As the scorched floor beneath Morrick's corpse began to crack and hiss, the body—still twisted and mangled from the King's finishing blow—started to dissolve. Not in ash, not in flame, but in strands of flickering light, as if every particle of him was being rewritten, restructured, condensed into something far older, far stranger. His bones folded into themselves. The black ichor of his blood drew in reverse, threading upward like ink dancing in water. His ruined form pulled tighter and tighter until only a single object remained in the settling silence.
A tarot card.
It hovered just above the crater, spinning slowly as if savoring the air. The back was lacquered black, filigreed with spiraling gold lines that warped inward into a singular spiral eye. Around the edges, small carvings of jesters—smiling, screaming, weeping—seemed to move subtly when unobserved. When the card flipped over on its own, the front revealed its name in ornate, curling crimson script:
The Dancing Fool.
The figure illustrated on it was eerily lifelike—a pale, androgynous being with a crooked grin, limbs impossibly long, balancing on one toe atop a disjointed stage made of shattered mirrors and broken instruments. A crown of spiked chains hung lopsided on its head. Around its wrists and ankles were limp marionette strings, severed, dangling. Its eyes were pitch voids, but a knowing, mocking smile cut across its lips as though it still remembered Lucien's face.
Lucien crouched beside the floating card, eyes narrowing slightly. He reached out with his gloved hand and let the red crest bloom across the fabric as his fingers wrapped around the card. The moment he touched it, the gold filigree pulsed like a dying heartbeat. He examined the front with one eyebrow raised, turning it between his fingers.
"…Ugly," he muttered. He tapped the crown with his thumb, expression wrinkling. "Nice hat though. Real regal. Real tragic. Idiot."
Then when he held it at another angle, there were words carved into it.
"Oooh."
It read:
-When the moonlight falls askance and the music plays where none should dwell, the Fool shall dance again. He pirouettes upon the graves of kings, jests before the gods, and sways where fates fray. He does not lead, nor does he follow. He stumbles with purpose, laughs without mirth, weeps without cause. For in his capering lies a truth none speak and all suffer. Those who draw his card will find their steps no longer their own. They will bow to winds unseen, answer questions never asked, and act upon a stage built long before they were born. Thus is the Law of the Dancing Fool: All must dance when fate demands it. Especially those who believe they've escaped the music.-
He stood, slipping the card between two fingers and holding it up to the blood-lit sky. "Number one-thousand," he whispered, then smirked wider, licking blood from the side of his mouth. "Took long enough. Guess that means I'm officially a menace again."
'Time to get my soul back from that stupid goddess.'
A sudden metallic screech rolled in from the distance—followed by a thundering grind of gears. Steam hissed. Boots struck pavement. Shouts echoed, distorted and panicked. Lucien tilted his head, hearing the unmistakable clatter of steam-powered carriages screeching to a halt beyond the ruins, followed by barking orders and the clank of armored feet. He sighed, flicked the card once, and tucked it into his coat.
"They always show up after the party," he muttered. Then with a casual brush of soot from his jacket and a lazy twist of his neck, Lucien turned his back on the smoking battlefield and walked toward the shadows beyond, boots crunching bone and broken tile. His silhouette vanished into the dark just as the first floodlights lit the rubble, and the engines of war finally caught up to a massacre already finished.
The Sanctioned Vault was a graveyard.
What had once been an opulent circus arena, filled with roaring crowds and gilded performances, now lay in charred ruin. Torn crimson fabric fluttered weakly from the skeletal remains of the rafters. Golden chandeliers had collapsed into the splintered floor, their melted wax pooling among the blood. The scent of burnt velvet, scorched flesh, and residual alchemy hung thick in the air, a noxious perfume of destruction.
Captain Adrien Roak of the Inquistion Bureau, led the squad inside, his every step methodical, controlled. His long storm-gray coat, reinforced with alchemic silver filigree, hung from broad shoulders, buttoned up to the neck in rigid formality. The high collar framed his sharp-cut jawline, his ashen-blond hair cropped short in a soldier's cut, a single streak of white running through his temple like a mark of experience—or exhaustion. His piercing ice-blue eyes swept the destruction with a look of hardened indifference, though the tightness in his brow betrayed something deeper.
"This makes 2 today, and over 800 in this past month," he muttered, the words edged with irritation. "This is getting repetitive. Tarot cards are rising and someone is slaughtering them before we can get here."
"To be fair," Ari Vaust drawled, kicking over a broken chair, "this is one of the more exciting ones. Too soon…? Sorry. My bad."
Ari was the definition of reckless elegance. Her deep auburn hair was only half-tied, loose strands curling around her sharp, fox-like features. Her scarlet coat, trimmed with silver, was worn open over a fitted black corset, a belt strapped diagonally across her hip where three daggers were sheathed in polished leather. She had the look of someone who could switch between charming or stabbing you without changing expressions.
"Exciting?" Markus Renalt grumbled beside her. "Look at this place. I used to come here as a little whelp. Never thought I'd see it go up in flames."
Markus was built like a war machine barely held together. His black duster, tattered at the edges, had once been standard-issue before he had modified it with reinforced plating on the shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thick forearms marred with deep, alchemic scarring—twisting, branching lines etched in burnt silver, remnants of an experiment gone wrong. His dark hair, streaked with premature iron-gray, was messy from weeks of sleep deprivation, his deep-set gray eyes hooded with exhaustion.
"We keep getting called to these incidents," he continued, rolling his stiff shoulder, "and we keep coming up with jack shit. Who is strong enough to take on a Tarot card alone?"
Enoch Duvain, always the quietest of the four, knelt beside a petrified corpse, gloved fingers tracing the fractured crystal skin. He was a shadow wrapped in midnight-black robes, the high collar of his coat nearly swallowing his sharp, gaunt features. Unlike the others, he wore no visible weapons—only silver rings, each inscribed with intricate, whisper-thin runes that seemed to shift under the light. His jet-black hair, straight and shoulder-length, was pulled back into a loose tail, but a few strands had fallen forward, casting a partial veil over his unnervingly dark eyes.
"…Whoever is sending these deities back into the cards…must have played around a bit."
Adrien turned toward him. "How?"
Enoch tilted his head, "The one earlier today, the Courageous Bee Tarot. Or Tarot of the Courageous Bee to keep it formal…was seen outside a bank, and was killed instantly. I made a copy of it from the archives of all the known Tarot."
He pulled out the tarot card, an escape replica of the real one. Which the real one is taken by Lucien after Lucien kills them.
The Tarot of the Courageous Bee was unlike other cards. Its back is woven from golden hexagonal threads, shimmering with a lacquered resin that seems to hum when touched. If tilted under sunlight, tiny silhouettes of bees—thousands of them—can be seen swarming across the surface in intricate spirals, forming celestial patterns too ancient to decipher. The front depicts a colossal bee-like creature, its thorax armored in interlocked amber plates, wings spread wide with veins of molten gold. Its many eyes gleam with wisdom and wrath, and coiled beneath it is a twisted nest of blackened thorns, cracked wax, and old bones. At its feet lies a wilted flower—bleeding—but behind it, a blooming garden erupts in radiant defiance.
This is no ordinary insect, but a mythic beast known in whispers as Vaelhym, the Ever-Stinging Sentinel. It is not born of nature, but of war and loyalty; summoned in ancient days by those who needed protection not for themselves, but for the innocent behind them.
When this Tarot is drawn, it does not offer prophecy. It only demands action.
When the card escapes its prison—when the beast breaks free—its wings create no sound, yet all can feel the thunder in their hearts. It seeks only one thing: the defense of the undeserving, the shielding of what is small, beautiful, and fragile. It charges with unstoppable devotion, no matter the size of the enemy, no matter the cost to itself.
And on the inner fold of the card, only visible when it flutters as if alive, reads:
-The Courageous do not sting for vengeance, nor chase victory. They bleed for what must be guarded. This is the Law of the Courageous Bee: Even the smallest life is worth dying for—if it cannot protect itself.-
Ari tilted her head, "Sooo what are you getting at?"
Enochcontinued, "The Courageous Bee who broke from its Tarot earlier was going around stabbing people with its stinger. But a second later was killed immediately. That was a Minor Arcana. Tarot cards have a tier list. Major Arcana — Great Laws (like the Sun, Moon) Court Cards — Aspects of human authority, and Minor Arcana Pip Cards — Seeds of Law chaotic yet potent. The Major Arcana, the first gods, the ones rumored to have shaped the world with their laws haven't even been seen by the public eye, so they have yet to pop up. And so far, the ones that have been getting slaughtered have been Minor Arcana or Court Cards. They're the weaker ones, but still strong in their own right."
Markus added, "Weaker ones….damn, thanks for making me feel weak for killing one with like a hundred inquisitors by my side."
"The proof was in front of us. Just this past week, Court & Pip Tarot roamed the streets, disguised as a broken bard, the Page of Cups Tarot; singing lullabies into empty bottles. A masked magistrate, the King of Pentacles Tarot, was passing decrees in dark cellars. A mad hunter, Knight of Red Swords Tarot, stalking dreamers in back alleys. Their presence warps neighborhoods, Temperance suit waters reflect reverse lives. The Tarot, Five of Wands, spawns noble family conflicts with no purpose but strife and conflict. The Minor Arcana Tarot gods have been killed without chaos and destruction surrounding them. But only the Court Cards have had chaos surrounding each of their deaths. The one killing them seems too strong for the Minor Arcana, and on par with the Court Cards."
Ari said, "But if the one killed this time was the Dancing Fool, and it was a Minor Arcana—."
"—He was playing with his food. The one who's killing them seems to love fighting, probably wanted to get entertained in any way. He was getting bored. After so much slaughtering, he wanted to change it up. There was someone like that, who killed witches. Sprawling their dead bodies all over the street so people could see them. The more powerful witches were the ones to suffer that fate. While the weaker ones were swiftly killed. Then after a while, the weaker witches of the coven had their bloody heads displayed on street poles along the street. And after some rumors and words from informants, that's how we found out it was Lucien who was leaving witch remains on the roads."
"Him…"
Then the temperature shifted.
The air grew heavier, the distant crackling of embers swallowed by an oppressive silence.
Lord Inquisitor Vulthein had arrived.
He stepped through the ruined archway, his black military coat flowing like a judge's robes, adorned with obsidian filigree and gold-lined insignias of the Inquisition's highest authority. Armor plating reinforced his shoulders, etched with runes of binding, the silver inlays faintly glowing under the flickering light.
His storm-gray eyes, cold as polished steel, swept over the wreckage with unhidden contempt. His jawline, sharp as a blade, was set in permanent disdain. A single streak of silver ran through his otherwise jet-black hair, neatly combed back, though a few strands had come loose from the night's wind.
At his heels followed three identical men, their crisp uniforms unblemished.
The Vulthein Triplets—unofficially known as Dumbass, Dumbass, and Dumbass, according to Markus—were eerily synchronized, each mirroring the other's movements. All of them shared dark red hair, and light brown eyes with freckles and glasses.
One spoke first. "Lord Vulthein, sir! This is truly the work of a vile heretic—"
The second jumped in. "A criminal of the highest order, no doubt! A mark upon our city, a—"
The third finished. "A disgrace to the laws you so valiantly uphold!"
Ari muttered to Markus, "How the hell does he tell them apart?"
Markus exhaled. "Dumbass one, dumbass two, dumbass three. Then again, they all sound a little different."
"Haha! Good one.." Ari shoulder bumped Markus.
Adrien shot them both a glare. They shut up.
Ari shoved Markus, "Nice going. You're not supposed to have fun around Captain Adrien, you know that."
"Tch, that was all you. Shouldn't have said anything."
Vulthein finally spoke, voice low, sharp, unwavering.
"Lucien Albrecht is alive. It's got his name written all over it."
Silence. That name was hated by all the Inquisition.
He stepped further inside, his boots crushing broken glass underfoot.
Ari shrugged, "Ehhh. Lucien….just hearing that name alone doesn't sit right with me."
Adrien said, "Lucien is a menace to society. The Black Chapel assassins aren't known to hunt Tarot's. Never. They only target witches. The witches were the only ones to try and kill the gods escaping their Tarot themselves."
"A witness. A child described exactly how Lucien looked. The child claimed he was saved by him." His voice dropped, but the weight behind it only grew heavier. Vulthein turned, his coat billowing like a specter. "Lucien Albrecht must die. Again. Knowing how he was an insanely violent and dangerous Assassin for the Black Chapel, he even killed many of our Inquisitors. I'm sure you all remember that day.."
The squad looked down with ease and distraught, they remembered how Lucien dangled one of their officers on the edge of a building, claiming her to be a witch, and ripped her in half with his bare hands, then dropping her remains off the rooftop where he stood.
Vulthien continued, "He wants to be seen, he doesn't care. He's even more reckless now. There is no imposter. It's him. The witnesses and child detailed him perfectly….we're going on a hunt again."
'Father…justice will be served in your name.'
Markus crossed his arms, jaw clenched as his eyes scanned the wreckage. "Still doesn't make sense," he muttered. "Nine hundred god-kills, and we didn't see it was him until now?"
Ari stepped around a splintered support beam, brow furrowed. "We always show up late, sure—but we're not blind." She gestured toward the still-smoking crater. "How does a body count like that go unnoticed for so long?"
Enoch's voice came low, almost a whisper. "He wasn't the type to give a damn about the gods because the witches would be busy trying to deal with them before. But the roles reversed. We would have never tried to connect him to these scenes, because he never cared about religion or divinity. Only the witches. He was supposed to be dead anyway."
Markus shook his head. "So he shoots a god in the head in front of children, and that's his way of saying hello?"
Vulthein didn't respond at first. His jaw tightened. Then, cold and flat, he said, "Lucien Albrecht does nothing by accident." He turned slightly, facing the open archway. "If he's showing himself now… it's because the next act is already written. We'll catch him and finish him off where he stands. My father built the Inquisition from the ground up. It's only right that I purge the one who treats his life's work like a game."
Ari gritted her teeth, "Damn right. He killed most of the rookies I came into the Inquisition with. Him and The Black Chapel thinking they were witches in disguise.."
Vulthein, walking away, his legs leaving the area, but his thoughts stayed on the incident, especially Lucien Albrecht. A man whom he celebrated the death of. But now Lucien is back. And even more chaotic.
'I will end him, father. But how is that maniac alive after his dead body was displayed for the world to see in the sky…? Is this a test..? Whatever it is, I'll show you my courage and strength. When I had none, you showed me I had to work to gain even those. I can't be weak again, I can't show weakness to myself or the Inquisition. I didn't catch Lucien today, I will pay penance to myself for my failure. Everyday I'll eat only bread and nothing else until we catch him, to build my character, my toughness, and my strength mentally. I'll break my own skin every morning to clear the thought of loss and failure out of my head. That's what you did. That's why the Inquisition is in its successful stages. And I will follow suit. I'll make myself suffer, so I won't have room to suffer from my own loss and failure. Like you did.'
(Above, elsewhere on the rooftops)
Drakehelm sprawled beneath Lucien, a restless machine of flesh and iron, stitched together by greed, survival, and desperation. From this height, he could see it all—the rich drinking their black honey tea on high balconies, wrapped in their silks and safety, their boots never touching filth; the poor huddled under rusted awnings, lit by flickering neon lanterns, their hands outstretched for coin that would never come.
The Steel Gear automatons stood at their posts, unyielding and indifferent, their brass-plated torsos glinting under the smog-drowned moonlight as they monitored the streets with their lifeless blue eyes. Merchants hawked their trinkets—cursed lockets, bone charms pulled from the Hollow Wastes, alchemic tinctures promising strength, beauty, or forgetfulness.
Same city, same story. This was a city with no empire or higher judicial power ruling everyone like all the other states of this world. This city, and the many cities in this state of Aethero, all suppressed by the Inquisition. But every other state had an empire ruling over them. Figures.
Lucien barely paid attention, though.
He was more focused on the damn cat in his hand, his hand wrapped around the cat's throat.
Named Torch.
Torch dangled from his grip, limp, his gold eyes half-lidded in his usual apathetic stare, as if Lucien's ongoing crisis was nothing more than an inconvenience. The small broken golden star on his back pulsed faintly, a brand of something unknown, something unnatural.
Lucien scowled.
"You little mythic bastard," he muttered, shaking the cat lightly. "You just don't stop, do you?"
Torch blinked. Slowly. Unimpressed.
Lucien scoffed, shaking his head like a man on the edge of a breakdown.
"Every time. Every. Single. Time. I leave you behind? You find me. I throw you off a train? You're waiting at my next stop. I set you on fire? You don't even flinch. I buried you, buried you, and you came back looking cleaner than before!"
Torch yawned.
Lucien's eye twitched.
"Ever since I came back, ever since that damned goddess shoved me back into this world, you've been there. Stalking me. Watching me. And every time I think I've finally gotten rid of you—you pop back up again!"
He let go.
Torch fell.
Lucien watched with a smiling satisfaction as the cat plummeted, twisting weightlessly through the air. No reaction. No resistance. He simply descended, staring up at Lucien the entire time with that same infuriatingly calm expression.
And then—impact.
Torch hit the cobblestone hard. A brutal, visceral splatter of fur, bone, and blood. Civilians screamed, staggering back in horror, hands clapping over their mouths. Some ran. Others just stood there, gaping at the grotesque display of what had once been a cat.
Lucien stood still for a moment, staring down over the edge.
Then, slowly, his shoulders began to shake.
A chuckle slipped through his lips, quiet at first, then growing, building, rising into a full-bodied cackle of manic triumph.
"I did it..I DID IT!" he bellowed, throwing his arms out wide, tears of laughter in his eyes. "I FINALLY KILLED THAT LITTLE STALKER!"
Behind him, his summons exchanged glances.
The Joker tilted its masked head, its split face twitching as if deciding whether this was a cause for concern. The King merely folded his arms, silent, while the Queen snapped open her fan, hiding whatever expression lay beneath it. She was feeling sorry for the cat but she silently laughed at Lucien's antics . The Jack flipped a silver coin in the air, unimpressed.
Lucien said to the summons, "Wasn't he annoying?"
The Jack, The Joker, The Queen, and even The King shook their heads in disagreement.
Lucien scoffed, "Huh?! You should feel my annoyance! Artemis said you are my summons, and because of that, she explained you feel what I feel!"
'Oh wait. Feel what I feel. Not exactly feeling the exact same way I'm feeling like they're my clones. They just can feel my emotions. Sense them or something."
Lucien wiped at his face, grinning wildly. "Finally, some peace."
And then—something heavy landed on his shoulder.
His blood went cold.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his head.
Torch sat there.
Perfectly fine.
Not a single scratch on him.
Lucien stared.
Torch blinked. Flicked his tail.
Lucien screamed.
"WHAT THE FUCK?! I SAW YOU DIE! I FOR SURE THOUGHT IT WAS GONNA WORK!"
In a pure panic, Lucien grabbed Torch with both hands around the throat, and slammed him onto the rooftop, pinning him down like he was wrestling a demon incarnate.
"YOU WERE DEAD! I SAW IT! I SAW YOU DIE! YOU EXPLODED! THERE WERE ENTRAILS! DIE! DIE NOW! Do I have to eat you to finally get rid of you…?!"
Torch remained unbothered, yawning and keeping a straight face as his tail swayed. He didn't fee any of this pain.
Lucien's fingers tightened around the cat's throat.
"WHY WON'T YOU DIE?! WHO ARE YOU?!"
The Joker tilted its head.
The Queen's fan lowered slightly.
The King exhaled quietly through his nose.
And the Jack, ever the nuisance, flicked a coin at Lucien's forehead.
Lucien flinched as the silver piece bounced off his skull with a sharp tink! He snarled, rubbing his temple.
Torch used the distraction to wiggle free.
Lucien clawed at his hair in exasperation.
Torch sat down a few feet away, tail curling around his paws. He began grooming himself, completely indifferent to Lucien's existential breakdown. Then the Queen kneeled down to pet him, stroking his fur, smiling.
Lucien collapsed onto his back, staring up at the cloudy sky, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
'I hate this. All of it. Being controlled. Being followed. Being bound to things I don't understand. Like this entire Tarot card thing. A thousand kills and yet, I barely know anything about them. How they got here, how they got sealed when they're supposed to be all powerful, who sealed them..why the goddess of chaos chose me as her own little person god killing servant..'
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose.
'It's always something. Always. Ever since I clawed my way back, there's been a chain around my throat. The goddess who owns my soul. The cursed debt that binds me. The mark burning into my spine. Even my own existence isn't my own. And now, this cat. I mean, he's not that bad, but the fact that he can't die is like mocking me. And he has this smug arrogant look about it every time.'
His fingers twitched.
'I hate the feeling of being controlled. I always have. I hate people thinking they can put their hands on my life, shove me into their little plans, pull my strings like I'm some leashed dog. That's why I don't keep people close. That's why I don't trust, and why I don't let things linger. Because any connection to anything or anyone—It's all just another form of control. Still a damn slave to it. That's how you end up getting ran over.'
Lucien let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down his face.
But still, the thoughts crept in, unwelcome. That quiet, gnawing weight of solitude. He shoved it away.
'This is better. It has to be…'
Then, something warm pressed against his chest.
Lucien opened his eyes.
Torch was sitting on him.
Lucien screamed again.
"GET OFF ME!"
He flipped over, grabbing the cat and pinning him back down with both hands, his summons moving in the background, watching like spectators at a colosseum fight.
Torch stared up at him. Blinked. Yawned.
Lucien's eye twitched.
"I will end you. I swear to every tarot god left rotting in this world."
Torch flicked his tail. Giving that same smug grin.
The summons were laughing without making noise, besides the King.
Lucien's hands trembled, then let go. Sitting back on his bottom, saying, "Ughh. What am I even doing? I don't think I'm that cruel to kill a kitten."
'Crap. I've killed that rat over 100 times. In new ways and old. There's no getting rid of him. Unless I can find new ways to clobber him. Maybe eating him is a choice? No that's sick..but it might work? No, gross. What if the bastard regenerates in my stomach? I'll be shitting cat fur all day.'
The air was cold against the rooftop a few blocks away from the Sanctioned Vault, the wind tugging at the frayed edges of Lucien's coat. The city stretched below, a sprawling labyrinth of gas-lit streets and crumbling stone, its veins pulsing with the movements of Inquisition patrols scouring the wreckage for answers they would never find.
He exhaled slowly, the distant hum of officers barking orders a dull murmur beneath him. The sound of steam and gears clogged the atmosphere like a symphony, the smell of soot and brimstone carving a path to his nostrils like he was standing next to a forge.
And then, she arrived.
Lucien felt her before he saw her.
A presence like a storm—calm, contained, but heavy with the promise of violence.
Sella Varcosta stood at the edge of the rooftop, poised in a way that made it look as if the wind itself had placed her there. Her long, dark coat, lined with silver embroidery and intricate alchemic sigils, billowed slightly as she crossed her arms, leaning against the worn brick wall with a practiced ease. The dim blue glow of Aether lamps below illuminated the sharp, sculpted angles of her face—high cheekbones, dark lashes, lips curled in something between amusement and disdain.
Her light green eyes, piercing and calculating, found his immediately.
Lucien let out a short chuckle, tapping the deck of cards against his palm.
"Didn't take you long," he muttered.
"Like I'd lose your scent," Sella replied smoothly, pushing off the wall and walking toward him—slow, deliberate steps, the kind a predator made when it knew the kill was inevitable.
Then, the wind blew a little, and she almost fell off the roof, and she waved her hands like she was trying to grab onto the air. "Oooh! Ooh!"
Then she got herself together, and Lucien pointed at her, laughing, "HAHA! You almost fell like that cat!"
Sella's face was flushed with embarrassment, "S-Shut up! Worry about yourself."
Then she pointed at the Queen, saying, "Your little magic summon used that wind she has in that fan to try and knock me off the building!"
The Queen looked over her fan, then pointed at herself, and Sella nodded, "Yes you."
The Queen widened her arms, like she wanted a hug, but Sella said, "Tch. Screw your hugs. I'd shoot you in the face, but I can only assume you're as hard to kill as Lucien, so I won't make foolish movements."
The Joker pointed and smiled widely, theatrically laughing with no sound. And the Jack leaned against him, holding his stomach in theatrical laughter, flipping his coin at the same time. The King just watched.
There was something striking about Sella, a presence that demanded attention without ever asking for it. The way her coat was fitted, cinched at the waist with elegant silver clasps but worn enough to show years of movement and use. The way her gloved fingers twitched, ever so slightly, like she was resisting the urge to grab something.
'What is this feeling… ?'
Or someone.
Lucien watched her with his usual smirk, but his eyes flicked—just briefly—to the way her gaze kept shifting. Not to his weapons. Not to his mask. But to his neck.
A hunger. Sharp. Sudden. Unwelcome.
Her heart pounded once—loud, demanding.
'What the hell is this? It's..…I feel a weird hunger…'
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus, clearing her throat.
"You know why I'm here," she said, voice smooth as glass.
Lucien let out a soft laugh, stretching his arms behind his head. "Yeah, yeah, join the club. You want my head. Ohhh The Exarch demands my head and entrails. Whatever the fuck you cultists do."
Sella's eyes flickered dangerously. "This isn't a joke. And we're not cultists, we're assassins, hunters of the darkness. You were one of us. Don't forget."
"It's a little funny."
She stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that Lucien could smell the faint traces of gunpowder, old books, and something floral beneath it.
She smelled nice, Lucien couldn't deny it even in his own chaotic mind.
"You think I want to be standing here, talking to you?" she murmured, her voice lower now, sharp with something she wasn't sure she could name. "I don't. I despise you, Albrecht."
Lucien raised a brow, smirking. "That so?"
"I've devoted everything I have to the Black Chapel," she continued, ignoring the way her pulse quickened again. "I was in a different sanctuary than you when we were kids, but when I learned what you were—what you became—I knew I had to make myself worthy of hunting you down. Something that's an abomination. The Exarch sees you as a danger."
Lucien said, "I wasn't super invincible before I was betrayed. The Exarch had to have betrayed me for another reason. All I did was take orders, kill whatever witch I needed to kill, and that was it."
Sella stepped back, composing herself. Once again, she kept looking at Lucien's neck, her heart slightly pounded, like there was an infernal hunger brewing up within her body. Nothing lustful or intimate, but true mythic hunger. A weird craving.
Sella composed her once more. "I can't answer that, because I don't know. The Black Chapel exists for a reason," she continued, eyes narrowing. "We were founded in the shadows.. When witches, magic and alchemy ran unchecked, when this world teetered on the edge of collapse, we did what the Inquisition couldn't—we purged the corruption."
Lucien already knew this.
Sella continued, circling him now like a wolf speaking to its prey. "We don't just hunt witches. We aim for the Witch Queen. The one above the coven of witches."
Lucien finally tilted his head at that. "So the Black Chapel's scared of bedtime stories now? I never heard of a witch queen before. Sounds too on the nose doesn't it?"
"Of course you didn't. I'm the only one who knows. The only one he's told. He trusts me with it."
Lucien let out a slow whistle. "Heavy stuff. Who's this rumored Witch Queen then?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"Good point. Don't tell me then."
Sella reached into her coat, pulling out a silver pendant on a thin chain, holding it between her gloved fingers.
A black cathedral, a sun split in two. It was the pendant every assassin of the Black Chapel held. But the one she held, was larger. It was the Exarch's pendant.
"This is why I won't tell. The Exarch entrusted me with this, as an oath and bond to keep what we share in secret."
Lucien's gaze flicked to it, unreadable. 'He gave me the same thing when he told me not to run my mouth about rogue assassins in our branch. He just wanted me to take them out and not tell anyone what happened to them.'
"And yet," Lucien said, "you still haven't tried to kill me."
Sella's jaw clenched.
She wanted to.
She really, really wanted to.
But something stopped her.
Something she didn't have a name for.
She didn't care about Lucien. She hated him. He's the enemy of the Black Chapel, of course they're sworn enemies.
So instead, she took a slow breath and stepped even closer, until her words were a whisper against his skin.
"I will kill you, Albrecht," she murmured. "I will stay by your side until I find a way to do it. You're not special. Everyone dies. No one is immortal. But your toughness is troublesome. Everyone has a weakness."
Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs. She was looking at his neck again, her fingers slightly twitched.
'Why…why am I craving something…? What even is it? I keep looking at his neck, like something is reaching for me there…'
She clenched her teeth, forcing the thought down.
Lucien barely reacted. Behind him, his summons—The Joker, the King, the Queen, and the Jack—looked at each other, silently exchanging glances.
Lucien sighed, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "Great. Another stalker. No thanks."
Sella blinked. "What? I-I command you to allow me to follow you!"
Lucien shrugged. "I've already got an annoying cat who follows me around, and a goddess who won't shut up in my head. I don't have room for any more clingy people."
Sella's eye twitched.
"You're a fool."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."
She exhaled, shaking her head. "I have a question for you then. If you know I'm going to try and kill you, why don't you just kill me first?"
Lucien met her gaze, and for a split second, there was something—not playful, not mocking, but tired.
"I don't kill unless I feel threatened," he said simply. "Or if I get paid."
Sella stared at him. "…You're serious?"
'Huh?! He's not threatened by my presence?! After all I've done to get strong enough to kill him?!'
"Yeah I'm serious." He shrugged. "Not really a fan of random murder. I mean in your case, if I put a bullet in your head or rip you in half with my bare hands, I have a reason. Cause' you want my head. But you could be of some use to me."
There was something about the way he said it, something that made her pause. She inhaled sharply, then turned on her heel, stepping toward the edge of the rooftop. "The Black Chapel won't hear of this."
Lucien raised a brow. "Yeah? Gee thanks." He didn't mean it. "But of course they won't. The Exarch won't like it if you're tagging along on my god slaughtering adventures."
"But more assassins will come for you," she continued.
Lucien yawned, stretching his arms behind his head. "Ya know, you ALL could just attack me at once. Make it fun for me and my summons."
Sella laughed, "Ha! That would be foolish. I don't want anyone to claim my prize. And if I bring your head to the Exarch…I will finally be worthy of the power he promised. Letting someone else kill you, will disappoint the Exarch, when he speaks so highly of me."
Lucien pointed at himself, teasing, "I'm your prize huh? Are you trying to romance me?"
Sella replied, "Tch. You wish. I don't have time for romance, relationships, only my duty to take your head off your shoulders."
"Good good. I don't do romance either. It's just another chain to tie you down. Like the Exarch has all of you."
Sella shot him a sharp glare over her shoulder. "…I'll find you later."
Lucien panicked, waving his hands. "HOLD UP. I didn't say you could just follow me around!"
His summons chuckled silently with no noise coming from them, but their expressions have it away theatrically.
"Hm? Guess you didn't. Since you won't force me away, I made my own choice." Sella rebutted.
"Before you go.."
"What is it?"
"The Exarch called us his most prized assassins. The Great Lucien Albrecht and Sella Varcosta. But since everything went to shit and I was kicked to the curb, what makes you think the same won't happen to you—."
"—It won't! It won't..he said he'll make me better than you. That he'll put everything he has into making sure of that. And to make sure I inherit everything I'm meant for in this life. I was promised a god's power if I kill you. We all were. I have to get it no matter what. It's expected of me. I may be hated like you by some of the assassins because of how important we were to the Exarch, but I don't care about them. I'm only out for myself."
"Kinda figured you were like that. Still would like to know what's his issue with me. I want answers. What did I do before that pissed him off and made him cry like a baby? He fed me the same lies he fed you. You fuck up bad enough, you're done for."
"It won't happen to me. Something was wrong with you before the Exarch killed you. He told me there was nothing wrong with me."
"Right…whatever then. Do what you want."
Sella's eyes lingered on him.
Just for a second. She looked at his neck, and her heart throbbed.
'What..is that feeling..?!' She scoffed at herself in her head. 'Get rid of it…'
And then she was gone.
Lucien sighed, and he stood there, thinking, 'There she goes. And she's coming back to stick with me like a moth to a lantern. Am I really letting her follow me around? I've heard of her, she was definitely in another sanctuary of the Black Chapel, as there are plenty all over the world. Weirdly enough, they never let us meet. I like my loneliness…I don't need anyone trying to destroy that. But for Sella, the main reason I could want her around, Is that I could possibly figure out why the Exarch took me down before. Get answers out of her. Get her to help me without knowing she's helping. Did the Exarch get pissed because I wanted to carve my own path? Was it because I wanted to leave without saying goodbye and kissing their ass? Because I was almost caring about some of my own comrades? I didn't want to form any relationship, seeing how being tied down to anything makes your life even more stressful, less free. I wanted to leave before I could feel bad for anyone dying in front of me. I hardened my heart for a reason. And even through all of that, it does sound edgy, relentless even. And that's fine.'
The streets of Drakehelm pulsed with the feverish rhythm of the city's restless heart, the train station at its center a roaring beast of steam, iron, and ceaseless movement. The scent of burning coal and alchemic oil mingled with the damp musk of bodies packed too close together, voices rising and falling like an untamed tide.
Lucien, with Torch on his shoulder, walked through the crowd, his new attire catching the gaslight in sharp, elegant contrast. His suit—a deep, arterial red—was embroidered with white filigree along the cuffs and lapels, the fine silk lined with hidden layers of reinforced stitching. A matching mask, pale with crimson etchings, concealed the upper half of his face, leaving only his vivid dark yellow eyes exposed, each step measured, unhurried, untouched by the chaos around him.
The city never changed.
It was always people, rushing to be anywhere but where they were.
A group of workers slouched near a smoking automaton, its brass limbs worn from overuse as it helped reconstruct a fire-gutted building.
"Another one up in flames," one muttered, rubbing soot from his face. "Damn rats set their own shop on fire just to collect insurance."
"Nah. That's Red Death cleanup, ain't it? That plague?" Another grunted, adjusting his cap. "They say when the infection reaches the lungs, the coughing alone can burn a house down."
A woman nearby pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, glancing nervously toward a cluster of figures hunched beneath a tattered awning. Their bodies were wrapped in sackcloth, faces hidden, though the faint sound of wet, hacking coughs could still be heard.
"It's getting worse," someone whispered. "The plague ward's overrun. They're just letting them die in the streets now."
Lucien scoffed under his breath.
'Pathetic. Look at them—huddling together like dying animals, clinging to a life already lost. They should have the dignity to rot in private.'
His gaze swept the station, cataloging details like ink in a journal. A merchant peddled alchemic trinkets, claiming his charms could ward off sickness. A gun seller displayed his wares on a velvet cloth, his voice loud, insistent—each bullet handcrafted, each barrel polished to perfection. Near the platform's edge, a young woman argued with an officer automaton, its metal frame standing rigid as it reviewed her identification papers in its mechanical voice.
And then there was the paperboy, standing atop a wooden crate, waving the evening news in ink-stained fingers.
"PLAGUE RIOTS IN THE LOWER QUARTERS! RED DEATH CASES UP 200%—QUARANTINES FAILING!"
"MAJOR RED DEATH PLAGUE OUTBREAK IN THE CITY OF SOLRITHE—INQUISITORS STRUGGLE TO CONTAIN THE MARKED!"
"CIRCUS SLAUGHTER! FAMOUS WITCH HUNTER, THOUGHT TO BE LONG DEAD, BELIEVED TO BE INVOLVED—AUTHORITIES INVESTIGATING!"
"BLACK CHAPEL SIGHTINGS! ORDER OF SHADOWS EXECUTES SUSPECTED CULT LEADERS IN VUELPORT—NO BODIES FOUND!"
"AETHERO TRADE ROUTES DISRUPTED! GUILD CONFLICTS ESCALATING—PRICES EXPECTED TO SKYROCKET!"
"SEVENTEEN PEOPLE MISSING THIS MORNING! IT'S SAFE TO SAY THE WITCHES ARE STRIKING!"
Lucien smirked beneath his mask as the murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Black Chapel, huh?" a man muttered to his companion. "If those zealots are moving, it means there's a whole lot of witches ready to be beheaded. Thank goodness. They're the cause of the plague."
"Tch. Doesn't matter. They only hunt in the dark. You never see 'em coming."
"Huh?! They hunt night and day!"
At the edge of the platform, the train conductor stood beside a large, brass-plated ticket automaton, its clockwork fingers counting coins with meticulous precision. Lucien approached, reaching into his coat.
He withdrew a single coin, slipping it onto the counter.
The currency was unique—a circular piece of obsidian metal, its center carved with an intricate spiral of interwoven symbols. This was no ordinary fare. The conductor's eyes flickered with recognition, but he made no comment. He simply nodded, gesturing toward the train doors.
"Ha-Have a good ride sir…!" He said with weariness.
Lucien stepped inside, knowing the conductor was aware of who he was, just by the hair and the eyes.
The automaton at the entrance whirred to life, its mechanical voice ringing out with a grating cheerfulness.
"WELCOME, PASSENGER. PLEASE OBSERVE THE FOLLOWING RULES."
Lucien's eye twitched.
'Ughhh you gotta be kidding me. These things have always been annoying.'
"NO OPEN FLAMES. NO UNREGISTERED ALCHEMIC SUBSTANCES. NO EXCESSIVE NOISE. NO PETS. NO WEAPONS. NO—"
Lucien shoved past it with an irritated grunt. "Move or die, tin can."
Torch, perched comfortably on his shoulder, flicked his tail.
"NO PETS DETECTED." The automaton chirped, its glowing eyes scanning Lucien. "HAVE A SAFE JOURNEY."
Lucien stared at it, deadpan. Then at Torch.
Torch stared back.
Lucien shook his head, muttering under his breath as he walked deeper into the train.
'The automatons can't see him?'
The cabin was empty.
Good.
He took a seat near the window as the train doors hissed shut, gears shifting, levers clicking into place. A deep mechanical groan rolled through the floorboards, and then—the lurch of movement.
The city of Drakehelm began to slide away, its lights fading behind a veil of steam and smoke.
Lucien leaned back, arms crossed, watching the blurred skyline disappear.
Torch settled beside him, his small frame barely making a dent in the seat.
Lucien sighed.
'People always look happiest when they're with someone else. Holding hands, sharing food, leaning on each other like the world isn't a festering corpse beneath their feet. I can't decide if I envy them or despise them.'
He tilted his head slightly, watching a family still visible on the station's platform—two parents, a child between them, laughing as they waved someone off.
'They'll cling to each other, tie themselves down with love, marriage, jobs they despise, homes they can't afford. They'll make their lives smaller and call it happiness.'
He scoffed.
'Idiots.'
His gaze flicked to the reflection in the glass—his own masked face staring back at him, unreadable.
'Then again… being alone isn't all it's cracked up to be either.'
His fingers tapped against his arm, thoughtful.
'Doesn't matter. Attachments are just chains with fancier names. People lie. People leave. People die. It's better this way. No gods. No masters. No fate.'
Torch let out a slow, drawn-out yawn beside him.
Lucien glanced at him.
"…You're not people. Still don't even know where you came from. You're just another anomaly in my life."
Torch blinked once, then curled his tail around his paws.
Lucien exhaled, closing his eyes as the train carried him further into the unknown.
'I'm tired…thinking too much makes my head spin.'
The train rumbled forward, cutting through the vast industrial veins of the city, a machine gliding across the bones of a dying world. Lucien sat with his elbow against the window, his gaze drifting across the landscape as flickering street lamps and smokestacks blurred together in ribbons of light and soot.
Outside, the world remained a grand mess of iron, brass, and decay. Steam vents hissed from beneath the streets, releasing gouts of vapor that momentarily swallowed passing carriages.
Massive airships hovered above, their hulking frames casting long, sluggish shadows over the rooftops. Bridges of metal and stone crisscrossed the cityscape, where merchants peddled their wares—alchemy sellers hawking their bottled miracles, black-market arms dealers whispering promises of bullets that could kill anything, even ghosts.
A group of workers toiled near the base of a ruined factory, automatons assisting them in rebuilding what looked to have been an old alchemic refinery, recently reduced to a skeletal frame of charred steel beams. Nearby, officers in dark coats stood in a loose circle, dragging a man out from an alleyway—his skin sickly, his breath rattling.
Lucien rubbed the back of his neck, then he froze.
There was someone sitting beside him in the other seat.