After another few minutes of shaping the black aura—testing its ability to form tendrils, arrows, and even a shield-like veil—Lucien finally let the energy settle. The aura around him faded back into his core, leaving the room still, though the scent of scorched air lingered.
He took a breath and turned his gaze toward the next item resting beside him: the Mask of a Thousand Faces.
Its surface remained blank, smooth as polished porcelain yet shimmering faintly like a silver mirror under moonlight. No features. No emotion. Just a void waiting to be filled.
Lucien picked it up slowly, feeling its cold touch against his fingers. The item was light—too light for something that hid so much power.
He sat cross-legged again and held the mask up before him.
"Let's see what secrets you hold," he whispered.
Rather than feeding it the black aura, which might disrupt or even override the mask's function, he focused and poured in his ordinary aura—clean, calm, and refined.
The reaction was immediate.
The mask pulsed once. Then again.
A whispering sensation crept into his mind—not a voice, but a flood of impressions and memories, as if the mask were transmitting knowledge directly into his soul.
Images flashed through Lucien's thoughts.
A merchant suddenly turning into a nobleman to escape assassination.
A soldier walking freely behind enemy lines using the face of a general.
A thief blending into a royal court, mimicking voices, gait, and expressions without flaw.
The Mask of a Thousand Faces wasn't merely a tool of disguise.
It was transformation.
Mask of a Thousand Faces – Unknown Rank : Function: Alters user's facial features, voice, height, and even aura signature. Can store up to 100 different identities. Aura Veil: Completely masks user's true aura when activated. Durability: Near indestructible under normal means.
Lucien's eyes narrowed slightly. "A tool for spies… assassins… or wanderers like me."
He pressed the mask lightly against his face.
The moment it made contact, a cold wave surged through him—uncomfortable but not painful. He could feel his skin shifting, bones slightly rearranging, voice box altering. Then, he stood and walked over to the mirror again.
A different man looked back at him.
Younger. Pale eyes. A crooked scar across the nose. Hair a different shade. Even his voice, when he muttered, had become hoarse and gruff.
He removed the mask—and his original face returned instantly.
Lucien stared at the artifact with renewed respect.
With this, he could become anyone.
Disguise. Infiltration. Escape.
A perfect tool for someone constantly hunted… or someone planning to infiltrate power.
And now, both the Devouring Scripture and this mask had found a master worthy of them.
Lucien placed the mask back into his dimensional ring and stood up.
Lucien's fingers hovered over the worn, ancient scripture resting on the bed. The pages of the book were aged, torn at the edges, and laced with the scent of something long buried—old leather, ashes, and the faint tinge of something darker. The symbols etched within were jagged and unnatural, shifting ever so slightly as if alive. This was no ordinary book, and it was never meant to be read by the unworthy.
He lowered his hand and flipped open the cover.
The moment the page turned, a low hum filled the room. Not a sound, exactly—but a pressure. As though something had awakened. The black aura within him stirred, pulsing like a second heartbeat in his chest. It recognized the energy in the scripture, responded to it, even welcomed it.
Lucien sat on the floor, placing both palms flat against the open pages. He closed his eyes.
And the knowledge came—not in words, not in glowing text—but like whispers carried on smoke. Each phrase slid into his mind, digging deeper. The book did not teach—it fed. It offered him glimpses into a path that defied balance, that thrived on consumption. It was not merely a skill; it was a way of life. The essence of hollow hunger. A path of absolute taking, not for greed, but survival.
He remained still, breathing slowly as the principles of the scripture etched themselves into the rhythm of his aura. He could feel the shift already. His aura—once violent, now refined—adapted. It no longer merely pulsed outward. It began to pull, absorbing fragments of lingering energy in the air, feasting on trace spiritual particles left by travelers and beasts.
Lucien extended a hand. A small flickering flame danced on a nearby candle.
He stared at it.
The black aura coiled around his fingertips, responding to a mere thought. Then it reached out like a tongue—and the flame disappeared. Not extinguished, not blown out. Consumed.
There was no smoke. No trace left behind.
Lucien exhaled slowly.
The potential of this technique… it was terrifying. It wasn't just magic consumption. No—if developed, it could erase curses, consume entire spells, even reduce living essence to fuel. And this was only the beginning.
He placed the scripture back into the ring and began to cultivate in earnest. Sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, he quieted his breath and let his body become a vessel.
His black aura moved naturally now. It flowed like ink in water, coiling through his veins, hugging his bones. It devoured unnecessary impurities within his body, refined his spiritual network, and restructured his meridian channels ever so slightly. At the same time, he guided his ordinary aura along its usual path—controlled, measured. Strengthening his foundation, amplifying his reserves.
The two auras no longer fought each other. Instead, they rotated together—one consuming, one reinforcing. Like the moon and the sun in a slow celestial dance.
Time passed.
The room grew quiet. The outside world dimmed further as night took over the district. The noise from the tavern downstairs had dulled to the occasional cough or the dragging of feet.
Lucien finally opened his eyes. His pupils gleamed faintly beneath the brim of his hat.
He had stabilized both powers.
He stood up and reached for the final item he had kept sealed in his dimensional ring since the cavern—his cloak.
He unfurled it. The fabric was dark gray, woven with threads that shimmered faintly when caught under moonlight. It looked plain, but the moment he swung it over his shoulders, the world around him reacted.
His footsteps became muted.
His breathing slowed.
Even the presence of his aura thinned, as if it melted into the shadows.
Lucien adjusted the collar, letting the long cloak drape over his noble coat. Then he closed his eyes, drawing in a long, slow breath.
It was time.
He reached inward and activated his aura detection, expanding it carefully. At first, it was shallow. He felt the nearby surroundings—his room, the hallway, the slow flicker of life downstairs.
He expanded it again.
The radius pushed outward, covering the buildings around the tavern, bleeding into alleyways and rooftops. He kept his breath steady, focused only on reading energy signatures. Most were average—low-level mercenaries, drunk citizens, a few street patrollers.
But Lucien's mind was sharp.
He kept pushing.
A fine sheen of sweat formed across his brow as his aura extended further, threading itself through the cracks of the district. He narrowed his eyes, tuning out the noise, refining the search.
And then—he felt something.
It was faint. Deliberately hidden. Moving fast.
Too fast for someone casual, yet not quite explosive enough to be a high-level fighter.
Lucien's lips curled slightly. "There you are."
He adjusted his gloves, stepped toward the window, and leapt.
A silent glide across rooftops. His cloak barely fluttered. His figure was a mere ghost in the night, flickering between buildings, stepping lightly across beams and stone like a drifting shadow.
Below him, the 12th District lay quiet.
But Lucien's gaze was locked ahead.
The hunt had begun.