Chapter 13: The Start of the First Arc of the First Game (3)
The train shook like a scared animal trapped in a net, each hit on the barrier sending shakes through the metal and glass—a deep, bone-shaking groan that matched the fear filling the air. Sparks jumped across the shields like crazy fireflies, purple and wild, and every time the golden barrier bent under the attack, the carriage seemed to stop breathing, the air getting thicker and heavier, mixed with the sharp smell of burned air and sweaty fear.
Students huddled in scared groups, bodies pressed together like touching could keep the mess outside away—bags held tight like lucky charms, quiet cries coming up like hidden bubbles, eyes jumping from window to window, praying the next hit would miss. Some whispered calls to family spirits, voices shaking like they were begging; others just shook, faces white as moon on water, waiting for the world to break open and take them.
Lucian Azrael Von Blackstar stayed right where the storm found him: stuck in his seat, still as a statue made from old stone, his eyes a calm hold fixed on the fight. The barrier would last a few more breaths, he knew—its old runes and light bending but not breaking, like a weak wall against a big flood. He had been on this edge before, felt its beat in his blood like an old, unwanted tune.
'Same event,' he thought, his face smooth like a pond not touched by the wind, flat as the calm before a sea gives up. 'Same shouts of panic. Same weak screams chasing the wind.'
He leaned forward just a bit, looking through the shaking window where the outside world blurred into anger: the sky marked with red light whips, fire bolts crashing against the dome in bursts of broken magic. Dark shapes flew through the clouds like crows in a storm—masked attackers on buzzing power discs, their cloaks flapping as bad crystals pulsed at their centers, black lines of stolen power feeding their attack. Robes marked with the sharp sign of the cult that had eaten at the land's edges for hundreds of years, shadows born from old gods and human want.
'Mana Raiders,' he said to the quiet in his mind, the words a soft ending in his head. 'Chaos hunters, tied to the dark cult's endless need.'
In his first transmigration here, this had been the cover's rip—the moment the happy face of a dating sim broke, showing the war underneath, pretty covers hiding teeth that bite hard. Fear had grabbed him then, raw and new: fingers white on the armrest, heart pounding like a war drum against his ribs, fear like a hot wire burning through veins not tested by real danger.
And in that mess of noise, the "tutorial hero" had stood up—Johnathan Almek Leonborne.
The name rang in his thoughts, clear as hit steel, calling up ghosts from nothing.
The key player in The Chronicles of Eden's War: Crimson Fate—the main guy whose every step brought saving, a normal kid pushed into story's fire.
Plain. Simple. Heart made of strong gold. The perfect hero, lifted by luck's choice and god's soft cries.
Lucian's lips twisted in a small almost-smile, faint as frost on a quick breath—not fun, but the dry nod to luck's sharp bite.
'Commoner, my ass.'
Johnathan was no weak normal person. He was Lionborn—a body blessed by one of the Twelve Mystic Beasts, old guards of the gods' lost seats. The Mystical Lion's power ran through him like hot fire: huge strength to break rock, healing that fixed body from wreck, god-like hum in his blood like a god's half-forgotten song, matching the power of half-gods.
In the story's first run, this raid—the Mana Raider attack—was the game's easy start, the tutorial's hidden knife: a planned fight to show the hero's fire, pulling players in with the rush of first win.
Lucian remembered it in clear pieces: Johnathan breaking the weak barrier, light bursting from his sword like angry dawn; golden magic roaring out in a storm, the ghost lion showing behind him—a huge shadow of fur and claws, eyes burning with sky anger. Raiders knocked down in a spin of gold and roar, the sky crying sparks as the boy took his role. But winning's cost was in blood: twenty-seven students gone to nothing, three teachers taken by stray hits—losses the story needed, starting the hero's right fire.
He breathed out soft, fingers tapping a quiet beat on his knee—tap-tap—the rhythm a small fight against the carriage's cries. Gruesome, but it had to happen. The game's hard price, waking anger in the chosen, making right from the fire of loss.
In that first transmigration, he had jumped into the fight—fire still new, pride and fear twisted together. He'd battled at Johnathan's side, using spells—magic twists that turned power into night blades, hits mixing light and shadow in ways this world never thought. It had shocked the survivors, even the teachers' wide eyes; whispers of "prodigy" and "freak" following him like smoke.
But that bravery had only pulled him deeper into the game's trap—drawing looks that should have missed him, weights that bent his road to death.
'So this time... no big moves,' he decided, the promise like steel in the mess. 'No messing with fates not mine to fix.'
The train jerked again, a wild shake that spilled cups and knocked bags, the barrier's gold cracking like spider web under a foot—lines breaking before the runes fixed it, a quick patch against the wave.
New screams cut the air, a song of broken nerves; a voice called for guards, another for lost family.
Lucian stayed put, breath steady like a monk's prayer, fogging light on the window.
'Johnathan should take the stage soon... five minutes, maybe less.'
He could picture the scene clear: the sky tearing in a fall of gold, the Mystic Lion's roar shaking the sky like free thunder; hero music swelling in the air, if this was still pixels and code—a big tune to welcome the chosen.
The idea almost made him laugh—almost, but it stuck in his throat, dry as fall leaves.
'What a worn-out joke,' he thought, the train's rock like a bed in a storm. 'An old trick dressed in fate's nice clothes.'
He still remembered the boy's voice—bright as shiny brass, mixed with sure faith, yelling lines smooth from too many times: "As long as breath fills these lungs, I'll shield you all!"
Once, it had lit something in him—a bit of borrowed bravery, the fake feel of shared heat. Now, it sounded empty as a poor man's cup, a hollow promise in a world that eats its dreamers.
Because here, in this place of masks and plans, big ideas were just another chain—gold maybe, but tying tight all the same.
He closed his eyes, temple against the window's cold hold, the shakes humming through his head like a far-off sad song.
'You'll take your crown again, won't you, Johnathan?' His lips made the smallest curve—not happy flower, but its tired shadow. 'Step into the light. Be the guide they want.'
Another boom hit the shield, closer now—red light lines cutting the dome, washing the carriage in hell light before the wards closed the hole. The magic hummed wild, a siren's cry going high and hot.
The students' fear got thicker, you could feel it like fog—fear you could taste, sharp and metal, mixing with the sour bite of burned air.
And yet, in the spin, Lucian felt... loose. A leaf floating on a river turn, watching the fast water without getting pulled.
He had seen this end carved in memory's rock—knew the count of the dead, the survivors' wet cheers. Bravery? No, this was the dull shield of being worn out, made in fires lit too many times.
His face showed in the window—gray hair ringed in mess light, eyes eating the fire without giving back, a face too calm for the storm's yell.
'This fight belongs to another now,' he told himself, hands loose in his lap, elbows on knees like supports against fall. 'I've lost enough for games not mine—died once chasing old sounds of fix.'
He whispered then, low as a prayer to winds that take no begs, "Do your part, hero. I'll watch from the side this time."
Outside the barrier, the rumble grew—a deep roar mixing with the thunder, quiet at first, then growing like slow dawn fire. The Lionborn's mark, waking in blood and fire.
Lucian didn't look, eyes lost in the window's broken mirror.
He knew the steps by heart: the shield's last break, light flooding the sky like kind flood; Johnathan coming down like a gold comet, raiders falling like dry bits before the wind. Students' cries turning to wonder, tears mixing with cheers for the light savior. A perfect start to the hero's song.
His spot in that play had faded to small notes—wiped by turns too many, choices that looped back to dust.
All he gave was the seat's quiet watch, eyes half in shadow, as the roar grew big and the shakes faded. The red lights gave way to gold's winning wash, the noise softening to the quiet of after.
The fight died down. The story went on as fate planned.
Lucian just breathed to himself, voice soft as frost on a quick breath, "Do your part, Lionborn. Play your role in this cursed tale."
And when the noise faded to echoes, when cheers rose rough from throats sore with relief, Lucian didn't move a bit.
He simply looked through the cracked window—past the thinning smoke, past the hanging light, past the world's pushy pull.
'No matter the paths I carve... it spirals back to the same worn-out yarn.'
He leaned back then, eyes closing against the shine, and gave in to the silence's soft wave.