The wilderness stretched on, endless and silent.
Lucires moved through it like a shadow, the mist curling around him with every step.
The farther he went, the heavier the world seemed to weigh on him.
He paused by a frozen river, catching a glimpse of himself in the still water.
Silver hair. Sharp features.
He was handsome — anyone would have said so — but the mirror-like silver of his eyes and the dark, spiderweb-like cracks running along his skin betrayed what he really was.
Inhuman.
The power of Ashen Soul had carved itself into his flesh, leaving a mark no amount of time would ever erase.
Lucires stared at his reflection for a moment longer, then turned away.
He had already accepted it.
It was the world that couldn't.
---
Far off in the distance, he caught sight of a town — little more than a smudge on the horizon to ordinary eyes, but to Lucires, every torchlight and movement was crystal clear.
He adjusted his cloak and continued walking.
But before he could reach it, the scent of blood hit him.
Fresh.
Lucires veered off the path, moving silently through the trees until he came across a clearing.
A slave caravan.
Dozens of filthy cages, shivering captives packed inside.
Men, women, even children.
And their captors — rough-looking bandits — lounged around a roaring campfire, laughing and drinking.
Their conversation drifted easily to Lucires' sharp ears.
"Nice haul this time," one of them said, kicking at a cage. A muffled whimper came from inside.
"Yeah," another sneered. "That fat noble in Ardenshire's gonna pay double for the little ones."
"Heh, should've grabbed more. Easy money."
They laughed.
Loud. Mocking. Cruel.
Lucires' hands tightened at his sides.
There it was again — the rot that festered behind gilded walls and smiling faces.
Without a word, he stepped forward.
The firelight caught his figure, and one of the bandits squinted into the darkness.
"Oi, who's there?"
Lucires didn't answer.
Ashen Soul flared to life around him.
The mist shifted — darkened — thickened, crawling over the ground like a living thing.
The bandits cursed, drawing weapons.
It didn't matter.
Lucires moved.
One bandit raised his sword, shouting — it froze mid-air as Lucires' hand closed around his wrist. With a sickening crack, the bone snapped, and the sword clattered uselessly to the dirt.
Before the others could react, the ash lashed out.
It wrapped around them, coiling up their legs and arms, clinging to their skin.
They screamed — high, raw, animalistic.
Where the ash touched, their flesh blackened.
Wrinkled.
Shriveled.
One tried to run.
Lucires flicked a hand — a spear of ash burst from the ground and impaled the man through the chest, pinning him like an insect.
Another swung a heavy axe at Lucires' head.
He dodged, fluid as smoke, grabbed the man by the throat, and pushed.
The ash surged, and in seconds, the man was a hollow husk, crumbling to dust in Lucires' hand.
It was not a fight.
It was an execution.
The surviving bandits staggered back, terror dawning in their eyes.
One of them, blood dripping from his mouth, croaked in horror:
"Ashen... Phantom...!"
A ripple of panic ran through the survivors.
The legends had reached even the filth like them — the tales of a silver-haired wraith, leaving only ash and ruin in his wake.
Some dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, hands raised in desperate supplication.
"Mercy! Please—!" "W-we surrender!" "We didn't know—!"
Lucires stared at them.
Emotionless.
Mercy?
For them?
The ash roared at his silent command.
Tendrils of black mist surged forward, wrapping around the begging men, and in moments they too were reduced to nothing more than blackened husks, their final screams swallowed by the cold.
When it was over, the ground was littered with the dead — blackened, twisted, and unrecognizable.
The slaves huddled in their cages, wide-eyed and trembling.
Lucires broke the locks effortlessly, shattering the iron as if it were paper.
The captives spilled out, free — but none dared come close.
They stared at him, at the corpses around them, at the ash still curling from his fingertips.
Fear.
He saw it in their eyes.
He heard it in their silence.
Lucires said nothing.
There was nothing he could say.
He turned away, the freed slaves parting in fear to let him pass.
Ash swirled in his wake.
---
The walk to the town was slow.
Not because of exhaustion — Lucires didn't tire like normal people anymore.
But because of the weight in his chest.
Is this all I am now?
A monster that devours other monsters, only to be feared by the very people I try to protect?
He remembered their faces — the way their hope had flickered for a moment when he broke their cages, only to die the second they saw him.
No cheers.
No gratitude.
Only terror.
Lucires closed his eyes briefly, feeling the cold bite deeper into his bones.
Maybe this was the only path left for him.
A savior no one wanted.
A blade without a master.
He opened his eyes.
The town loomed closer now — lights warm against the endless dark.
He pulled his cloak tighter and kept walking, the mist parting before him like it too feared what he had become.