moment, tilting his head as if listening to a voice—a system or a ghost—that only he could hear.

  “Tch.”

  He turned away from the bodies and began his slow, deliberate walk toward the Empire’s inner wall. The credits hadn't rolled yet. It was time to finish the mission.

  Lucien opened his eyes. He was conscious. Lucid. And very much not in control of his body.

  Am I… not dead yet?

  He had always heard that when someone died, everything went black. A void. Oblivion. But all he could see was white. An endless, blinding, infinite white stretching in every direction. No horizon. No floor. No ceiling. Just the void of an unwritten page.

  Maybe this is hell, he thought dryly.

  He remembered Kenji’s destructive power—the smoke storms, the ash blossoms, the slashes that rewrote the laws of physics. How was that fair? How could a monster like that just… exist? Lucien clenched his jaw. If the world was this unbalanced, he’d balance it himself in another life.

  …Not that he could do anything now. He was dying. Or dead. Or something in between. He sighed into the whiteness. Figures. Even in death, I get dragged into someone else’s mess.

  Finally, he felt it. The darkness slipped in gently, like ink bleeding through paper. His thoughts grew heavy; his consciousness began to sink.

  Finally, Lucien thought with a weak, tired exhale. I can rest. No more monsters. No more lunatic teachers. Just sleep.

  And then, a voice broke the silence.

  Lu… Luc…

  “Shut up,” Lucien muttered groggily. “Can’t you let me rest…?”

  …ien…

  “LUCIEN!”

  “SHUT UP, MOM!” Lucien snapped.

  Wait. Mom?

  Lucien’s eyes flew open. The infinite white was gone. He wasn’t floating in the afterlife; he was lying on something soft. Warm. Familiar. And a voice he hadn’t heard in a decade was calling his name.

  “…Mom?”

  Lucien blinked. He was in a bed. A small bed. In a small room with curtains he hadn’t seen since he was eleven years old. His breath caught. He slowly—very slowly—lifted his hands.

  Tiny. Soft. Child-sized.

  “No. No, no, no, no—” Lucien whispered, sitting up so fast he almost fell. He grabbed his cheeks. Smaller. Rounder. No stubble. His legs barely reached the edge of the mattress. “What!? Why are my hands so—so adorably tiny!?”

  Panic swelled in his chest.

  “Lucien D’Roselle!”

  His mother’s voice boomed like divine judgment. She stormed into the room—just as he remembered her: apron on, hair tied back, eyes blazing with the righteous fury of a village mother.

  “You are late again!” she snapped. “You promised to help your father with the morning chores!”

  Lucien opened his mouth, mid-panic. “I—I died—!”

  “Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she said, smacking his forehead lightly. “You’re alive enough to argue. Move!”

  Lucien clutched his face. He’d died holding his insane teacher in his arms while the world turned to ash. And now? He was eleven and being scolded for oversleeping.

  “Aha—HAHAHAHA!”

  Lucien burst into laughter, stumbling out of bed and sprinting toward the mirror. He skidded to a stop and stared. A young boy stared back. Wide eyes. Round cheeks. A face he hadn't seen in over a decade.

  He jumped—actually jumped—like a child on festival day. “Another shot! Another chance at life! This is insane—this is amazing—this is—”

  And then his smile froze. Slowly… painfully… realization dawned on him.

  Wait. Isn't this bad?

  Why was he given another chance? He had traveled back in time—so what did that mean? Did he have to change fate? Save the world? Was he a "Hero of Destiny" now?

  He would be dragged into countless troublesome matters. He’d be swept into dangerous situations he wanted nothing to do with. He would never, ever be allowed to nap again.

  The realization hit him like a warhammer.

  “Fuuuuuck,” Lucien whispered, horrified.

  He didn't want to be on the cover of picture books. He didn't want statues or expectations. He just wanted to be a lazy side character in a world that didn't explode. Lucien threw his arms wide and screamed at the ceiling:

  “AM I THE MAIN CHARACTER AFTER ALL??!!!”

  “Lucien!” his mother shouted from the kitchen. “Stop yelling nonsense and get to work!”

  Lucien collapsed to his knees, his head in his hands. Being the Main Character… already sucked.