Lucen stepped down from the platform without looking back.
The floor beneath him was rougher here, old footing, mana-stained from too many fights, too many pulse flares that went sideways.
His boots scuffed past the old groove where someone had carved "Died Here" in cracked glyph-script.
No one applauded.
No one spoke.
But the sound of silence wasn't real silence. Not here.
There were whispers.
Low.
Tight.
Not all directed at him, but none of them ignored him either.
"That wasn't a vanish glyph."
"Did you see the afterimage? I blinked and he was—different."
"He didn't even flare full mana. How's that legal?"
"Is it legal?"
"Wait, what rank is he again?"
Lucen ignored all of it.
He didn't slow until he reached the wall near the old conduit pipe, peeling black tape, faint mana flicker under the lining—and leaned one shoulder against it. He kept his head down. Let his breath come shallow, even.
Gen approached two seconds later.
Not fast.
Not smug.
Just… knowing.
