Chapter 1: The Only One Left Standing
Lucien Veyr died once.
He did not remember the exact moment it happened—only the sensation of something sharp tearing through his chest, the weight of his body collapsing forward, and the sudden, terrifying clarity that came just before the end.
So this is how it ends, he had thought.
Then there was darkness.
When awareness returned, it was not to pain or fear, but to warmth.
A different warmth.
The sound of breathing that was not his own. A heartbeat that felt too close, too loud. The smell of smoke and old wood instead of metal and blood.
He had opened his eyes to a world that was not his own.
That had been years ago.
Lucien Veyr had lived an entire second life since then, learning quickly that this world—Aethryon—was ruled not by technology, but by magic. Elemental mana flowed through the air, shaped by talent and training. Spirits roamed unseen. Death itself could be bargained with, if one knew how.
And luck—
Luck had never left him.
If anything, it followed him more closely now than it ever had before.
Lucien had learned to hide.
To suppress his mana.
To avoid standing out.
To never, ever let people see what he could really do.
That was why he was riding in the middle of a merchant caravan, hood drawn low, pretending to be nothing more than another quiet guard-for-hire.
It should have been an easy job.
It never was.
The caravan crawled through the narrow mountain pass as dusk bled into night. Six wagons in total, their wheels groaning as they rolled over uneven stone. Mana-lanterns glowed softly, casting pale blue light against jagged cliff walls that rose like teeth on either side.
Lucien sat on the edge of the third wagon, elbows resting on his knees, eyes half-lidded.
To anyone watching, he looked bored.
Unimpressive.
Ordinary.
In truth, he was counting.
Eight guards.
Two apprentices pretending to be guards.
One merchant who carried himself like he had once held a sword but no longer could.
Seventeen civilians—families, traders, a pair of children clinging to their mother.
Lucien felt the weight of their lives without looking at them.
That was the part of reincarnation he had never shaken.
Knowing how easily everything could end.
The wind shifted.
Lucien's eyes opened fully.
He felt it then—a subtle pressure in the air, like the moment before a storm broke. Mana density spiked slightly, uneven and poorly concealed.
Too sloppy for monsters, he thought. Too coordinated for bandits.
He slid off the wagon silently.
"Problem?" asked the guard nearest to him, a young man with a spear and far too much confidence.
Lucien shook his head. "Nothing yet."
That was a lie.
Luck pulsed faintly in his chest—an uncomfortable sensation he had learned to associate with imminent trouble.
The first scream came from the front of the caravan.
A split second later, the world exploded into chaos.
Fire rained down from above as a barrage of spells slammed into the lead wagon, obliterating it in a burst of flame and splintered wood. Horses screamed. People shouted. Mana flared violently as guards scrambled to form defensive lines.
"AMBUSH!"
Figures dropped from the cliffs.
Black-robed. Masked. Organized.
Cultists.
Lucien swore under his breath.
Of course.
A wave of dark-aspected mana surged through the pass, thick and suffocating. Necromancy—not refined, not careful, but powerful in its sheer volume.
Bodies hit the ground.
Some never got back up.
Lucien moved.
Not fast.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
A blade swung for his neck—Lucien leaned aside, letting it pass so close he felt the air move. The attacker overextended, slipped on loose gravel, and fell screaming into the ravine.
Luck.
A fire spell roared toward the wagon carrying civilians. Lucien raised one hand, releasing the bare minimum of wind mana. The spell veered just enough to strike the cliff wall instead, detonating harmlessly above them.
Luck again.
The guards fought desperately, but they were outmatched. These weren't raiders looking for coin.
They were here to kill.
Lucien's jaw tightened.
I can't let this escalate.
He drew his weapon—a plain, short sword, unremarkable in every way.
He stepped into the fray.
To an outside observer, it would look like chaos.
In reality, it was efficiency.
Lucien cut tendons. Redirected spells. Disarmed attackers with minimal force. He never overcommitted. Never released more mana than absolutely necessary.
Still, people died.
A spear pierced the merchant's chest.
One of the apprentices screamed as a curse ate through his mana core.
A child fell when the wagon lurched, and Lucien caught her by the collar without looking, setting her gently behind cover before continuing forward.
The cultists began chanting.
Lucien felt it immediately.
A large-scale necromantic formation.
They're going to raise the dead, he realized. All of them.
The luck in his chest surged violently.
Something was about to go very wrong.
The ritual circle flared.
Dark mana erupted outward like a tidal wave.
And then—
It collapsed.
Not exploded.
Collapsed inward, as if the spell itself had made a mistake.
The backlash was catastrophic.
Cultists screamed as their own magic tore through them. Bodies fell, twitching. The ground cracked beneath the sudden reversal of energy.
Lucien froze for half a heartbeat.
"…What?"
He hadn't interfered.
Not directly.
Luck had twisted the ritual.
Hard.
The surviving cultists panicked.
Some tried to flee.
None succeeded.
Within minutes, the mountain pass fell silent.
Too silent.
Smoke drifted lazily through the air. Broken wagons burned. Bodies—too many bodies—littered the stone.
Lucien stood in the center of it all, sword dripping blood that wasn't entirely his doing.
Breathing steady.
Uninjured.
Unmarked.
Alive.
He looked around slowly.
There were no survivors.
Except him.
Lucien closed his eyes.
"…Damn it."
Torches appeared at the far end of the pass.
Voices.
Shouts.
Reinforcements.
Lucien turned just as a group of armored riders burst into the clearing—kingdom soldiers, banners snapping in the wind.
They took one look at the scene and froze.
A field of corpses.
Black-robed cultists.
Burned wagons.
And one man standing untouched in the middle of it.
Swords were drawn instantly.
"DROP YOUR WEAPON!"
Lucien let his sword fall.
It clattered against stone.
Hands raised slowly, he took a step back.
"I was part of the caravan," he said calmly. "We were attacked."
The captain—an older man with hard eyes and a scarred face—stared at him.
"And you survived," he said.
Lucien didn't answer.
The soldiers spread out, checking bodies.
"Captain," one of them said, voice uneasy. "No survivors."
The captain's gaze never left Lucien.
"No," Lucien corrected quietly. "There were children."
The soldier hesitated. "We didn't find any."
Lucien's heart sank.
He hadn't been fast enough.
The captain took a step forward.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
Lucien hesitated.
Then gave the truth—just not all of it.
"Lucien Veyr."
The name echoed strangely in the empty pass.
The captain studied him for a long moment.
"…Bind him," he ordered.
Lucien did not resist.
As iron cuffs closed around his wrists, he looked once more at the destruction around him.
This life was supposed to be different.
He had survived.
Again.
And once again, the world was already deciding what that meant.
Far above, clouds rolled unnaturally, thunder rumbling without lightning.
Luck stirred.
The adventure had begun.