The spire once again welcomed him.
The knight stood there. Unchanged. Unmoved.
Darky's voice drifted in. "Back again, huh? Try to die differently, I'm starting to get bored of beheadings."
Lucien said nothing. His hand closed around the sword that had manifested, shadows folding into form.
The knight struck first. A blur—too fast for most eyes.
Lucien blocked it.
His bones groaned under the pressure, but he held.
'It should've broken, no?' Lucien wondered.
'Maybe you're just getting resistant to beatings,' Darky quipped, earning a scoff from Lucien.
Lucien darted in. His movements more precise than last time, his will sharper than last time.
A graze.
The knight shifted. Its next strike came faster—angled from above. Lucien sidestepped, narrowly avoiding it.
Another flurry of attacks. He parried the first two, taking the third with his right arm, armored by the black mantle.
Pain exploded moments later.
He pivoted on instinct—holding the sword in his left hand—and slashed into the knight's flank.
Lucien felt it. Something had changed. He was stronger. Faster to react.
Armor dented. Black glitter seeped out.
The knight recoiled. Slower. Measured.
Lucien pressed forward. Breath ragged.
He could win.
And then—
It changed.
A new pattern.
Lucien was too slow to adapt.
The knight stepped in—closer than ever before. Its greatsword didn't swing wide. It thrust. Lightning-quick and vicious.
Lucien tried to parry.
Too slow.
No sound.
Just the feeling of steel parting flesh.
Darky's voice was distant. Hollow. "…Damn. You almost had him."
Lucien's knees hit the floor. The knight towered over him. Its sword lifted.
He couldn't move.
The sword came down.
Inevitable.
[---You Have Died---]
Lucien woke, not to the sound of wind howling, but to death.
His breath unsteady, his palm covering his mouth.
Not a sound to be heard, only him and his thoughts.
'It probably had something to do with the shadow, right?'
'Probably,' Darky spoke, his voice neutral.
'Guess I'll figure it out later.'
The dull snow was cascading in at the mouth of the cave; a storm was raging outside.
"Nightmare?" Luna spoke, wiping beads of sweat off her forehead.
Lucien sat up and stretched his arms out—back against the wall. "Sort of… What were you doing?"
"Practicing my form."
Luna thought for a moment before continuing.
"Didn't you say you were practicing with the longsword? Back at the institute."
"Yeah, I was."
"How come I never saw you?"
"Well, how do I put this…" Lucien pondered for a moment. "I'm training in my dreams. Hence the nightmares."
Luna gave him a puzzled look.
'If he doesn't want to tell me, it's fine. There's no need to lie.'
She took her stance again. Her katana glinted dully in the muted light. Her right foot angled back slightly. Both hands on the hilt. Her body shifted—just a hair. A single deep breath in.
Then she moved.
The blade arced. Clean. Inevitable. The air itself parted with it.
Lucien watched in silence. Her form was familiar but precise. Each motion had purpose and poise. She wasn't improvising—it was as if her every swing had already been decided.
Draw. Cut. Step back.
Pivot. Strike low. Guard high.
A twist. A horizontal slash. Then shift back.
Lucien noticed her fourth and fifth fingers tense just before each swing. A subtle anchor—repeating like clockwork.
He leaned back—his head against the rough stone wall—and watched.
Some time later, her blade lowered.
Motes of light shimmered as she dismissed the relic.
Luna walked toward the opposite end of the cave and sat down.
Lucien remained still, eyes tracing where the blade had once been. Something in the way she moved had triggered a familiarity.
'The knight!'
His mind lingered back to the obsidian spire. The weight behind each strike. The unreadable calmness before the blade came down. Luna's movements had a similar rhythm.
He turned his face toward the cave's entrance, the storm still raging.
"I've been fighting someone. In my dreams. Big bastard. Armor like silence, sword like damnation."
Luna blinked. "Okay…"
"He moves like you," Lucien muttered. "There's no hesitation in his movements—as if everything is predetermined."
Luna didn't answer. She pulled up her knees, resting her arm on them.
"So that wasn't just something you made up?"
"So you thought I was lying?" Lucien turned his face back to her, stunned.
Luna simply shrugged—earning a scoff from Lucien before saying:
"What is he like?"
Lucien shifted. "It's a knight. Doesn't talk. Doesn't even bleed. It's just there, every time. Waiting."
He paused for a moment, then spoke. "Every night, we fight. And every night, I die."
A slight smile formed on his face. "Hence the screaming. Well… not since recently."
Luna nodded slowly. "Sounds like it's trying to teach you something."
Lucien scoffed. "Like what? How to die better?"
"No. How to survive."
They sat like that for a while. Time seemed to dull.
Lucien spoke up, a sudden realization in his tone.
"We'll need water soon," he muttered.
"We're good for at least a week. Bearers can last longer without water," Luna said, leaning further back against the wall. "The food is mostly for energy."
Lucien leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling slowly.
Minutes blurred.
The storm outside clawed at the cave mouth. Inside—silence reigned. Unbroken.
He exhaled. Slow.
"Luna," he said.
She didn't move.
"Do you ever get tired of trying?"
Stillness. Then. "No."
Her voice was rigid. Certain.
Lucien turned toward her. She was still seated, her arm draped over her knees. Gaze on the drifting snow.
"No?" he questioned.
"I won't. I can't," she said. "Not until I kill them all."
Lucien frowned. "All what?"
"The Echoes. The Vestiges. I'll destroy every last one of them. They are a leech, eating away everything this world has."
There was no emotion in her voice. Just certainty. As if it was set in stone. Something predestined.
"And how will you achieve that?" he questioned, a hint of curiosity laced in his words.
"I'll fight. I'll be the first Transcendent, then Divine, then Ethereal."
"No," Lucien muttered.
"No what?"
"Your motive," he spoke calmly. "That's not the truth. You may believe it is. But it's not."
"And what do you know about my motives?" she scoffed with a tinge of annoyance.
"I think you're doing this for revenge. You want vengeance for the childhood that was stolen from you. Revenge for your father who perished in the Vestige."
He paused, glancing at the raging storm.
Before he could continue, Luna asked softly:
"What about you?"
"What's your motive?"
"I used to live in the slums, as an orphan. I had no family…" He sighed. "Well, I had a little sister, but she got adopted."
Taking a deep breath, he continued.
"What I'm trying to say is that I want to live." His voice turned somber. "And I don't just mean survive. I want to live a life worth remembering. If that requires me to become the strongest, then so be it."
Luna stood up.
"You've improved," she said.
Lucien blinked. "Huh?"
"In your nightmare. You lasted longer."
His gaze narrowed on her. "How could you tell?"
"Took you longer to wake up."
She moved toward the center of the cave once again. Her katana materializing.
"Tomorrow," she spoke coldly. "We'll move tomorrow. Hopefully the storm will have passed by then."
Lucien nodded in affirmation.
'I really should get some exercise in myself.'
He didn't rise. Not yet. The cave offered little comfort, but surprisingly, it felt warm.
Lucien turned slightly, recalling his previous fights with the knight, simulating what he could have done better.
A whisper of a relic being dismissed.
Luna had dismissed her blade and walked—once again—to the opposite end of the cave, and sat down—this time cross-legged.
She turned to Lucien.
"What are you thinking about?"
"Just trying to figure something out," he muttered.
"Figure what out?"
"What went wrong this time… with the knight," he replied.
She arched a brow. "Want help?"
Lucien's eyes lit up.
"You serious?"
Luna nodded. "I've trained enough, seen enough fights. Tell me, what went wrong?"
Lucien looked up, as if that might help.
"He changed the rhythm," Lucien said slowly. "Midway through the fight—I had everything figured out. His patterns. His movements. But then—"
He clenched his hands, the memory still fresh.
"He stepped in. No warning. Just a straight thrust through the gut."
Luna's gaze was unwavering. "So he adapted. But you didn't."
Lucien scowled. "Yeah, thanks for pointing out the obvious."
She smirked. "I'm not trying to mock you. I'm saying he fought like a warrior. Watching. Learning. Changing."
Lucien looked back at the ceiling. "Great. Even my nightmares adapt to challenge me."
"Then so should you." Luna shifted slightly. "I've noticed it."
Lucien tilted his head. "Noticed what?"
"You have a connection with the shadows, right? I saw it first when we were fighting the Whispering Rift. You were glancing at its shadow like it was telling you something."
She looked back at where she was previously training before continuing.
"Then when I was training—what exactly do they tell you?"
"They don't tell me anything. It's just a feeling. A feeling of what they're gonna do. Like I can feel how the shadows will flow," he responded.
"Then use that. Learn how to read it."
They sat in silence for a while, until Lucien quietly spoke:
"Let me try something."
Luna looked at him. "What kind of something?"
Lucien stood, brushing the dust off his armor.
"I'll try to mimic the strike it used. Maybe you'll see something I missed."
She nodded and stood as well, summoning her katana.
"Don't have a weapon?"
"No. I haven't gotten one yet. I'll just perform the movement with my hand."
He inhaled.
Then moved.
He lunged forward. Sudden. Quiet. His left hand mimicked the thrust—stopping short, arm extended.
Luna was already at his side, one foot pivoted, blade at an angle, ready to pierce through his ribs.
"You left yourself wide open," she said.
"I was trying to copy him," Lucien said through gritted teeth.
"And did he?"
"Did he what?" he asked, slightly annoyed.
"Did he leave himself open like that?" Luna challenged.
Lucien paused… "No. No he didn't."
"Then don't just copy. Adapt."
Lucien exhaled, backing up.
"Thanks," he muttered.
Luna gave him a small nod. "Get some rest. Hopefully the storm will have passed by tomorrow."
He turned back to his end of the cave wall, sinking down to the hard floor.
This time—
He was ready to die differently.