Lucien returned to the room he had rented—a small, dimly lit space tucked above a rundown tavern in the 12th District. The smell of alcohol and roasted meat still lingered from downstairs, but Lucien barely noticed. His mind was set on one thing: the black stone.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, the wooden frame creaking under his weight. From the dimensional ring on his finger, he pulled out the stone.
Immediately, the room dimmed. The air grew heavier, and the shadows around him began to writhe. The black stone floated slightly above his palm, radiating an eerie, pulsing black aura that seemed to defy the very light in the room. It looked unremarkable at first—rough and misshapen, about the size of a clenched fist—but now in his grasp, it felt as if the entire universe was condensed inside.
"What are you...?" Lucien whispered.
The moment his fingers brushed against the surface, a sudden rush of energy slammed into his consciousness. His vision blackened.
In that darkness, a memory—or perhaps a vision—played out. He saw a silhouette of a man cloaked in darkness, face obscured by an eternal void. The figure stood upon a battlefield littered with broken stars and celestial corpses. With a wave of his hand, suns extinguished, and with a step, planets crumbled.
Lucien watched as this being waged war not on worlds, but on the very concept of order. The universe trembled in its presence. Gods knelt. Laws shattered. The silhouette raised a hand and consumed galaxies like dust.
Then, the image faded.
Lucien snapped back into his body, gasping. Cold sweat clung to his skin. He looked down—only to see the black stone slowly breaking apart in his hand. It cracked like brittle glass, then dissolved into a fine, glittering dust of darkness.
The dust hovered for a moment, then began to swirl in the air before being drawn into his chest. Lucien didn't resist—it was as if his very being welcomed it.
The moment it entered him, a black storm erupted within his soul.
He fell to his knees, gripping his chest as the aura within him surged to life. The dormant black aura—the same one that had always marked him as different—began to pulse, expand, and evolve.
It was no longer a faint whisper. It roared.
Dark tendrils of energy spilled from his body, twisting into the air like smoke. The floor beneath him cracked, the walls groaned, and shadows danced across the room uncontrollably. He struggled to breathe under the pressure. It felt like an ocean of power had been shoved into a glass jar.
Then, the aura inside him slightly stabilizing.
Lucien opened his eyes. They shone with a deeper void, as if reflecting the infinite night sky. He could feel it now—his aura had shifted. It was stronger, more refined. Like it had touched the threshold of the Early Sovereign Aura.
He stood up slowly. The room had changed—furniture overturned, cracks on the walls and floor, candles snuffed out. But he was calm.
He looked at his hand. A faint black glow still lingered over his palm, flickering like dying embers.
"So... this is the true nature of my aura," he muttered. "Not just darkness. It's consumption... annihilation."
He walked to the small mirror hung on the wall. His reflection stared back—same white veil hat, same long white noble coat—but there was something different in his eyes. A depth. A void.
He took a deep breath and began focusing, drawing the chaotic energy within him under control. Slowly but surely, he guided it, contained it, and shaped it.
The aura began to calm, now swirling quietly around his body like a gentle tide. No longer did it lash out or overflow.
He sat cross-legged on the floor and entered a meditative state.
Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two.
Each second, Lucien refined the surge of aura now coursing through his body. It was foreign, yet familiar—as if it had been locked away and now reawakened. The memories from the stone lingered in his mind. That figure, that endless war... Was it a memory of a past wielder? A prophecy? Or a remnant of a devoured soul?
Lucien wasn't sure.
But one thing was certain.
This power didn't come from this world.
After stabilizing his aura, he slowly opened his eyes again. No pain. No discomfort. Just clarity. His black aura no longer fought against him—it listened.
He tested it.
Lucien sat in silence, the black aura coiling gently around him like a living veil. It no longer thrashed wildly—it responded to his intent. He extended a hand, and the darkness lazily swirled toward his fingertips, as if waiting for command.
"Let's test your shape," he murmured.
He concentrated, slowly focusing the aura into his palm. A dark mist gathered, forming a vague outline. He shaped it with his will, bending the black essence into something sharp, something defined. A blade.
It started as a simple dagger—short, curved, and jagged like a broken fang. The weight was ethereal, as if the weapon existed between reality and illusion. Yet, when he stabbed it into the wooden floor, it sank effortlessly, carving through with no resistance. The black aura hissed as it consumed the wood on contact, reducing a portion of the floorboard to ashen dust.
Lucien pulled the blade back and watched it flicker, then dissipate.
"Not stable yet…" he muttered.
He tried again.
This time, he drew his actual sword from the dimensional ring—a standard longsword, sharp and balanced. Holding it in front of him, he willed the black aura to cloak it.
The darkness responded instantly.
Like ink poured over steel, the aura wrapped around the blade in thick, pulsing waves. The sword's metallic sheen disappeared beneath the abyssal layer. The weapon now radiated something more than power—hunger. It vibrated faintly in his hand, eager to be unleashed.
He slashed through the air once. The black-cloaked sword left a faint trail that shimmered momentarily before dissolving. The very air seemed to split at the swing, not with sound, but silence. It was an eerie absence, like reality itself flinched away.
"Interesting..." Lucien muttered.
He took another swing, this time directing it at the overturned chair in the corner. The moment the black edge touched the wood, the entire object was enveloped in the aura and vanished—no fire, no sound, just instant erasure.
Lucien exhaled, lowering the sword. His hand trembled slightly, not from fear, but from strain.
"This aura… it doesn't cut like normal blades. It consumes the very concept of what it touches."
He sat again, resting the sword beside him, and flexed his fingers. He could feel it now. That aura wasn't just power—it was primal hunger. To wield it required more than strength. It demanded clarity. Control.
Still, he smiled.
This was only the beginning.
Next, he turned his focus inward again, imagining different forms the aura could take. He formed a whip—long and crackling with black lightning. Then a bow, though the arrow it conjured barely held its form before shattering midair. Not all constructs could maintain integrity yet, but each attempt deepened his understanding.
Lucien stood once more, holding the black-cloaked sword. "Consume. Devour. Erase."
He slashed down once more—and even the light in the room seemed to flicker, dimming in response.
Yes. This aura wasn't just part of him.
It was a weapon. A legacy.
A curse.
And he intended to master it.