The Journey

Lucien couldn't tear his eyes away from Volkar. The general stood motionless but imposing, the emerald fire around his skull casting flickering shadows across the chamber. The obsidian armor shimmered faintly with infernal etchings, and the massive halberd resting in his grip looked like it had been carved from the spine of some ancient beast.

The gear was powerful. Lucien could feel it—its enchantments practically hummed with passive strength. Volkar's already high stats had jumped even higher. His killing intent was palpable.

Lucien's excitement surged. "We need to test him," he said aloud, rolling forward slightly.

But before he could get any further, Alazaar raised a hand.

"I understand the urge," the lich said smoothly. "But there is something more important you must attend to first."

Lucien frowned, puzzled. "What are you talking about?"

Alazaar reached into a nearby chest and produced a neatly folded set of clothes. They shimmered subtly, even in the dim crypt light.

Lucien accepted them with raised eyebrows. "Clothes?"

"Try 'Inspect,'" Alazaar replied.

Lucien did so.

> [Inspect] 

> Vaelthorn Attire (Custom) – Tier: Epic 

> Base Stat Increase: +15 INT, +20 CHA 

> Passive Effects: 

> - Noble Presence: Slight intimidation effect on lower-tier NPCs and commoners 

> - Mana Lacing: +5% to all mana regeneration 

> - Gravewalker's Elegance: Undead under your command gain a minor morale boost in your presence

Lucien let out a low whistle. "Fancy *and* functional."

"These garments befit your station," Alazaar said, clasping his bony hands together. "And there's more."

With a snap of his fingers, the crypt doors opened, and a new wheelchair rolled in—no longer bone and shadow, but a regal construction of dark, polished wood and reinforced blacksteel. Its spokes bore the Vaelthorn crest in subtle silver etching. Intricate dark cloth padding gave it both comfort and a throne-like presence.

Lucien blinked. "Damn. This is... actually pretty amazing."

Alazaar nodded. "If you are to play the noble, then you must *look* the part."

Lucien smirked. "Play the noble? Alazaar, are you roleplaying now?"

The lich let out a dry chuckle. "I may have picked up a few habits from your peculiar tongue."

Lucien changed into the attire. The fabric adjusted itself to fit his frame perfectly—luxurious, flexible, and undeniably regal. The ensemble took on a silhouette of nobility wrapped in mysticism: a long, high-collared coat of midnight blue layered over an under-tunic threaded with silver filigree and arcane glyphs that pulsed faintly. Gold clasps shaped like clawed wings secured a black velvet mantle over his shoulders. Fine silk gloves and tailored trousers completed the look, with polished boots reinforced at the seams with rune-etched leather. The overall effect was somewhere between a nobleman's court attire and a battle-mage's ceremonial armor—elegant, intimidating, and unmistakably powerful.

Once seated in his new wheelchair, he felt different. Stronger. More real.

Outside the crypt, the sky had begun to shift—ashen clouds breaking to reveal threads of silver moonlight. At the edge of the graveyard path, Volkar waited, now draped in a heavy black cloak with a deep hood pulled low. A soft enchantment veiled his features completely, concealing the eerie glow of his flaming skull and making him appear simply as a tall, cloaked warrior.

Lucien rolled toward him, wheels moving over the uneven ground with newfound ease. Volkar stood behind him, hands on the wheelchair's handles.

Alazaar stood beside the archway, watching them.

"You're not coming with us?" Lucien asked.

The lich shook his head. "Not yet. There are still matters that require my attention here. But I will join you at the Vaelthorn estate when the time is right."

Then, turning his gaze toward the cloaked warrior, Alazaar added, "Ser Volkar. Take care of the little mortal. We will meet again in due time."

Volkar gave a solemn nod. "You have my word."

Lucien gave a confident smile.

Without another word, Volkar turned, pushing Lucien's chair toward the path that led through the woods.

—

As they left the crypt behind and passed through the final rows of tombstones, the two travelers emerged from the shadowed graveyard into the edge of the old forest. The canopy, thick and suffocating for so many years, finally broke apart.

They reached a paved path that wound gently northward.

Lucien paused, gazing down the road. The moonlight filtered through the treetops, glinting off the polished metal of his new chair.

For the first time in sixteen years, he was leaving the forest that had been his world and his training ground.

Volkar, pushing the chair with steady, silent strength, also paused.

"This is... the first time I've seen land untouched by war," he said quietly. "Peace... I had forgotten what it looked like."

Lucien didn't answer at first. He was still drinking in the sight. The world was bigger than he had ever imagined. And this road, this simple paved path, felt like the start of something enormous.

Together, the general and his master continued forward—toward a future neither of them could yet see, but both were more than ready to meet.

—

Further along the road, Volkar halted.

"...Master," he said, his voice a low warning.

Lucien followed his gaze and saw a wrecked carriage just off the side of the road. A man stood near it—unshaven, wild-eyed, clothes ragged from days without comfort.

Lucien gave a slow nod. "Go check it out."

Volkar strode over, towering above the man. After a few short exchanges, he returned.

"He claims goblins ambushed the caravan," Volkar explained. "His horses were stolen. He says he was on his way to trade supplies for his starving village."

Lucien narrowed his eyes. "Doesn't feel right."

"Agreed. Should we avoid it?"

Lucien's eyes gleamed. "No... this is the first human I've met outside the crypt. Let's make the most of it."

Volkar nodded and turned back, pushing Lucien's wheelchair toward the man.

Lucien offered a gentle expression, his voice soft with feigned concern. "Are you alright, sir?"

The man eyed him curiously. "You a noble?"

Lucien chuckled. "A scion of a minor lord, nothing much. Just taking a stroll with my retainer."

"Could use a hand... One horse got away. Can't go after it in this state. Hands won't stop shaking."

Lucien raised a brow, voice still light. "Wow. Well, it's lucky you managed to remain unscathed despite being attacked by goblins. Fortune must've really been with you, sir."

The man hesitated, then gave a short, awkward laugh. "Y-Yeah, lucky break, I guess."

As they ventured deeper into the forest, the man kept talking, his voice a constant stream of half-hearted jokes and exaggerated tales. His story started to change subtly, creating new details as they went—mentioning how he had barely escaped by hiding under the wrecked carriage. Lucien noticed the inconsistencies but didn't let it show.

"I see. So scared you hid under the carriage?" Lucien asked, his tone sympathetic, almost impressed.

The man nodded too quickly. "Y-Yeah. Didn't know what else to do."

Lucien smiled politely, eyes glowing faintly. "Understandable."

The man glanced back toward Volkar. "Your guard's awfully quiet."

Volkar responded calmly, "My duty is not to talk aimlessly, but to protect my master."

Lucien nodded with a smirk. "And I'm fortunate to have such a loyal retainer."

The man laughed nervously, "Yeah... real fortunate."

The path darkened as they continued. Then, from the trees, twelve armed men emerged. Swords and axes drawn. One of them tossed a blade to the man leading them.

He caught it, turned, grinning. "Now then, young noble... thinking about it, that horse must've run pretty far. How about you just give us everything you've got on you? That'll help me out a lot more than chasing a damn horse."

Lucien scanned the ambushers with a bored expression.

"I put up with all your stupid chatter just for this?" Lucien said dryly. "Twelve pieces of trash that might not even be worth 100 SP? How disappointing."

The man raised the sword. "You arrogant little—"

"Volkar."

Lucien didn't even blink, only smiled, his eyes looking at the scene as if a beautiful view had appeared in front of him. "Kill them all, Volkar. They annoy me."

Volkar stepped forward. In a motion as fluid as it was menacing, a flicker of green fire ignited around his hand. It grew rapidly, forming into the shape of a long halberd, the weapon materializing as if summoned from some dark abyss.

Without hesitation, Volkar raised the halberd high.

And with a single, devastating motion, he cleaved downward—splitting the man cleanly in half.

The clearing went dead silent.

The bandits stared in frozen horror as their leader's bisected body crumpled to the ground.

The forest fell into silence.

Blood soaked the earth where twelve lives had just ended in less than a breath, their dreams of riches snuffed out by a halberd wrapped in flame.

Volkar stood still, the emerald fire hissing quietly along the edge of his weapon. Lucien simply watched, untouched by the violence, as if observing the wind rustling through trees.

No words were needed. No mercy was offered.

And so it was, that the first night Lucien Vaelthorn set out from the graveyard to begin his journey into the world, it was christened not with celebration——but with blood.

Twelve sacrifices, lured by greed and cloaked in falsehoods, had offered themselves.And General Volkar, reborn in resentment and fire, accepted.

They were his first victims.

But they would not be his last.