Obsidian pillars lined the vast chamber, their carved runes of triumph now dim and cracked—monuments to a glory already fading. They seemed to lean inward, as if the hall itself mourned what it once represented.
Banners once bearing the sigils of nations and guilds hung in tatters from the vaulted ceiling, their colors long drained into grey. They swayed faintly—not from any wind, but from the slow unraveling of the building's protective wards.
At the center stood Aldric Voss, President of the Hunter Association.
He was surrounded by silence—and ruin.
Stacks of reports cluttered the desk before him: missives from fallen strongholds, cities devoured by chaos, alliances dissolved overnight. Every page he turned was another fracture spreading through what little order remained. And in the pauses between them, he could hear it—the quiet sound of his power slipping away.
Then, without warning—
The great double doors didn't crash open. They simply… opened.
No gust of wind. No echo.
Just the weight of inevitability.
Lucian Blackthorne stepped through. Alone.
His presence filled the room like a shadow stretching too far. The faint hum of mana in the air grew heavier, denser, until even the light felt muted.
Aldric froze mid-step. "How—how did you get in here? There are dozens of Hunters beneath this floor!"
Lucian said nothing.
His boots struck the marble in a steady, unhurried rhythm.
Clack.
Clack.
Each step echoed through the chamber like a judgment being read aloud.
"You think you can just walk in here and—"
Lucian raised a hand.
No visible spell. No word. Just a small, deliberate motion—followed by a sharp bang as his palm met the edge of the sapphire table.
A spiderweb of cracks burst across its surface. Papers scattered, some fluttering off the edge. The air thickened, as if the hall itself forgot how to breathe.
The shadows deepened around the room. The pillars groaned. The faint vibration in the marble floor crept upward into Aldric's legs.
He stumbled back, then dropped to one knee as the pressure mounted. His breath came short and fast, his vision trembling. Blood began to trickle down the side of his temple—his body reacting before his mind even understood the force pressing down on him.
And still, Lucian said nothing.
Aldric's voice broke under the weight of silence.
"I… I am yours, Lord Blackthorne…"
Lucian's boots clicked once more as he rounded the table. He crouched in front of Aldric, lowering himself until their eyes met.
He didn't shout. He didn't threaten.
He merely reached forward, his hand resting lightly on Aldric's head.
"Good dog." Lucian's voice was calm—too calm. "If you'd learned your place sooner… things wouldn't have gone this far."
His hand tightened, slow and deliberate.
Aldric winced, blood streaming more freely now from the side of his skull. His body trembled, caught between fear and submission.
Lucian's eyes glowed faintly crimson. "Tell me, Aldric… was it Sebastian?"
The man's breath rattled. His voice came out broken.
"Y–yes… it was him. He filled the National Hunters with greed… turned them against you. He was the one who poisoned your father in the Rift before that night. All of it… all of it was his plan."
Lucian let go. Aldric slumped, gasping for air, the marble beneath him stained red.
Lucian stood, silent for a moment, before turning away.
"No killing blow. Not yet," he murmured. Then, louder—"From now on, all matters concerning the Hunter Association will pass through me."
Aldric didn't argue. He only nodded weakly, his head bowed.
Lucian stepped toward the door—and just as he reached for it, it creaked open from the other side.
Elias Vitalis, the Sacred Restorer, stood there—his hand still on the handle, his expression tense. He had been about to enter. Instead, he froze at the sight before him.
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "Elias."
Elias raised his staff — the Ancient Rod of Holiness — its surface veined with golden light, humming softly in the still air.
"To think," he said with quiet irony, "that I'd stumble upon the traitor everyone fears."
Lucian extended a hand, unbothered, his voice calm as falling ash.
"Or perhaps," he countered, "you've found the only man still fighting for humanity's truth."
A flicker of surprise touched Elias's expression. Then he gave a small, rueful smile.
Lucian mirrored it faintly. "It's been a long time, Mr. Elias."
Elias studied him — really looked at him — for the first time in years. His fingers tightened faintly around his staff, a ripple of disbelief crossing his aged face.
"…By the heavens," he murmured. "The boy who once barely reached my wrist… now stands taller than me." His eyes moved over Lucian's form — the sharp lines of his jaw, the quiet strength in his frame, the cold steadiness in his gaze. "You've changed, Lucian. The timid child of Blackthorne Manor… is now a man carved by war."
Lucian said nothing, only offering a faint nod — an acknowledgment, not a denial.
Elias exhaled, closing the door behind them to spare Aldric the humiliation of being seen trembling on his own floor. "I'm glad to see you again, and… congratulations on erasing them all." His voice softened, the edge of guilt threading through. "Back then, the moment I learned your father had 'destroyed' his own family, I knew it was a lie — a trap, spun to seize the Blackthorne's power and name."
Lucian's eyes flicked toward him. "I was certain you knew."
Elias's throat tightened, his gaze falling. "Even if I did… what could I have done? All these years, I was nothing more than a healer bound by their chains."
Lucian placed a hand on his shoulder — steady, grounding. "It wasn't your fault. Even if you had spoken, no one would've believed you. The world never listens to healers until they're bleeding."
Elias hesitated, then reached into his subspace pocket and drew out several sealed documents, their seals marked with the insignias of fallen guilds. "Maybe I couldn't fight them… but I could record what they did. These are every trace of their corruption — every hidden sin. With this, you can finally move against the last one standing… Sebastian."
Lucian took the documents, eyes narrowing. "You've done more than enough, Elias. With these, I can stand against him — not just with power, but with proof too."
He reached up, fingers brushing the Nyxveil Relic that hung at his neck. Void mana coiled around them like black mist drawn to command.
"Then shall we—"
Veridion Spire stood like a monument to centuries of conquest—its towers clawing at the heavens, its walls etched with the scars of forgotten wars. Wind screamed through the narrow ramparts, carrying with it the ghosts of lost empires. Moonlight bled over the steel-veined battlements, glinting off the runed armor of sentries who no longer feared monsters—only memory.
It was the main front tower along the border of the Abyssal Veil, a vast and ruinous ocean where, between the 200th and 300th Centuries, a disastrous gate had torn open at its heart. From that rift, endless tides of monstrosities spilled forth, devouring all that dared remain. By the end of the 300th Century, the borders had fallen into ruin—yet Veridion Spire endured, a lone relic of humanity's defiance against the sea of nightmares.
Within the fortress's heart, beneath layers of enchanted stone and secrecy, the War Chamber pulsed with candlelight and tension. Maps lined the obsidian table—stitched parchment inked in blood and contingency. Floating projections flickered above it, tracing troop formations, shifting fault lines, and dying alliances. Every mark was a life. Every move—a gamble.
At the center of it all sat Sebastian Stratagem, the Grand Tactician.
At the center sat Sebastian Stratagem, Grand Tactician. His hands moved like a musician's—shifting forces along invisible boards, weighing ten thousand permutations in the space of breaths. Then the thread he'd trusted snapped.
Until one wasn't.
He froze.
Something rippled—wrongness, subtle but suffocating. Like oil in clean water. The air trembled around him, years of calculation cracking, brick by brick.
His gaze slid to the right, toward the sapphire table—where a lone chessboard waited: one king left, waiting to fall.
Then the air split open near the window.
From the fracture in reality, Lucian Blackthorne stepped forth.
His coat whispered like a royal banner, shifting in a wind only he commanded. Shadows crawled around his boots like loyal hounds. The light flickered as he entered; rain battered harder against the ancient glass, the storm outside roaring in unison with his presence.
Sebastian didn't flinch. He simply smiled—a weary, crooked line.
Sebastian (quietly): "So… at last you're here for the final piece, Reaper of Blackthorne."
Lucian said nothing. Behind him walked Elias Vitalis, once called the Sacred Restorer, now unbound by holy creeds. The faint luminescence of his robes flickered—like a sunrise trapped beneath storm clouds.
Thunder rolled. The light guttered, leaving the room drenched in shadow, lit only by the trembling glow of half-burned candles.
Sebastian's jaw tightened, voice low with restrained fury.
Sebastian: "So… even divinity kneels before the abyss."
Elias inclined his head, his tone calm, unshaken—like a surgeon speaking over a corpse.
Elias: "Divinity has nothing to do with loyalty. I heal what is broken. And the Association, Sebastian… is broken beyond repair."
Sebastian's smile faltered. Straightening his vest, he snapped his fingers.
Sebastian: "Then tell me, Healer—what do you do when something cannot be repaired?"
Elias (coldly): "You erase it."
He raised the Ancient Rod of Holiness, its symbols flaring gold.
"Along with everything it poisoned."
Sebastian (triumphantly): "Imperial Aegis Array—blessed by the Seraphim themselves! No void, no blade, no trick can breach it."
Glyphs flared beneath their feet. Mana coursed upward like molten veins through the marble floor. A radiant dome sealed the chamber—its brilliance devouring shadow, forming an impenetrable wall of light. Hundreds of seventh-class circles spun to life around them, weaving a net of annihilation.
Lucian didn't blink.
He simply sat down on a chair caught inside the array, eyes unamused.
He turned slightly toward Elias.
The healer exhaled.
In that breath, the world shattered.
The circles cracked—then dissolved into glittering dust, as if sunlight had kissed frost.
Sebastian pressed his hand to his forehead, a tremor in his voice.
Sebastian: "What a sight… To think divinity could reach this level."
Elias: "Divinity was always beyond the reach of magic."
Sebastian's eyes glowed, light spilling through his fingers like ocean fire.
Sebastian: "Then consider this my blessing… for the game is only beginning."
He extended his right hand, mana bleeding through his fingers as he moved. From that motion, endless waves of illusion rippled outward—fractal, recursive, infinite—each one folding over the last until the very notion of form began to collapse.
The domain warped into a vast, colorless expanse—an infinite white space where the eye could find no anchor. There were no shadows, no edges, no horizon—only an unbroken void that swallowed depth itself.
Elias tried to sense Sebastian's coordinates, but how could one measure what had no beginning or end? In that place, every step felt both near and far, every direction identical. The air shimmered with radiating mana, and even perception betrayed him—what was once reality now felt like a fever dream unraveling by the second.
Lucian finally rose from the chair.
Ember-circles flared in his eyes—red edging gold—layers of memory and resolve burning like funeral pyres.
Lucian (quietly): "You calculated every outcome. But you never accounted for the one thing you couldn't imagine…"
He unsheathed Obsidian Oath, its edge drinking the light.
"…the will of the Blackthorne."
He swung once—the Fifth Form: Eclipse of Desolation.
Everything turned to black. The slash expanded endlessly, devouring mana and matter alike.
Sebastian attempted to teleport, to split the line—he in panic warred a hyper-beam of eighth-class force into existence—but when his beam struck Lucian's cut the sound itself fractured—metallic, like a mountain splitting.
Seals crumpled beneath pressure. The blade cleaved through the array; the domain inverted by darkness and then collapsed.
When the light returned, they were back in the chamber.
For a second the chamber was drenched in a silence so absolute it felt like suction.
Sebastian was half-riven—shoulder and arm gone, gore and astonishment spilling from a broken lip. He knelt, heaved bile and blood onto the marble
Sebastian (hoarse): "Hah… magnificent… to die with such history."
Mana flared violently from his core suddenly, laughter, raw and unhinged, tore from his lips..
Sebastian (mad laughter): "HAHAHA! Yes! Let it end! No hunter shall remain to save this wretched world!"
Outside, thousands of Eighth-Class circles ignited in the clouds—each capable of erasing a nation.
Lucian watched him with the lethargic smile of a thing that had been waiting.
Lucian: "You'd burn your soul just to drag us down?"
Elias (flatly): "There's no reasoning with a man who's already dead."
Around the chamber panic spread—mages scrambling, shields blooming to protect the weaker, others fleeing into the stairways. High mages threw spherical wards to shield those near them. The sky above Veridion quivered under the oncoming threat.
Elias lifted his staff high.
Elias: "I expected this much… That's why I brought reinforcements."
Light speared upward from his rod—answered by dozens more rising from the ocean and the distant forest.
The Elysian Vanguard, the world's third-largest guild, stood ready. Their power converged, radiating brilliance that swallowed the heavens.
Then—silence.
And darkness returned.
Sebastian's body failed. He crumpled as his mana bled out. Lucian approached.
Before Lucian could strike, a voice rang from the doorway: "Take another step, and you face the wrath of the Tower! We will not tolerate your arrogance any longer!"
The vice-head of the Magic Tower, Rheven Frostborne, strode in, frost-etched staff raised. His men formed a trembling ring behind him.
Lucian didn't stop. With one clean motion, he severed Sebastian's head.
There was no need to let the destroyer breathe again.
Rheven's hand twitched, a spell coalescing. Elias lifted a palm, holding out two parchments he had pulled from sub-space: seizure orders, death warrants, evidence of illicit contracts, proof of monstrous crossbreeding and crimes beyond the tower's mandate. "This region is now under the Elysian Vanguard's remit, sanctioned by the Hunter Association," Elias said. His voice was steady. "Your tower and your man have traffic in illegal creations. We have all the records."
Rheven's anger snapped into calculation; his spell mid-formation faltered. Lucian appeared at his shoulder like a shadow with teeth and patted his armored sleeve, a motion more intimate than threat.
Lucian (coldly): "Me and my sword don't care how much more blood spills. Stay in your place… if you wish to see the sun again."
Rheven looked into that calm, and for the first time his rage checked. He swallowed and did not finish the spell.
And then—he was gone.
Fading into the darkness that followed him like destiny.
In the weeks that followed, the world shuddered.
Veridion Spire—once the mind and heart of humanity's greatest strategist—fell silent. Its forges burned to ash, its archives sealed beneath obsidian locks. What had been the bastion of order now stood as a monument to downfall, its very stones whispering of judgment.
But silence, like all things, was temporary.
A new storm began to gather.
The Elysian Vanguard, under the leadership of Elias Vitalis, severed all ties with the Hunter Association and declared allegiance to Lucian Blackthorne.
The Obsidian Phalanx, those infamous mercenaries who once fought only for gold, laid their banners before him freely.
And from the shrouded corners of history, the Nightfall Covenant—long dismissed as myth—returned to the surface, swearing fealty in the ancient tongue of oaths that bound soul to cause.
Kingdoms that once warred over borders now sent emissaries. Merchant guilds dissolved their networks of deceit and bribery, aligning themselves with the rising Blackthrone dominion. Even the warlords who ruled from ruin sent offerings—blood-bound contracts of loyalty signed in trembling ink.
Then came the day the world was forced to listen.
A grand convocation was called—an unprecedented gathering broadcast across all nations.
Within the luminous Hall of Concordia, beneath banners of every major faction, the surviving leaders of humanity faced the truth they had long denied.
At the dais stood Arden Kael, Prime Chancellor of the Unified Western Alliance—a man known for his silver tongue and shifting loyalties.
Flanked by the Mage-Queen of Solaryn, the Archmarshal of the Northern Vanguard, and guild masters from the remnants of the Association, he spoke to the world.
"Lucian Blackthorne," Kael began, his voice steady yet trembling with restrained fury, "has executed without trial the leadership of the Hunter Association, including the Grand Tactician Sebastian Stratagem. He moves without consent of the global council, and now commands allegiance from half the continent.
Tell me, what separates him from tyranny?"
Murmurs rippled through the assembly—some fearful, others curious, but none certain.
A hooded woman rose from among the delegates, her insignia faint but old—Sera Dalreign, historian of the Old Era.
She spoke with quiet conviction.
"What separates him," she said, "is that he did what none of you dared to. The National Hunters betrayed their oath to humanity. They coveted power, manipulated rifts, and sold the deaths of millions for profit and control. You all knew—and said nothing."
Gasps echoed through the chamber.
Arden's composure faltered, but he pressed on. "Even so, the world needed balance, not massacre!"
Seraphine's reply was colder. "Balance is a luxury bought with the blood of the innocent. He restored it with the blood of the guilty."
Her words struck deeper than any sword.
For centuries, the Blackthrone name had been synonymous with sacrifice. Their ancestors had sealed the first abyssal gates, offered their own bloodlines to maintain equilibrium between light and void. Humanity's peace had been forged upon their graves.
And when the world grew greedy, when the Hunter Association rose to claim dominion in their absence—the Blackthrone legacy was buried under lies.
Now, it had returned.
Not as vengeance.
As correction.
But it was Elias's final statement that sent shockwaves across the continents:
"From this day forward," he declared, his voice resonating through every channel, "peace shall be entrusted to the only one who has never betrayed humanity—the Lord of Blackthorne. As restitution for all he has endured, we relinquish our guild licenses into his dominion."
The declaration rippled across the continents like a tremor of inevitability.
The Blackthorne Clan, already feared even with only Lucian standing at its helm, now absorbed the might of the Elysian Vanguard—the third largest guild on Earth.
And in that single moment, the balance of power shifted.
No throne stood higher.
No nation dared breathe without his shadow falling across it.
Lucian Blackthorne had become the undisputed sovereign of the human world.
Outside, in the open square below the Hall, countless people gathered under dark skies. They did not chant or cheer—they watched.
A storm was coming again, but this time, it carried the weight of justice, not destruction.
For the first time in centuries, the world whispered a single truth:
"He killed them in silence because mercy was already wasted."
And thus, from the ashes of corruption and ruin, the Black Sun of Humanity, Blackthrone rose once more.
Lucian never asked for power.
He became it.
Lucian Blackthorne had once been a fugitive.
Now, he stood as emperor in all but name.
The banners of Blackthorne crowned the skylines of fallen empires. Shadows moved at his command; light bent around his will. Even justice—long corroded by greed—had been reforged beneath his silence.
He did not seek to rule.
He sought to restore.
And when the last ember of day melted into the horizon, the Hall of Concordia fell quiet. Behind its vast obsidian doors, the evening wind carried the scent of rain and dusk-blooming roses.
Lucian stepped into the garden.
The sunset bled across the sky in deep crimson and violet, its reflection glimmering over the blackstone path that led toward the heart of the garden—where a woman stood, waiting.
Selene Ravencroft.
Her gown rippled like liquid dusk, catching the dying light as though weaving it into herself. The air around her shimmered faintly—neither magic nor illusion, but something older, deeper.
She turned, eyes the color of twilight meeting his. There was no fear in them—only curiosity, and an unspoken recognition.
Her voice broke the silence, calm and hauntingly soft:
"Tell me… when the sun finally falls, does the darkness claim the world—or save it?"
Lucian paused beneath the bleeding sky, his gaze drifting toward the horizon where the last light met shadow. Then, in a voice quiet as the coming night, he answered:
"That depends… on who commands the darkness."
The wind stilled. The dying light faded to black.
The Blackthorne Era had begun.