Chapter 4: The Price of a Name
The forest did not forgive hesitation.
Lucien learned that within the first hour.
Branches clawed at his coat as he pushed through thick undergrowth, boots sinking into damp soil softened by decades of rot and blood. The trees here were older than the kingdom's borders, their roots twisted and layered over one another like coiled serpents. Mana clung to the air unnaturally, heavy and stale, as if it had nowhere left to flow.
Monster territory.
Lucien kept moving.
He had learned long ago that stopping was a luxury reserved for the safe—or the dead.
A guttural screech ripped through the trees behind him.
Lucien veered sharply to the left as something massive slammed into the space where he had been moments earlier. Splintered bark exploded outward, shards of wood embedding themselves in nearby trunks.
He rolled, came up on one knee, and finally looked at what was hunting him.
A Graveboar.
The creature was enormous, nearly the size of a carriage, its hide layered with thick, bone-like plates grown irregularly over muscle. Its tusks curved outward and forward, stained dark with dried blood and mana residue. Feral red light burned in its eyes, and each breath it exhaled carried the stench of decay.
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"Of course it's you."
Graveboars were not fast.
They were relentless.
And they never stopped charging once they locked onto a target.
The ground shook as it lowered its head and charged again.
Lucien didn't dodge immediately.
He waited.
Waited until the exact moment the creature's weight shifted forward—until the soil beneath its hooves gave just a fraction more than it should have.
Then he stepped aside.
The Graveboar thundered past him, momentum carrying it straight into a cluster of jagged stone hidden beneath leaf litter. One tusk struck wrong, snapping with a wet crack. The beast screamed in pain and confusion, skidding sideways and slamming into a tree hard enough to uproot it.
Luck.
Lucien didn't waste the opening.
He leapt, channeling wind mana into his blade, and drove it cleanly into the exposed joint behind the creature's skull. The strike was surgical—no wasted motion, no flourish.
The Graveboar collapsed.
Lucien landed lightly, already scanning his surroundings.
"…That was loud," he muttered.
He moved again immediately.
By midday, Lucien had killed seven monsters.
Not because he wanted to.
Because he had to.
The deeper he went, the worse it became. Packs of corrupted wolves. Insectoid crawlers nesting beneath fallen logs. A malformed serpent that burst from the earth without warning and nearly swallowed him whole before luck twisted its strike just enough for Lucien to rip its core free mid-lunge.
He was bleeding now.
Not badly.
Small cuts. Bruises. Mana fatigue creeping into his limbs from maintaining suppression for too long.
I can't keep this pace forever, he thought grimly.
That was when he felt it.
A presence.
Not monstrous.
Human.
Lucien slowed instantly, melting into the shadows beneath a massive root system and stilling his breathing completely.
Footsteps approached.
Measured. Calm. Unhurried.
Someone who wasn't afraid of this place.
Lucien peeked through the foliage.
The man who entered the clearing walked like a professional.
He wore a long, dark coat reinforced with flexible armor plates, the fabric etched with subtle enchantments designed for mobility rather than defense. A curved blade rested at his hip, its edge faintly glowing with a restrained, dangerous sheen.
His hair was ash-brown, cut short. His face was lean, sharp-featured, with narrow eyes that missed nothing. A long scar ran across his throat, old and poorly healed.
A hunter.
Not a guard.
Not a priest.
Not a mercenary.
A specialist.
The man knelt near the corpse of the Graveboar, inspecting it carefully. His fingers traced the clean incision at the base of the skull.
"…Too precise," he murmured. "Not a panicked kill."
Lucien didn't move.
The man stood and turned slowly—directly toward Lucien's hiding place.
"You can come out," he said casually. "You're good, but you're not invisible."
Lucien sighed inwardly.
So much for that.
He stepped out into the clearing, hands visible but relaxed.
The man's eyes flicked immediately to Lucien's stance, his breathing, the way he held himself.
Interest sparked.
"There you are," the hunter said. "Lucien Veyr."
Lucien's stomach tightened.
"…You know my name."
The man smiled faintly.
"Hard not to," he replied. "It's worth a lot right now."
Lucien felt the forest go very quiet.
"How much?" he asked.
"Dead?" the man said thoughtfully. "Quite a bit."
Lucien nodded once. "And alive?"
The man chuckled. "Even more."
They regarded each other in silence.
The hunter straightened and placed one hand casually on the hilt of his blade.
"Name's Kael Thorne," he said. "Independent hunter. I specialize in high-risk targets."
Lucien stored the name away carefully.
Kael Thorne was not bluffing.
"I'm not interested," Lucien said calmly.
Kael raised an eyebrow. "You don't get to choose."
Lucien sighed.
"I was afraid you'd say that."
Kael moved.
Fast.
His blade cleared its sheath in a smooth arc, slashing toward Lucien's throat with lethal precision.
Lucien twisted aside at the last instant, the edge grazing his collar and slicing clean through fabric. He countered with a low kick aimed at Kael's knee.
Kael jumped back, laughing softly.
"Oh, this is going to be fun."
They clashed.
Steel rang through the forest as blades met again and again, sparks flying. Kael was skilled—exceptionally so. His movements were sharp, efficient, and merciless, driven by years of killing dangerous people who didn't want to die.
Lucien matched him step for step.
But only just.
On purpose.
Kael's smile faded as the fight dragged on longer than expected.
"You're holding back," Kael said between strikes.
Lucien parried, deflected, and disengaged.
"So are you," he replied.
Kael's eyes gleamed.
"Fair."
He surged forward, mana flaring as he unleashed a technique—his blade splitting into three overlapping arcs of steel and energy.
Lucien ducked under the first, deflected the second—
—and the third should have taken his arm.
Instead, a sudden gust twisted Kael's footing. His strike went wide, embedding into a tree trunk instead.
Luck.
Lucien struck.
Not with power.
With timing.
Kael gasped as Lucien's blade slipped past his guard and pierced his shoulder, narrowly missing vital organs.
They broke apart.
Kael staggered back, staring at the wound in disbelief.
"…You're not prey," he whispered.
Lucien lowered his blade.
"I told you I wasn't interested."
Kael laughed—hard, breathless.
"Oh, Lucien Veyr," he said. "You have no idea what you've done."
He stepped back, retreating deliberately.
"This isn't over," Kael called as he vanished into the trees. "The church wants you. The guild wants you. The crown wants answers."
Lucien stood alone again.
Blood dripped from his blade.
"…Great."
By nightfall, the truth spread.
In taverns.
In guild halls.
In cathedrals.
Bounty Notice – Priority Target
Name: Lucien Veyr
Status: Alive preferred
Threat Level: Unknown
Reason: Suspected mass-casualty involvement, heretical magic usage, survival of forbidden rituals
Lucien never saw the notice.
But he felt its effects immediately.
Monsters began avoiding him.
Hunters did not.
As Lucien climbed a rocky ridge to escape the valley, he looked back one last time toward civilization.
Smoke rose from distant towns.
Bells rang.
Search lights cut through the dark.
Lucien turned away.
This road no longer led home.
And somewhere far away, forces far greater than Kael Thorne were preparing to move.
Luck pulsed in his chest—uneasy, restless.
For the first time since his reincarnation, Lucien Veyr smiled faintly.
"…So this is how it starts," he murmured.