Chapter 6: The Shape of a Hunt
Lucien Veyr knew he was being herded.
It wasn't subtle.
It wasn't sloppy either.
It was deliberate—terrain manipulation, monster displacement, and pressure applied from angles that suggested planning rather than coincidence. Someone had taken the time to study his movement patterns from the last two engagements.
Too fast, Lucien thought grimly. They adapted too fast.
He moved through a ravine choked with jagged stone and skeletal trees, boots scraping lightly as he adjusted his pace. The air here was colder, the mana thick with residue from old battles. Good terrain for ambushes.
Bad terrain for escape.
Lucien stopped.
Luck pulsed sharply.
Not a warning.
A confirmation.
"They're close," he murmured.
A distant horn sounded—low, brief, and unmistakably deliberate.
Lucien closed his eyes for half a second.
Multiple squads. Coordinated.
This wasn't a bounty hunt anymore.
This was a containment operation.
The first strike came from above.
A volley of arrows rained down, each shaft etched with faint suppression runes designed to disrupt mana flow on contact. Lucien leapt backward as the ground where he had stood moments earlier erupted in splinters of stone.
He rolled, came up, and immediately shifted direction.
Another horn answered the first—closer this time.
Lucien exhaled slowly.
Alright.
He stopped running.
The ravine opened into a circular basin surrounded by broken pillars—ruins of something ancient, long abandoned. Lucien stepped into the center deliberately, letting his presence be felt.
The hunters emerged.
Ten of them.
Not a single amateur.
They spread out in a wide arc, weapons drawn, mana signatures flaring just enough to establish dominance without revealing full capability.
Lucien's eyes tracked them calmly.
Two Silver Rank squads.
One mixed Gold Rank team.
A commander.
The commander stood slightly apart—a tall man clad in layered gray armor, face hidden behind a half-mask carved with runic markings. A long spear rested in his grip, its tip faintly vibrating with contained energy.
"Lucien Veyr," the commander said, voice amplified slightly by magic. "By authority of the Adventurer Guild and Crown joint mandate, you are to surrender peacefully."
Lucien looked around.
"…That's a lot of people for 'peacefully,'" he replied.
A few hunters chuckled nervously.
The commander did not.
"You have demonstrated consistent threat-level anomalies," the man continued. "Your survival rate exceeds acceptable variance. You will be restrained and transported."
Lucien tilted his head. "And if I refuse?"
The commander raised his spear.
"Then we end this here."
Lucien sighed.
"I was hoping you wouldn't say that."
The basin erupted into motion.
Two shield-bearers charged first, advancing in perfect synchronization. Behind them, mages began chanting—one fire, one ice—forming a layered suppression field.
Lucien stepped forward instead of back.
That caught them off guard.
He ducked beneath a sweeping shield strike, pivoted, and drove his elbow into the exposed joint of the second shield-bearer. The man staggered—but didn't fall.
Good armor.
Lucien adjusted instantly.
He kicked low, sweeping the man's legs, then twisted away as a blast of fire scorched the air where his head had been moments before.
Luck intervened.
The fire mage's spell interacted poorly with residual mana in the ruins. The blast rebounded slightly, forcing the ice mage to abort his casting to avoid friendly fire.
Chaos rippled through the formation.
"Hold formation!" someone shouted.
Too late.
Lucien vanished into the confusion.
He didn't teleport.
He didn't use high-speed techniques.
He simply moved when people looked away.
A blade flashed—quick, clean.
One mage dropped unconscious, mana disrupted precisely.
Lucien reappeared near the edge of the basin just as an archer loosed three arrows in rapid succession.
Lucien raised his hand, palm open.
Wind twisted sharply.
The arrows collided mid-air, splintering uselessly.
Silence fell for half a second.
"…He redirected that without chanting," someone whispered.
The commander's grip tightened.
"Gold Team," he barked. "Engage."
Three figures stepped forward.
They moved differently.
Confident. Controlled. Deadly.
Lucien felt the pressure immediately.
Gold Rank hunters didn't rely on brute force.
They relied on certainty.
The first—a woman with braided blonde hair and twin daggers—lunged, her movements blurring as she closed the distance. Lucien parried instinctively, steel ringing sharply as their blades met.
She smiled.
"You're good."
Lucien didn't respond.
The second—a man with gauntlets crackling with lightning mana—struck from the side. Lucien twisted, barely avoiding a blow that would have shattered his ribs.
The third didn't move.
He stood back, hands raised, eyes closed.
Lucien felt it.
A binding spell—complex, layered, and strong.
So that's the net, he thought.
Luck pulsed violently.
The spell destabilized—not fully collapsing, but fraying at the edges.
Lucien acted.
He stepped into the daggers' range intentionally, taking a shallow cut across his shoulder.
Pain flared.
The dagger wielder blinked.
Lucien struck.
A precise blow to the collarbone sent her sprawling unconscious.
The lightning gauntlet wielder roared and charged.
Lucien met him head-on.
For the first time since entering the basin, Lucien stopped suppressing his physical reinforcement entirely.
Not magic.
Body.
The punch he threw cracked the air.
The man flew backward, slamming into a pillar hard enough to crack stone.
Dead.
The spellcaster's eyes snapped open in shock.
Lucien was already there.
One strike.
Down.
Silence.
Heavy.
Breathing echoed through the basin.
The remaining hunters hesitated.
The commander stared at Lucien.
"…You're not just an anomaly," he said slowly. "You're a liability."
Lucien wiped blood from his mouth.
"I told you to leave."
The commander lowered his spear slightly.
"Containment failed," he said quietly. "All units—withdraw."
No one argued.
They retreated quickly, dragging the wounded.
Lucien watched them go, shoulders tense.
Then—
A presence.
Different.
Cold.
The air shifted unnaturally, mana freezing in place as if reality itself had paused to listen.
Lucien turned slowly.
A man stood atop one of the broken pillars.
White robes.
Gold embroidery.
A symbol of the Church etched into a medallion at his throat.
His face was youthful, almost gentle.
His eyes were not.
"So this is you," the man said softly. "The one luck refuses to abandon."
Lucien felt something deep in his instincts recoil.
Trouble.
The man smiled.
"My name is Inquisitor Malrec," he continued. "And by authority of the Holy Synod…"
The medallion flared.
"…you are declared a heretical variable."
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"…That's new."
Malrec raised one hand.
Holy light gathered—dense, oppressive, absolute.
Lucien didn't wait.
He ran.
Not away.
Straight through the basin, leaping over rubble and shattered stone as the ground behind him detonated in divine blasts.
Luck screamed.
The world twisted.
A collapsed pillar fell at just the right moment, blocking Malrec's line of sight.
Lucien vanished into the ruins.
Malrec lowered his hand, smiling faintly.
"Run," he said. "It makes the cleansing more… instructive."
Far away, bells rang.
Black ledgers were opened.
Lucien Veyr's bounty shifted again.
🔴 BLACK NOTICE — PRELIMINARY
Lucien did not know it yet.
But the hunt had escalated beyond coin.
Now, it was faith.