That same night, while the Academy’s walls whispered about blood and madness—
In the underworld’s belly, another story was unfolding.
One that would never reach the surface.
A blackboard mission. High reward. High bet.
Objective: Assault and dismantle a rogue war camp by the Southern Ridge.
Team: The best of Ghost’s merc group.
Commander: Unknown. Mission was bought anonymously. Too much coin. Too much haste.
But they were told it’d be easy.
A clean hit. Quick slaughter. In and out.
So they went.
They didn’t know it was bait.
<hr>
The Setup
The Ghost unit touched down at dusk.
Fog kissed the cliffs. Pine trees stood like silent judges.
Their boots hit mud, cloaks drawn, blades ready.
Caelan—no, Ghost—moved last.
Eyes always scanning. Ears sharp.
Something felt off.
Too quiet. Too clean.
Too placed.
He whispered to their recon scout, “Double check the ridge. That formation up there… looks too precise for a bandit camp.”
But it was too late.
<hr>
The Ambush
It happened fast.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Arrows lit the sky—not bandit arrows.
Steel-forged. Clean-fletched. Knight-grade.
Then came the footsteps. Measured. Armored.
They weren’t bandits. They were a knight platoon.
A real one.
Not a drunk caravan escort or city guards playing hero.
These were trained killers.
And leading them—
Walking with the weight of thunder in his step—
Was a man clad in obsidian plate, red-lined cloak billowing behind him.
A beast with eyes like judgment itself.
<hr>
Lucan Dras Varro.
The Berserker Knight.
Of all the mercenaries in the unit, only Caelan recognized him.
From the Academy.
From this morning.
From the moment he’d stopped him with one hand.
<hr>
Ghost froze.
What the fuck was this?
Was it fate?
Or a sick, divine joke?
Was Lucan sent to kill him again?
Or was Lucan even here for him at all?
<hr>
The Fight Breaks
Steel crashed in the dark.
Half the mercs were slaughtered instantly—no time to draw, no time to speak.
Caelan moved on instinct.
Parried a strike aimed at their healer.
Shoved another member down before a glaive took her head.
He fought like Ghost fought—
Fast. Brutal. Efficient.
But the knights didn’t care.
They were aiming for him now.
<hr>
And Lucan—
Lucan watched him.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Until Caelan turned—blade dripping, eyes glowing with Aura—and found himself face to face with the man again.
<hr>
The Wind Died
Lucan stepped forward.
No blade raised.
Just presence.
Caelan gripped his sword tight. Every instinct screamed run—but his feet didn’t obey.
Lucan’s voice hit like gravel over iron:
“Didn’t think I’d see you again this soon… Ghost.”
<hr>
Caelan’s blood went cold.
He knew.
Lucan knew both names.
“Are you here to kill me?” Caelan asked, low.
Lucan tilted his head. “You think I’d waste a blade on someone who’s just figuring out how to breathe?”
The tension cracked.
Lucan drew his blade—Bloodwolf, the edge blackened, runes faintly glowing.
“I’m here to see how deep your rage goes.”
<hr>
They clashed.
Not like rivals.
Not like enemies.
Like wolves testing the other’s fangs.
Lucan didn’t kill him.
But he didn’t go easy.
Each strike knocked the breath from Caelan’s chest.
Each parry sang with death.
Each feint left him bleeding.
Still—
Caelan stood.
Bleeding. Gasping.
Eyes locked.
Lucan grinned.
“Now you’re interesting.”
<hr>
The Knights Withdrew
Just like that.
As if they weren’t here to kill.
As if it was all a message.
Or a test.
Or a rite.
The base burned. The survivors limped.
And Ghost?
Ghost sat beneath a dying pine tree, staring at the broken edge of his blade.
Not because he lost.
But because he realized something worse:
Someone like Lucan was watching him.
And not with hate.
With interest.