Chapter 8: The World Pretends Nothing Happened
The Church announced nothing.
That was the first sign something had gone terribly wrong.
By dawn, the ruins were gone.
Not repaired.
Not sealed.
Gone.
Where ancient stone and shattered pillars had stood the night before, there was now only scorched earth and purified glass, fused into smooth, lifeless terrain by overwhelming holy fire. No bodies. No debris. No lingering mana signatures.
Perfection.
Lucien stood at the edge of the devastation, hidden among the trees, and felt his jaw tighten.
"They erased it," he murmured.
Luck pulsed once—cold agreement.
Malrec had never existed.
That was the story now.
Lucien turned away before patrols arrived. He didn't need to see them to know they would come. The Church never left cleansed ground unguarded.
He moved north.
Not toward towns.
Not toward roads.
Toward places maps politely labeled as uninhabitable.
By midday, Lucien felt the shift.
It was subtle—too subtle for most—but his senses caught it instantly. The air grew heavier, mana flows twisting into unstable spirals. The ground itself seemed to resist his steps, as if this land resented intrusion.
A forbidden zone.
Lucien exhaled slowly.
"Good," he said quietly. "That's where they won't follow."
Luck pulsed uneasily.
Not disagreement.
Concern.
He pressed on anyway.
Elsewhere, the world adjusted.
In the Adventurer Guild
A sealed report was slid across a long oak table.
Five men sat around it, all bearing insignia that marked them as Gold Rank evaluators. None of them smiled.
"Another squad failed," one said flatly.
"Silvers and a mixed Gold team," another added. "No survivors willing to give testimony."
A third man leaned back, fingers steepled. "And the Church?"
"Denied involvement," the first replied. "Claimed no inquisitor was deployed."
Silence followed.
Finally, the oldest among them spoke.
"…Then it's worse than we thought."
The bounty ledger was opened again.
Lucien Veyr's name was not updated.
It was underlined.
In the Cathedral of the Holy Synod
Candles flickered beneath towering arches as priests murmured prayers in low, uneasy voices.
At the center of the hall, a cardinal knelt before a blank altar.
"Inquisitor Malrec failed," a robed attendant whispered.
The cardinal did not turn.
"Malrec does not exist," he replied calmly.
The attendant swallowed. "Yes… Your Eminence."
A pause.
"…Do we proceed to Phase Three?"
The cardinal's fingers tightened against the stone.
"No," he said after a moment. "Not yet."
He rose slowly.
"If the variable believes he struck first, he will change. Observe him."
The cardinal smiled faintly.
"Luck reveals itself when tested repeatedly."
Lucien reached the edge of the forbidden zone by nightfall.
The forest here was wrong.
Trees grew twisted and blackened, their bark etched with glowing fissures that pulsed faintly with corrupted mana. The air smelled metallic, like old blood and ozone. No animals moved. No insects chirped.
Lucien stopped.
He felt watched.
Not by hunters.
Not by the Church.
By something older.
He stepped forward anyway.
The moment he crossed the boundary, the world lurched.
Lucien stumbled, catching himself on a tree as reality warped briefly—colors bleeding, sounds distorting. His luck surged instinctively, stabilizing the shift before it could worsen.
"…Spatial instability," he muttered. "Charming."
He moved deeper.
Three hours later, he found them.
A camp.
Not a hunter camp.
Not a military outpost.
Refugees.
Lucien froze behind a ridge, scanning the scene below.
A dozen figures huddled around a weak fire, their clothes torn, faces gaunt. Two wagons lay overturned nearby, one shattered beyond repair. A woman cradled a child, whispering desperately as the boy shivered.
Civilians.
In a forbidden zone.
Lucien swore softly.
How did they survive this long?
Luck pulsed—barely.
Not approval.
Warning.
Lucien hesitated.
This was how it started.
Helping them would leave traces.
Leaving them would weigh on him.
He moved.
The refugees nearly panicked when he approached.
Hands went to knives. A man raised a broken spear.
"Please," Lucien said quietly, keeping his distance. "I'm not here to hurt you."
They stared at him.
A woman stepped forward cautiously. She was in her early thirties, brown hair streaked with gray, eyes hollow from exhaustion.
"You shouldn't be here," she said. "This land eats people."
Lucien glanced at the twisted trees.
"It tries."
She swallowed. "Who are you?"
Lucien paused.
He chose carefully.
"…Just passing through."
A lie.
But not a dangerous one.
The woman studied him for a long moment, then nodded.
"We were attacked on the southern road," she said. "Bandits first. Then monsters. We ran until the land turned… wrong."
Lucien clenched his jaw.
"How many died?"
"…Most."
Lucien closed his eyes briefly.
Always too late.
"I can guide you," he said. "Partway."
Hope flickered dangerously in their eyes.
Luck pulsed sharply.
Lucien ignored it.
The attack came at midnight.
Lucien felt it seconds before it happened—the sudden pressure shift, the surge of hostile mana. He moved instantly, shoving the nearest refugees behind a wagon as the ground beneath the camp exploded.
Creatures crawled from the fissures—twisted humanoids with elongated limbs and eyeless faces, corrupted mana leaking from every pore.
Aberrants.
Lucien stepped forward.
"Stay back," he ordered.
They didn't need to be told twice.
Lucien didn't draw his blade immediately.
He inhaled.
Then exhaled.
Wind mana surged—not violently, but precisely. The air compressed into invisible blades that sliced through the first wave of aberrants, severing limbs and collapsing bodies before they could scream.
The survivors rushed him.
Lucien drew his sword.
This time, he did not hide his efficiency.
He moved like a shadow through the chaos, strikes clean and lethal, positioning himself so that no blood splattered toward the refugees. When an aberrant leapt from behind, luck twisted its trajectory mid-air, slamming it headfirst into a stone outcrop.
The fight lasted less than a minute.
Silence returned.
Lucien stood amid dissolving corpses, chest rising and falling steadily.
Behind him, the refugees stared in horror and awe.
"…You're not human," someone whispered.
Lucien wiped his blade and turned.
"I am," he said quietly. "Which is why you need to leave. Now."
The woman hesitated. "But—"
"They'll come," Lucien interrupted. "For me. And for anyone near me."
Understanding dawned slowly.
"…Thank you," she said.
Lucien nodded once.
He watched them flee into the night, guided just enough by luck to avoid the worst paths.
When they were gone, Lucien sat heavily against a tree.
Blood dripped from his knuckles.
Not his.
His luck pulsed again.
Different this time.
Satisfied.
Lucien frowned.
"…Don't get used to this," he muttered.
Far away, rumors began to spread.
Not about a massacre.
Not about a heretic.
But about something stranger.
"The Church missed."
"A hunter squad vanished."
"A forbidden zone rejected pursuit."
No names were spoken.
But the world was beginning to notice the shape of absence.
Lucien rose slowly and looked deeper into the forbidden zone.
This place would hide him.
For now.
But sooner or later, the world would come again.
And next time, he wouldn't just run.