Lucan’s body ached, his muscles still throbbing from the earlier blow. His vision blurred, but he forced himself to stay upright, his gauntlet humming with barely restrained power. The device pulsed in his grip, absorbing Aether at a dangerous rate—too soon, and it would overload.


    Then he saw him.


    The village blacksmith—a monster of muscle and raw strength, his scarred body covered in black Aether runes. He stood at the edge of the battlefield, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths.


    His seven-foot war hammer gleamed under the firelight, the runes carved into its head pulsing with ancient power.


    Veylan stood before him, sword drawn.


    Lucan''s heart pounded.


    "Veylan!" he called out. "Hold him off! Give me two minutes!"


    Veylan shot him a look. "Two minutes? Are you insane?!"


    Lucan didn’t answer. His gauntlet was still charging, its energy volatile, on the brink of becoming unstable. If he attacked now, the blacksmith would crush him in an instant.


    Veylan clicked his tongue, turning back toward his opponent. "Guess I’ll just have to stall then."


    The blacksmith took a step forward, his massive hammer dragging against the dirt. The weight alone sent small tremors through the ground.


    He raised his gaze, locking eyes with Veylan.


    And then—he moved.


    The hammer came crashing down.


    Veylan rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding instant death as the weapon slammed into the earth. The impact alone tore a crater into the battlefield, dirt and debris exploding outward like a shockwave. The sheer force sent a gust of scorching wind into his face, stinging his skin.


    Veylan barely had time to catch his breath before the blacksmith lunged again.


    A second strike—faster than before.


    Veylan twisted his body, dodging just as the hammer whistled past his ear, the air around it distorting with the force of the swing.


    "Too fast—too strong."


    The blacksmith wasn’t just some brute with a heavy weapon. He was trained. Precise. Calculated.


    I can’t block. If I block, I die.


    Veylan grit his teeth, keeping his movements erratic. Dodge. Dodge. Keep moving.


    But the blacksmith wasn’t letting up.


    Another swing—this time horizontal, aimed at Veylan’s ribs.


    Veylan barely had time to react. He jumped back, the sheer force of the swing parting the air with a shrill whistle.


    His breath came in ragged gasps. His body burned, his limbs already beginning to slow.


    "Damn it—I can’t keep dodging forever."


    Lucan was still kneeling yards away, his gauntlet glowing brighter as it absorbed more and more Aether energy, the hum now an electric roar.


    "Hurry up, kid!"


    Veylan had no choice. He had to strike first.


    The blacksmith lifted his hammer again, but this time—Veylan moved first.


    He lunged, his piercing rune sword flashing in the firelight as he went for the legs.


    A direct stab to the thigh.


    The blade pierced through flesh, sinking deep into the blacksmith’s left leg.


    For the first time, the giant staggered.


    A growl escaped his lips—not pain, but anger.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    Veylan yanked his sword free, blood spraying across the dirt. He took a step back, adjusting his grip.


    "One more good hit and he’s down—"


    The blacksmith gritted his teeth and swung his hammer at full force.


    Veylan’s eyes widened.


    If this hit him—his skull would explode.


    Before the hammer could reach its target—


    Lucan moved.


    One second, he was kneeling in the dirt, gasping for air as raw Aether crackled around his gauntlet.


    The next—he was between them.


    His gauntlet ignited, releasing arcs of violet energy that crackled through the air like wild lightning. The moment his fingers wrapped around the hammer''s shaft, the world seemed to slow. The collision sent out a shockwave so powerful it blasted away dirt, shattered nearby stone, and sent burning embers spiraling into the sky.


    The battlefield trembled.


    Veylan was thrown backward by the force, landing hard on his back, his sword slipping from his grasp. "What the—?" he breathed, eyes wide in disbelief.


    Lucan grinned through gritted teeth. His body screamed in protest, his muscles threatening to tear apart under the strain of stopping an attack that could have obliterated a castle wall. His gauntlet groaned, energy surging wildly as it absorbed the kinetic force of the blacksmith''s hammer.


    The blacksmith, still gripping the handle of his weapon, did not flinch. His expression remained eerily calm, his eyes scanning Lucan with the cold detachment of a predator evaluating prey.


    Lucan smirked. "You look surprised."


    For the first time, a flicker of acknowledgment crossed the blacksmith''s face—not fear, but recognition.


    Then, he reacted.


    With a guttural growl, the blacksmith twisted his massive body, shifting his weight to wrench the hammer free. The sudden movement sent a tremor through the ground, nearly toppling Lucan. But he did not let go.


    Instead, he retaliated.


    Lucan''s free hand reeled back, energy coiling around his fist like a storm given form.


    He struck.


    A direct punch to the blacksmith''s chest—but this was no ordinary attack. The moment Lucan''s fist connected, the stored energy within his gauntlet detonated like a controlled explosion. The resulting shockwave rippled outward, sending fractures racing across the ground in jagged patterns, splitting the earth beneath their feet.


    The blacksmith—a man who had stood unshaken against every attack before—was launched through the air.


    His massive frame hurtled backward, smashing through wooden carts, splintering fence posts, and finally colliding against a stone wall with such force that it cracked and crumbled beneath his weight.


    For the first time—he did not immediately rise.


    Lucan exhaled, shaking excess energy from his gauntlet. His fingers tingled with lingering power, his body thrumming with residual Aether. Slowly, he turned toward Veylan, who was still sprawled in the dirt, staring at him like he had just witnessed the impossible.


    Lucan tilted his head, a sly grin creeping onto his face. "Still think two minutes was too long?"


    By the time Veylan had gathered the weapons, the village was already in ruins.


    The flames had spread, devouring homes, fields—every trace of life that once existed here. The acrid scent of charred wood and burning flesh thickened the air, clinging to their clothes, their skin. Smoke curled skyward in thick plumes, turning the night into a suffocating haze of red and black.


    Lucan sat atop a pile of corpses, his armored gauntlet resting on his knee, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage with quiet calculation. The bodies beneath him—soldiers, farmers, elders—were still warm, their lifeless eyes reflecting the flickering firelight. He barely noticed the blood soaking into his boots.


    Before him, the remaining villagers knelt in the scorched dirt, their faces streaked with ash and tears. They did not resist. They did not beg for mercy. They had already surrendered to something greater than fear—hopelessness.


    A child clung to his mother’s tattered cloak, his hollow eyes locked onto Lucan. Silent. Motionless. The boy’s small hands trembled, but he did not cry. There were no tears left to shed.


    The only sounds were the crackling fire, the distant wails of the dying, and the occasional collapse of a burning structure giving in to the inevitable.


    Veylan stood beside him, shifting his weight uncomfortably. He had seen battles, had shed blood, but this—this was something else. He kicked at a charred wooden beam, watching the embers scatter into the night. “So… what now?”


    Lucan stared at the burning remains of Eldermere.


    A thousand thoughts clashed in his mind, but no answer came. Not yet.


    And for the first time, he said nothing.


    The flames had begun to wane, their ravenous hunger sated. The once-thriving village had been reduced to smoldering ruins, skeletal remnants of homes standing like charred tombstones. The heat pressed against Lucan’s skin, yet he felt cold inside.


    His gauntlet, still warm from battle, pulsed faintly as if echoing the lives it had just extinguished. The weight of his actions settled upon him—not in regret, but in realization. He had crossed a threshold. There was no turning back.


    The villagers remained kneeling, their silence deafening. Some trembled, others stared blankly, resigned to whatever fate awaited them. Their expressions were not of hatred, nor of defiance—only submission.


    Lucan exhaled slowly. “Take them,” he finally spoke, his voice low, devoid of emotion.


    Veylan turned to him, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “Take them?”


    Lucan’s gaze remained fixed on the ruins. “Survivors. Fighters. Those who can serve.” His fingers flexed against the metal of his gauntlet. “The rest…” He trailed off, but the meaning was clear.


    Veylan sighed, rolling his shoulders. “So that’s how it is.”


    Lucan finally turned to him, his expression unreadable. “This is how it has to be.”


    Veylan didn’t argue. He had followed Lucan for years, seen him rise through blood and conquest. He knew better than to challenge him now.


    The men moved swiftly, rounding up those who remained. Chains rattled in the firelight as the strongest were pulled to their feet, the weak left where they knelt. The boy who had clung to his mother was taken, his tiny fingers pried away from her as she was cast aside. She didn’t fight. She didn’t scream. She only stared at Lucan, her eyes hollow, before she was swallowed by the darkness of the ruins.


    Lucan felt her gaze long after she had disappeared.


    He rose from the corpses, stepping down with the deliberate grace of a ruler ascending his throne.


    The Throne of Fire.