---
Chapter 3: The Gift of the Godless
Lucien opened his eyes.
The sky above was still pitch black. And there it was again—that same moon.
That impossible, striking black moon, hanging silently in the sky like a hole burned into reality.
He blinked slowly. His body still ached from the fight, from the escape, from the Veil Step that had activated and nearly ripped his mana core dry. His skin was scraped. His muscles weak. But he was alive.
And the moon hadn't changed.
"Is this real…?" he whispered.
It didn't feel like it. Not entirely. Not yet.
Everything still felt distant, warped by the fog of shock. The texture of the world around him was just too quiet. The wind too light. The trees too still. The sky too clean of stars.
He let his head fall back into the damp grass, staring up at the moon again.
The scene reminded him of something. It scratched at the back of his mind until the memory pushed forward—
The first expedition.
That first time they were sent beyond the safe zones, out into the wild stretches of war-torn territory. That same feeling—newness, discomfort, electricity in the air. The fear of stepping into somewhere too big for you, and the secret thrill of surviving anyway.
His lip curled into a crooked smirk.
"It really does feel the same."
He pushed himself up slowly, his limbs sore, his joints stiff.
A breeze moved past him. His hair swayed against his neck, now shoulder-length again. He looked down at his reflection in the still pool of river water just a few feet away.
There he was.
Five-foot-eleven. Sharp features. Strong jawline. Two mismatched eyes—one pale gray, the other gold—staring back at him.
His expression twisted into something between amusement and awe.
"Well, I'll be damned."
He leaned closer, tilting his head.
"Still got the good face," he muttered with a dry chuckle. "Unmarked. Clean. Healthy-looking even."
He touched his cheek. The skin was smooth. His features were how he remembered them at their peak, before war had chiseled him down. It was strange. Comforting, even.
Except for the different-colored eyes.
That was new.
"Eh. Kinda works for me," he said with a shrug. "Adds mystery. Depth. All that nonsense."
His physique wasn't as sharp or trained as it had been in his last life. Not a soldier's build—not yet. More lean than muscular. Modest. Still recovering.
"Definitely starting over," he said aloud. "But I've been worse."
He rolled his shoulders. Stretched. Cracked his neck.
Time to move. He had things to do. Magic to test. Limits to find.
"Let's see what this body can really do," he muttered.
But before he could take a step, the ground beneath him pulsed.
A soft vibration. Followed by a beam of pure black light erupting from the soil and striking his chest like a chain of shadow.
Lucien froze.
The light didn't burn. It didn't tear or crush. It wrapped around him, tightening gently—possessively.
Then came the voice.
That voice.
The one from pure nothing
The one that had dropped him into this world like a thrown knife.
> "You didn't disappoint."
"Watching you scramble for your life was… enlightening. Entertaining, even."
Lucien grit his teeth. "Glad you enjoyed the show."
> "I did. And my slave—"
Lucien rolled his eyes. "Still with that word?"
> "—deserves a gift."
The black light surrounding him began to shift, folding inward. It wove itself around his right ring finger, threads of shadow braiding and spiraling until they hardened into a solid, elegant shape.
A ring.
Sleek. Jet black. Matte finish. Its surface pulsed faintly with the same red glow he'd seen in the Mortum before it exploded.
The voice echoed once more:
> "Focus on the ring. It will tell you what you need."
Before Lucien could ask what that meant—
Everything went black.
---
Not unconsciousness.
Transition.
Like his thoughts had been pulled sideways. Like his soul had been yanked out of his body and hurled into another layer of reality.
A heartbeat later, the darkness peeled back.
Lucien stood upright—dry, clean, clothed in a sharp black coat embroidered with silver and crimson trim. He blinked, stunned.
Around him stretched a vast palace.
Vaulted ceilings. Pillars taller than anything he'd ever seen. Black marble tiles lined the floor, carved with impossible runes that shifted when he looked directly at them.
At the far end of the hall, seated on an obsidian throne, was a man.
Lucien took a step forward—and froze.
That face.
Sharp jaw. Cold confidence. Mismatched eyes. Shoulder-length hair.
It was him.
The man on the throne smirked.
"Ah," he said. "So you've arrived."
Lucien's mind reeled.
Is that a projection? A future version? A memory?
The throne-man tilted his head slightly. "You're not hallucinating. And no, this isn't an illusion."
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "Then what is it?"
The figure rose from the throne, cape flowing behind him, boots echoing across the stone floor.
"I'm you," he said simply. "Or rather, a version of you. A vision. A possibility."
Lucien didn't speak. He was trying to read the truth behind the eyes.
"You were brought back for a reason," the vision continued. "That ring is more than just a gift. It's a key. A path. A tether."
"To what?"
"To you. To what you could become."
Lucien's mouth was dry.
The man in the throne smiled wider. "And I'm here to let you see what that really means."
---
The man—the version of himself seated upon the obsidian throne—extended a hand.
Lucien's eyes dropped to the black ring resting on his finger.
It pulsed once.
Not with warmth. Not with light.
With pressure.
Like a deep breath filling his chest from the inside out. Like something ancient shifting behind his bones, too large to name.
His vision blurred.
Then snapped into focus.
The world didn't vanish it paused. Not silence, not void. Just everything waiting. The air hung in place like dust suspended in water. Motionless. Breathless.
A shimmer of black mist curled from the ring like fog rising from a crypt.
Then
A pane opened in front of him.
Not a screen.
Not illusion.
Just presence. A shifting sheet of mana, inscribed with elegant, almost living symbols—like the world itself had decided to speak.
And somehow… he could read it.
---
[STATUS]
Name: Lucien (Soul Signature: Variant)
Host Vessel: River Clan Scout (Deceased)
Mana Core: Tier — High (Above Average for Vessel Type)
Elemental Affinity: Darkness
Primary Traits:
Living Hollow (Unstable trait. Function suppressed. Full nature unknown.)
Concealment
Corrosion
Dark Manipulation
---
Rakai Ability: Veil Step
> Instantly reposition within a short radius. Temporarily nullifies presence. High mana cost when used subconsciously. Requires precision and mental clarity for efficient use.
---
Unique Technique (Inherited + Mutated):
TYRANT'S Wrath: Sixfold Avatar
> Manifest a skeletal construct of pure dark mana—ribcage, spine, and six spectral arms.
Grants enhanced defense, strength, and weapon manifestation.
Current Weapon Shape: Great Odachi (Two-handed darksteel blade)
Duration: Limited (based on current mana pool)
Stability: 67% — Volatility increases under emotional distress or near-death states.
---
Lucien stared at it.
No words escaped his lips for a long moment. Just the sound of his own breathing. The hum of something vast passing through him.
Then, like fog lifting, the display faded—sliding away into nothing as gently as it came.
The world resumed its natural rhythm.
The weight remained.
His heart beat faster now, not with panic—but with a pulse of something close to hunger. Not for blood. Not for violence.
For clarity
"Six arms?" he muttered, almost in disbelief.
He clenched his fists, and the black ring answered with a subtle vibration, as if the thing was listening. As if it approved.
He looked down at his body. The limbs that weren't his. The vessel that had once belonged to another. But the power now woven through it wasn't a gift. It was a mutation.
And it was his.
"Feels like a monster's blueprint," he said softly.
The version of himself—on the throne, watching with arms resting across his lap—nodded.
"The vessel was average," the vision said. "Strong for his tribe. Talented for his group. But contained. Measured. Replaceable."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "And me?"
"You are none of those things."
Lucien gave a half-laugh, bitter at the edges. "So I break the rules just by showing up."
"Your soul fits almost perfectly more then we expected to the point you assimilate its talent and make it your" the throne-version replied, voice calm, tone weighty. "It reshaped what the body could contain. That ring is key complete assimilation
Lucien's smirk faded. He looked down again.
The ring didn't shimmer. It wasn't beautiful. Just black. Clean. Heavy. Final.
"What is 'Living Hollow'?" he asked quietly.
The man tilted his head.
"A scar," he said. "Or maybe a brand. Or maybe something worse. A condition born from dying more than 0
Lucien looked at him sideways.
"It's not active," the throne-version added. "But it's inside you. Waiting. Something to understand later. For now, focus on what you can control."
Lucien nodded, but the thought lingered.
That technique—TYRANT'S Wrath
It was a state. A war god made real
But somehow, it felt natural.
Lik
He looked up again.
"I'm going to need that kind of power, aren't I?"
The throne-man didn't answer. Didn't nod.
But his silence was heavy with meaning.
Lucien's gaze drifted once more to the ceiling of the palace—this vast space between memory and identity. He could feel something deeper still—below the ring, below the titles and traits. A pulse.
A pressure in the space behind his eyes.
Then the other him spoke again.
"You're still wearing the vessel's shape," he said. "But now, in here, while time waits… you can dig. You can pull more of what he knew to the surface. The things he saw. Fought. Loved. Feared. The instincts. The paths. The death." and the fake will feel real
Lucien nodded slowly. "Memory assimilation."
"maybe next time
> "You won't enjoy what you see. But it's yours now. So carry it well."
Perfect. So to clarify:
Ebony Wrath: Sixfold Avatar is not a technique, but a Rakai Ability—a personal, soul-bound manifestation of Lucien's power.
The ring is not a limiter; it's more like a conduit or marker—something symbolic or utility-based, but it doesn't "hold him together."
Lucien is done with the vision now, and it's time to transition back to reality—where he wakes up changed, affected by what he's just seen and learned.
Here's the expanded continuation, correcting those details and smoothly transitioning to Lucien waking up in the real world, now aware of his second Rakai.
---
The black palace was gone.
It didn't fade. It peeled away, like smoke dissolving in a cold wind. The marble, the throne, even the second self—all turned to dust and vanished into the air.
Lucien stood alone in the dark.
Then the ring pulsed.
Just once.
No power, no explosion, no grand finale.
And then—
Pain.
A blinding surge of pressure slammed into his skull like a hammer wrapped in fire. His nerves lit up. His lungs locked. He couldn't move.
Then the world cracked open.
---
He gasped awake.
Mud. Wet grass. Cold wind biting at his skin. His body jerked like it had been yanked back into gravity.
He lay flat on his back near the riverbank, chest heaving, every limb heavy. His heart felt like it was trying to dig out of his ribs.
His fingers clawed at the dirt. His vision blurred with white-hot static. He forced his eyes open.
The black moon still hung in the sky, as still and silent as ever.
He blinked. Once. Twice.
"...Back," he croaked.
His throat was dry. His breath raw. But he was back. Grounded. Awake.
He sat up slowly.
His body felt different. Still weak, yes. Still bruised. But something had shifted.
It wasn't just physical.
It was deep—a sensation curled beneath the mana in his core. Like something asleep had stirred and now lay just beneath the surface, waiting.
He looked down at the black ring on his finger. It didn't glow. It didn't hum.
It simply existed. Unmoving. Unchanged.
But he wasn't unchanged.
Lucien exhaled, eyes narrowing.
That vision hadn't been symbolic. It wasn't metaphor or illusion.
He remembered every detail.
The words still echoed inside him:
Ebony Wrath: Sixfold Avatar.
Another Rakai.
And this one… was nothing like Veil Step.
Where Veil Step was subtle, sleek, desperate—this was monstrous. Heavy. Full of weight and presence. The memory of that skeletal construct—its ribs curling behind him, the six arms glowing black, the odachi t than his own
It wasn't just a rakai.
It was an extension of what he was becoming.
His hands shook slightly.
Not from fear.
From impact.
Two Rakai. Already. Before he'd even fought his first true battle.
He forced himself to his feet, staggered once, but caught himself.
His mana hadn't returned fully, but it was there now—less scattered than before. He could feel its motion. Slow. Uneven. But responsive.
Like a beast that had finally started listening to its master.
He flexed his fingers.
So this is what it means to carry power in this world.
Not systems. Not instructions.
Just survival.
Pressure.
And death
---
Lucien looked at the black moon above, then down at his own reflection in the still water. His mismatched eyes stared back—gray and gold. Old and new.
His voice was quiet. Thoughtful.
"I'm not my old self anymore
A pause.
"I'm what came after."
And with that, he turned from the river.
He had no map. No allies. No mana to waste.
But he had a goal