The night was cold. Not biting—just empty. The sky above was starless again, and that same black moon hovered over the landscape like a wound in the world. It reminded Lucien where he was—not home, not the front, not Earth.
But for all its differences, this world shared one familiar thing: people.
And wherever people were, so was mood. Atmosphere. Tension.
Tonight, that tension was thick. Not loud. Not spoken. Just heavy.
No one was talking. Not really. Michael limped along with Liz in his arms, her body slack, her leg still splinted with a snapped-off branch and cloth torn from her cloak. She was awake—but only barely. Her eyes didn't focus. She hadn't said anything since the clearing.
Titus was worse in some ways. He walked hunched forward, coughing every few steps, one hand on his chest, the other steadying himself on trees when the pain got bad. His Sacred Gear had clearly burned through more than his mana. Probably took some of his lung lining with it.
Lucien walked behind the group, silent. Observing.
He noticed Alice.
She walked with her arms crossed tight to her body, not for warmth—she didn't look cold—but like she was trying to hold something inside. Her eyes didn't leave the ground. Not once. Every time Liz whimpered, every time Titus coughed, her shoulders twitched. Like a slap.
Lucien could imagine how it felt. Shame. Guilt. Weakness. And the worst part? Being surrounded by proof of it.
Every groan was a reminder. Every injured friend was a receipt. And every glance at him—Lucien, the outsider, the last-minute fix—was salt in the wound. She had nothing to say. Nothing to offer.
Lucien knew atmospheres like this. He'd marched through worse. But it didn't make this one less miserable.
Eventually, he snorted. Not loud. Just enough to break the silence in his own head.
Everyone flinched. Just for a second. Then they went back to pretending he wasn't there.
Fair.
From their perspective, they'd dragged in a survivor from the very clan their families helped wipe out, marched into his ancestral land to try and claim it, and nearly died doing it. Then he bailed them out.
Lucien let the irony roll through his head. The vessel inside him didn't like the thoughts much.
It kept pushing old memories into the front of his mind. Small ones—childhood memories, old trails, fishing trips, training sessions with cousins who were likely buried in ash now.
Lucien grit his teeth.
Quit it, he thought. No matter how wholesome you try to make it, it's not going to work. I don't care about them. I'm not them. This isn't some tearful redemption story.
But the vessel didn't stop. The emotional residue was alive—resentful. It hated him. It hated being pushed down. And it hated being replaced.
Lucien shoved it back.
Later that night, once camp had been made and everyone was finally resting, Lucien made his move.
He waited until Alice had taken watch and the others were asleep or too exhausted to track movement. Then he left the fire, walked quietly out of the clearing, and found a spot under a half-fallen tree.
He sat cross-legged. Hands on his knees. Eyes closed.
The ring on his finger began to pulse—lightly at first, then stronger.
He focused. Let the transition begin.
The world cracked.
No disorientation this time. No nausea. Just that same cold shift behind the eyes. Like walking through a doorway that didn't exist.
When Lucien opened his eyes, he was standing.
Black coat. Silver-trimmed. Boots solid against black marble.
The palace waited—just like before. Vast halls. Columns reaching too high to see the ceiling. Runes along the tiles that moved when you stared at them too long.
The throne was empty.
Lucien scanned the room. Nothing.
Then—he felt it. A hand on his shoulder.
"You looking for me?"
Lucien didn't flinch. "Yeah. Got a problem."
"Let me guess. The vessel?"
"It's getting worse. Keeps throwing memories at me. Sentimental trash. I want it gone."
Behind him, the doppelganger circled around. Same face. Same build. Just... cleaner. Sharper. More composed.
"You want to erase it," the clone said. "But that's not how this works."
Lucien folded his arms. "Then how does it work?"
"You want it gone? You have to finish assimilation. Fully. Every piece of him—taken in. Not repressed. Not pushed aside. Owned. That's mental strength. Not just ignoring the noise. Digesting it."
Lucien scoffed. "So I have to become him to get rid of him?"
"Not become. Overwrite."
A pause.
Then the clone added, "Though… maybe keeping him wouldn't be so bad. He knew things. He saw things. You might benefit more from coexistence."
Lucien narrowed his eyes. "Now you're being vague."
The clone smirked. "Maybe. Want to check your profile?"
Lucien raised his hand. The ring pulsed.
The mana pane appeared—flat, glowing, clear.
[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.)
• Magic type Darkness
• Traits
• Concealment
• Corrosion
• Dark Manipulation
Sacred Gear:
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.
Inherited + Mutated Sacred Gear
TYRANT'S Wrath: Sixfold Avatar
Manifest skeletal dark mana construct—spine, ribs, six spectral arms.
Increases physical defense, attack range, weapon manifestation (Odachi).
Duration based on mana pool. Stability ~70%.
General Spells Learned:
• Rank 9: Lightless Field
Area control spell. Creates a radius of weaponizable shadow.
Original form small, low potency. Improved with stronger core.
Strength: Versatile manipulation. Weakness: Fragile constructs.
• Shade Bind (NEW)
Creates tendrils of solid darkness. Can bind targets or act as restraints.
Strength: Subtle. Quiet. Effective against distracted enemies.
Weakness: Breaks under sustained pressure.
Lucien scanned the list, then dismissed the display.
He wasn't impressed after all that time he spent assimilating those memories these last couple days
"Two spells and no closer to shutting the vessel up," he muttered.
The clone crossed his arms. "You're looking at it wrong."
Lucien turned. "How else should I look at it?"
"You're expecting to much the vessel's accumulation is almost spent there isn't much more you can get out of its memories
Lucien didn't answer.
Not because he didn't have one—but because just then, the palace cracked.
Literally.
The air tore. Reality split like a curtain yanked from its rail.
Lucien opened his eyes back in the real world.
Still under the tree. Still near the camp.
But he wasn't alone.
Two figures stood in front of him.
Titus. Standing now—unsteady, but upright. Lean muscle tensed beneath his burned armor, face tight but curious.
And Alice. Her flaxen hair tied back. Her gaze locked onto him—not angry, not ashamed, but steady.
"I want a spar," she said.
Lucien blinked. "What?"
"You heard me."
Titus crossed his arms, stepping to the side. "We're just curious
Lucien stood slowly, brushing dirt from his coat.
He looked at Alice. Her stance wasn't aggressive. But it wasn't passive, either.
She wanted something.
Reassurance Maybe even just an ego boost.
He couldn't blame her.
He adjusted his collar.
"Alright," he said. "Let's see what I can do
As she specified just a spar with weapons
Lucien was no fool he knew even with interest in kendo kenjutsu on earth and the vessel's training here was gonna put him above Alice he knew she was the designated leader and probably had skill earn that position yes she froze up but if her primary weapon was the rapier he had no delusions of being superior to her in terms of sword play so he needed to be cautious and use every advantage he had so he thought first of he was taller and was using a long odachi compared he rapier she 5.7ft tall and he was about 6feet in this body physically the buff you received from mana wasn't based how much you had even though he had the feeling Alice could match him in that regard it was how skilled you were at enhancing the vessel had been as average at that he was seemingly all other aspects so he decided to focus on a defensive counter heavy style with optimal positioning to able use the reach and height advantage to the maximum capability possible
---
They reached the clearing. No audience. Just packed dirt, scattered leaves, and enough open space to move.
Lucien rolled his shoulders. He picked up a long, curved blade, solid. He fully. He held it up high
Alice drew her rapier without a word. Her stance was sharp. Traditional duelist's guard—feet planted, knees bent, blade forward and upright.
"Begin," Titus said from the edge.
Alice moved first.
A single thrust. Direct, fast, no warning.
Lucien leaned back, the tip passing inches from his cheek. He pivoted on his back foot, brought the odachi up defensively, then stepped back. No counter.
Alice pressed. A flurry—three jabs in tight sequence.
Lucien blocked the last, blade groaning against hers. He stepped off-angle, used the odachi's length to force separation, then flicked his wrist. She retreated, adjusting.
She was faster. Her movements cleaner. Minimal energy, maximum precision. Lucien didn't challenge her directly. He focused on footwork. Timing. He couldn't match her form—so he disrupted it.
Alice came again.
A low thrust to the hip—faint.
Lucien didn't bite. He dropped his weight, used the flat of the blade to parry low, and kicked forward with his rear leg. Not a strike—just to close distance, break rhythm.
She backed off fast. Reset.
Lucien exhaled Sweat already forming.
She was calm. Calculated. He was fighting to keep up. But that was fine.
She lunged again. This time faster. Full extension. Her blade moved like a needle—accurate, brutal.
Lucien twisted his upper body, the rapier skimming past his ribs. He stepped in deep and slammed his elbow toward her shoulder.
She ducked. Slid out to the left. Flicked her rapier across his forearm—light cut. Shallow. Still counted.
Lucien hissed. Readjusted. Blood ran down to his wrist.
Alice's eyes didn't change. No taunting. Just focus.
They clashed again. This time Lucien struck first.
He stepped forward, blade arcing from shoulder to hip—a wide cut. Alice deflected, twisted, slid under the follow-up slash and jabbed toward his ribs.
Lucien spun, used the odachi's reach to create space.
He was burning mana now—light enhancements to speed up reaction, to stop his muscles from lagging. His balance stayed tight. But Alice was adjusting faster.
Another exchange—steel meeting steel, each strike tighter, faster.
Lucien went high—overhead slash.
Alice sidestepped, stabbed toward his leg.
He parried downward forming his lowest spectral arm. She blinked.
"Wasn't part of the rules," she said.
"I didn't hit you," Lucien replied, circling.
"Yet."
They clashed again.
Lucien struck with everything. One heavy vertical. One sweeping horizontal. She dodged the first, ducked the second, tried to counter—he caught her blade on the flat of his sword and shoved forward.
She didn't give ground. She pivoted inside the push, let it slide, then used her off-hand to strike his side—fist to ribs.
Lucien staggered.
He answered with a step-in headbutt.
Crack.
Alice reeled.
Lucien pressed, brought the odachi down in a tight, arcing slash. She barely blocked in time, her wrist shaking under the pressure.
They broke apart.
Breathing heavy.
Lucien's shoulder ached. His ribs throbbed. His arm bled.
Alice's lip was split. One eye swelling.
No words.
Lucien came again—low to high slash.
Alice caught it on the side, twisted her body, and tried to stab him through the side.
Lucien rotated his core, used the odachi's sheath-like spine as a second shield. Steel scraped against steel.
He raised the blade and brought it down hard.
She blocked. Barely.
The impact shoved her backward, boots skidding.
Lucien followed—pure aggression now.
Two more swings. Full-bodied. Fierce
Alice slipped under the third, her blade flashing toward his neck.
Lucien dropped to one knee.
Felt the edge slice air above his head.
He kicked out. Hit her knee.
She staggered—off balance.
Lucien surged upward—shoulder into her gut.
They collided. Both hit the ground hard.
Alice rolled first, sprang to her feet.
Lucien was slower.
She aimed the point of the rapier at his chest.
"Yield?" she asked.
Lucien smiled through the blood on his lip.
He laughed accepting this loss at least at first
Absolutely. Here's the extended version of your scene—keeping the tone raw, grounded, and emotionally weighty, with a deeper exploration of Lucien's mindset and his inner collapse after the spar.
---
Lucien's laugh cracked halfway through. It wasn't sharp. It wasn't proud.
It was bitter.
It spilled out of him like breath he didn't realize he was holding. A weak exhale dressed up in mockery. But the only thing being mocked was himself.
The odachi slipped from his hand.
It didn't clang—it just hit the dirt with a dull, final thud. Like it had given up too. The wind rolled through the clearing in its wake, catching dead leaves, brushing past blades, moving between the three of them without concern for tension or failure or pride.
Lucien stayed kneeling.
Head low.
Breath uneven.
Blood continued to roll down his arm, soaking into the fabric, leaking into the soil beneath. He didn't wipe it. Didn't even acknowledge it.
Alice still held her rapier pointed at him—more out of form than intention. But when he didn't move again, when the moment stayed still, she lowered it. Slowly.
Not because she was satisfied.
But because there was no more fight left to address.
Lucien spoke, barely above a whisper. "I yield."
It wasn't strained.
It wasn't dramatic.
It was... hollow. A line said because he had to say something. A line said by a man who'd hit the last step on the staircase and found no door waiting at the top.
Alice blinked.
That wasn't the kind of yield she'd prepared for.
She thought he might lose. Thought he might get frustrated. Thought he might lash out or fake cockiness. Something. But not this.
Titus moved forward half a step. His hand hovered near his hip, unsure. Reaching out—or maybe getting ready to intercept something he wasn't sure was coming. The tension was real.
Lucien didn't lift his head. Just raised one bloodstained palm.
"Don't," he said. Still quiet. Still flat. "Not now."
Titus stopped. Didn't move again.
Lucien slowly pushed himself to his feet. His legs wobbled for a second, but held. His eyes stayed locked on the dirt before lifting just slightly—to Alice.
She'd eased her stance, but her face had changed. Still composed. Still calculating. But underneath that, confusion. Not pity. Just confusion. Like she was trying to solve a puzzle that was suddenly missing half the pieces.
Lucien held her gaze.
His eyes were exhausted. Not just physically. Deeper than that.
There was no hate. No resentment. No
"I gave everything I had," he said. No excuse. No pride. Just truth.
Alice's lips parted. She didn't reply right away. She didn't know what the right response was. She didn't expect him to admit it. She didn't know if she respected it or resented it.
"You were..." she started, then paused. Her brow furrowed if that's the case "You were disappointing. But I can't put my finger on how." you were sharp and fought to you advantages but...
It wasn't said with malice. It wasn't meant to hurt. But it did.
Lucien didn't flinch.
He just turned.
"This was a test for myself," he muttered, mostly to the air. "I failed."
The words landed like stones in a still pond no echo, no bounce, just there
He left his sword behind. Didn't even glance at it. Walked past them with slow, steady steps, like someone balancing a fractured ego that couldn't afford to crack in front of an audience.
Alice didn't follow.
Titus didn't call out.
They just watched him disappear into the tree line.
Lucien kept walking until the clearing was gone, and so were the sounds of it. Until there was nothing but shadow and cold and the slow burn in his limbs from the fight. Finally, he reached a tree, stopped, and let his body lean back against the bark.
His legs gave out first.
He slid down with no resistance, no urgency, until he was sitting in the dirt. Knees up, arms resting loosely over them, his head tilted forward. Then both palms pressed into his face and stayed there.
Not from the pain.
He'd taken hits before. Bled before. Lost before.
It was everything else.
He'd fought with desperation. Not courage. Not conviction.
Every movement had been planned calculated
And still, it hadn't been enough.
She hadn't just beaten him. She had controlled the pace. Pushed him to reveal his tricks. Saw through his tempo and cut through his rhythm like a surgeon. She hadn't overwhelmed him. She'd outlasted him. Outclassed him
He should've expected it. She was the designated leader for a reason. She had real experience.
She wasn't the one trying to prove she deserved to exist in the fight. He was.
The silence should've helped.
But it didn't.
Because even now, even out here—he wasn't alone in his own skull.
The vessel stirred again. Quiet. Wordless. Like a pulse in the back of his mind. It didn't say anything. But it didn't have to. The weight was there. That judging, suffocating presence that seemed to watch everything he did and file it under "inadequate."
Lucien clenched his teeth.
He knew it wasn't fair. He had barely been in this world a month. The vessel's memories were scattered, hollow, unhelpful. His own body wasn't fully trained. His magic control wasn't refined. His technique was stitched together from half-learned Earth practices and a dead man's fragments.
And yet still... for whatever dumb stupid arrogant reason he thought he could win.
No—he needed to win.
Just once.
He needed something to tell him he was on the right path. Something that proved he wasn't just momentum. That he wasn't just surviving because
But he failed.
He leaned his head back and stared up through the tree branches at the black moon above.
It stared back. Unmoving. Untouched.
No warmth.
No sympathy.
Just observation.
"I'm tired," he whispered. "I'm so goddamn tired."
The words fell out of him like pieces of something he hadn't meant to admit. He let his arms drop, head thudding lightly against the bark.
Not broken.
Not crying.
Just still.
He didn't know how long he sat there.
He didn't know if it mattered.
---