The First Sin
The boy's breath grew shallow.
Each exhale weaker. Each heartbeat slower.
The Rite was almost complete.
Lucan's body convulsed once. Then again. The altar shimmering even brighter with each drop of warm blood.
Thalos stood at the head of the sacred circle, robed in crimson, arms outstretched in benediction as they called it. His lips moved in rhythm with the priests behind him, but he wasn't praying.
A small smile crept across his face.
Not one of grief.
Not one of sorrow.
But of triumph.
The lamb bleeds, and the gods answer. Again.
This wasn't his first Rite.
Not even his fifth.
Lucan was his ninth.
The purest. The brightest.
And the most satisfying.
He had cultivated the boy for years—fed him fragments of truth wrapped in lies, pain wrapped in praise. He'd whispered to him like a father, shaped him like a blacksmith. But Lucan was never a son. Never a disciple.
Just a vessel.
A container for devotion.
A clay urn to shatter at the feet of false divinity.
As the final runes pulsed red beneath the altar, Thalos looked down at the dying boy… and smirked.
Lucan's eyes fluttered open—barely.
And in those fading embers, he saw it.
The smile.
The lie.
The truth.
And he understood—too late.
The pain in his eyes...
Oh, it was exquisite.
Yes, Thalos thought, remember me as I truly am.
The boy's mouth parted, barely a breath escaping.
"…you…"
But his voice broke.
Thalos leaned in—not out of compassion,
But to watch the light go out.
And it did.
Lucan's eyes dimmed. His chest stilled, no more moving, no more breaths.
The priests cheered. The runes flared white.
He looked down at the altar once more.
And smiled wider.
BACK TO THE PRESENT
[S̸͖̀Y̸̤̆S̶͙̄T̴̹̀E̴̥͛M̷̘̒ ERROR — G̶͕͐L̸̺̄Ȋ̶̪T̶͙̽C̶͇͌Ḧ̶͙́ DETECTED]
[Memory Sequence: RE̴̖͋P̶̩͛E̷̡̽A̶̲͘T̴̢̎I̶͖̾N̴̨͛G̷̘̾...]
[Host Malice Level: MAXIMUM containment f̴̖̐a̵̜͊i̶̤̅l̶̖̍ư̴͖r̶̬͂e̶͇͘]
[Retribution: I̷̢̾M̷͜͝M̴̰̈I̷̘͠N̸̙̔E̷̢̍N̶̠͌T̸͚̄]
The training chamber was quiet.
Thalos stood near the far wall, observing a group of young disciples sparring in the ring. He wore no armor—just his crimson ceremonial robe, embroidered with silver flame.
At his side, six senior disciples, handpicked from the elite—Lucan had trained beside most of them.
Jeris. Alon. Mirell. The ones who laughed when he failed.
The ones who stood in the front row the day he bled.
And then...
The doors creaked open.
Softly. Just enough.
All heads turned.
Lucan stepped through.
White hair. Ash-pale skin. Black veins like lightning down his neck.
No blade drawn.
No armor worn.
Just him.
---
Silence.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Then—
"Impossible," Jeris said sharply.
"That's not—he's dead," Mirell whispered, stepping back.
"Thalos…?" Alon turned to his master. "Is that...?"
Thalos didn't answer.
Lucan kept walking.
Not toward the ring.
Toward him, towards Thalos.
The system pinged softly in his head.
[Target: Thalos Verin — 10 meters]
[Obstructions Detected: 6 — D̶i̸s̷c̵i̶p̵l̸e̷s̴ ̴o̷f̵ ̴t̵h̸e̷ ̶F̶l̶a̶m̶e̶]
[Suggested Action: D̸e̶m̸o̵n̵s̶t̸r̷a̵t̶i̶o̵n̴]
Lucan stopped.
Tilted his head.
Smiled—just barely.
"Move," he said.
---
They didn't.
Of course they didn't.
Alon stepped forward first, drawing his blade. "You think you can walk in here like some specter and threaten him? You're nothing but a—"
Lucan raised a hand.
A simple gesture.
And Alon dropped.
No scream. Just collapse.
His chest had folded in, his ribs crunching like glass with a sound like it broke from within.
Jeris charged. Mirell shouted. The others formed up.
It didn't matter.
Lucan moved through them like a shadow through flame — cold and consuming.
One snapped spine.
One ruptured skull.
One was crushed into the wall with such force it cracked the stonework of the hall.
No emotion. No struggle.
Just efficiency.
And now... only Thalos remained.
Lucan stepped over the bodies.
[Sin Reservoir: Partial]
[Guilt Harvested: 32%]
[Betrayal Threshold: M̴E̶T̴]
[First Sin: UNLOCKED]
He looked his old master in the eye.
And Thalos, for the first time in Lucan's memory, stepped back.
"…Lucan," he whispered. "You were supposed to be cleansed."
Lucan's voice was low and shaky.
"I was."
The words echoed through the ruined chamber like a death sentence.
Lucan stepped forward, slow, steady—leaving footprints in the blood of the others. His hair, still white and his hand, pulsing with a rune like power. His eyes—once full of light—were now cold like the power was in control and not him.
Thalos didn't move.
Couldn't.
The old warlord, the Ascended, the so-called Father of Blades—he was staring at Lucan and didn't know what to do. That was a first.
"I thought…" Thalos began, but his voice cracked. "I thought it would be mercy. A clean death. A sacred end. You—you were too pure for this world, Lucan."
Lucan tilted his head.
"So you offered me to it?"
"I gave you purpose," Thalos said, louder now—like volume could patch the wound. "They would've torn you apart, the High Inquisitor, the clergy, the damn gods themselves! I did what I had to. I—I saved you the only way I knew how."
Lucan blinked, slow.
Then—he laughed.
Softly and Brokenly. A laugh that sounded like something mixed with pain and unbelief.
"Saved me?"
He raised his hand again.
Power coiled at his fingertips again, and a symbol, unknown to Thalos or any other mortal pulsed on his palm.
[Skill Unlocked: G̵r̷i̷e̸f̶b̴u̵r̷n̷ — Targets with emotional attachment suffer a̶m̶p̵l̷i̶f̵i̶e̶d̴ ̵p̷s̴y̵c̵h̷i̵c̷ ̷r̶u̷p̶t̴u̷r̴e̷ ̴b̴e̸f̶o̸r̸e̴ ̵d̴e̷a̴t̵h̷.]
[Executing...]
"Then save this," Lucan said.
He thrust his palm forward—touching Thalos, not just pointing at his chest.
Thalos staggered.
His breath hitched.
And then—he screamed.
---
It wasn't a deathblow.
Not yet.
Lucan let the pain unfold inside his former master's mind and he watched. He didn't look away, not once.
Thalos saw every memory—every moment he held Lucan's shoulders, every word of praise, every look of pride—and felt them burn in reverse.
The love.
The betrayal.
The guilt.
Blood poured from his nose. His eyes. His ears.
Lucan stepped closer and whispered:
"You could've died a hero… but I'm giving you something better."
"…W-what?" Thalos choked out, trembling.
Lucan leaned in.
"A grave full of regrets."
Then he drove his fingers straight through Thalos' chest.
No blade.
Just raw will.
The system sounded again, almost like it enjoyed what just unfolded.
[Sin Harvest: COMPLETE]
[Primary Target: T̷h̷a̶l̸o̶s̴ ̵V̴e̷r̴i̶n̸ — T̷E̷R̶M̵I̶N̷A̷T̸E̴D̷]
[Title Earned: F̵i̷r̵s̴t̶ ̵R̶e̴a̶p̵e̸r̴ ̶o̸f̸ ̶t̴h̴e̸ ̷C̵h̷a̷i̸n̷b̸r̵e̷a̶k̶e̸r̶s̴]
[Sin Reservoir: 100%]
[Villain Tier Advanced: Tier I]
[New Class: Path of the A̷p̷o̴s̷t̴a̴t̶e̷]
Lucan let the body fall.
---
Silence.
For a moment, it was just him.
Alone and alive.
"Who?" he asked the system.
[Target: Mother Halix]
[Location: W̴i̶t̵h̸i̷n̶ ̸t̵h̷e̶ O̶r̸d̷e̴r̵]
[Status: AWARE]
[Action: O̶B̴S̷E̶R̸V̷E̵]
[Recommendation: L̸E̸T̴ ̶T̶H̸E̷M̵ ̸F̵E̴A̶R̸]
---
Far above, hidden behind one of the cathedral's shattered spires, a shadow shifted.
A hooded figure stared down through the broken skylight, their fingers trembling around a holy pendant. Their eyes widen for they had watched it all, they had watched the unthinkable unfold.
Lucan. Alive.
And different.
"...Gods preserve us," they whispered.
Below, Lucan turned his head slightly, as if he felt the eyes on him.
And for a split second… He smiled.