Chapter 14: The Start of the First Arc of the First Game (4)
The golden barrier flickered like a candle about to go out in the wind, its strong light breaking into sharp lines that spread across the sky like cracks in ice. Each crack sounded through the train car like dry bone snapping—quick and harsh—while the air filled with the sharp smell of burned magic and the metal taste of scared sweat. The safety shield, made from old runes and the empire's best spells, shook on the edge of falling apart, its bright cover turning to a weak fog that hardly kept out the storm outside.
Students huddled together in scared groups, bodies bunched up like leaves in strong wind—bags held tight to their chests like shields, soft cries mixing in the air like weak prayers. Some lowered their heads, whispering quick begs to family spirits, voices breaking on unfinished words; others just shook, eyes big and crazy, jumping from window to window like they could make the next blast miss. The world outside kept raging: purple energy bolts cutting through the clouds, dark attackers weaving on their buzzing discs, their laughs rough against the screams inside.
Lucian Azrael Von Blackstar sat still in his seat, a calm spot in the storm, his black eyes showing the mess in broken bits—peaceful, not moving, like the fight was a show happening to someone else far away. He had run through this part in his mind's clear list, guessed every shake and gasp. The hero would rise. The shadows would run. The story would follow its game's path.
But this time... fate had changed.
CRASH!
The blast ripped through the front car like a wild animal breaking free, the roof exploding in a rain of bent metal and hot magic sparks that fell like angry stars. The barrier broke in a fall of gold pieces, the air catching fire with smoke and burning heat, the car bending like the train itself was yelling in pain. Bits of metal whistled through the air, sticking into seats and walls; students dove for cover, their screams a rough song lost in the roar.
Lucian's eyes lifted, slow and careful, to the hole above—and in that moment, the truth hit him cold in the stomach like a rock dropped in still water.
Johnathan Almek Leonborne—the Lionborn, the gold line of fate—was thrown back through the thick smoke, his body crashing through two rows of seats before hitting the far wall with a heavy thud that quieted the cries for a second. Blood ran a red line from his head, matting his brown hair; his sword, once burning with god power, lay dark and dull next to him, its edge chipped from useless hits.
Lucian's lips opened just a bit, his face still blank and calm, but his thoughts turned to ice. 'So even the Lionborn trips... this isn't the same as I remember.'
Sparks rained from the hole above, sharp smoke twisting like snakes into the car, as shadows slipped through the torn metal—six figures in black armor, faces hidden behind masks marked with bad signs that pulsed with stolen power. They moved like wolves smelling weak prey, boots crunching trash underfoot.
The tallest one—the leader, wide as a storm cloud—kicked a fallen guard aside like nothing, the man's body sliding across the floor in a red smear. Laughter burst from him, rough and deep, a bark that scraped the air like old rusty doors. "Weak!" he growled, voice loud over the whimpers. "This the Royal Academy's big pride? A bunch of soft rich kids, crying for their mommies?"
The students pulled back, some pressing against the walls like the metal could hide them, others frozen in place, breaths short and quick. The leader's eyes swept them like a knife through grass—mocking, hungry—his hidden eyes shining with the fun of easy hunting. "Just give up, you spoiled brats. We're not here for your soft skins. Now—where's that little hothead Amelia Eileen Orientalia, huh? Hand her over, and maybe we'll let the rest run away."
Lucian's eyes narrowed just a tiny bit at the name, a small spark in the empty—soft as a shadow moving at evening.
'So... she's already on the train.'
He had seen this turn in the original game, the raid's dark side coming sure, but Amelia's part had always waited—called by the hero's light, stepping in after the mess cleared. The hidden hero girl: a smart kid with hair like melted copper, meant to become the big magic user of the Orientalia Family, her spells a rush of fire and will that could bend the stars. But fate, that tricky puller, had brought her in early this time, messing up the pattern just enough to catch.
From the far end of the car, through the swirling smoke, a voice rose—shaking a little at the edges, but strong with real grit.
"I'm here."
Heads turned fast to the sound, the quiet breaking like thin ice.
Pushing through the smoke stepped a girl with bright red hair that caught the weak light like glowing coals in dusk, her red eyes full of a mix of scare and fire—brave spark shining against the fear. The sewn mark of the Orientalia Family shone on her chest, a gold sun on her school uniform, her thin staff held in hands that shook but didn't let go.
Amelia Eileen Orientalia stood straight in the mess, head up like facing the gods' own judge, the wood of her staff buzzing soft with built-up power.
"I'll go with you," she said clear, voice steady even with the shake running under like a hidden river. "Just... leave the others alone. No more blood—no guards, no teachers, no students. Please."
The words hung rough, her say a weak bridge over a deep hole, strong in kindness but cracked by the fear she couldn't fully hide.
The leader's mask twisted in a mean grin, his sword scraping the wall in a shower of sparks—slow, on purpose, the sound a tease cut in metal. Laughter came from his throat, dark and thick, joined by the rough laughs of his group—a song of ugliness that dirtied the air. "Damn, you're a hot one," he said slow, stepping closer, his shadow eating the light. "Maybe after those cult jerks finish their tests—poking and messing with that pretty head—we'll share you for some real play."
The attackers' laughs grew, low and dirty, a group's howl that turned the car's cold to something worse, more close.
Amelia's hands went white on her staff, the wood creaking under her hold; she swallowed hard, throat moving like a rock in dry dirt, but her stand stayed—roots deep in ground that wouldn't give.
Lucian's eyes darkened a bit, like ink spreading in water, his fingers curling light on his knees—the smallest tight in a body trained to stay still. 'Same trash talk. Same poison words from the same dirty mouths.'
Then, before the sound of their meanness could settle—
"Stop it!"
The yell cut the noise, high and strong, a spark thrown on dry wood.
Claire Manhattan jumped up from her seat, hazel eyes burning with fire brighter than her fear, her body shaking but straight as she stood in front of Amelia, arms out wide like wings hiding a baby bird. "Don't you touch her!"
Amelia's red eyes went wide, shock breaking her strong front; she grabbed for Claire's arm, fingers digging in with scared need. "You idiot!" she whispered sharp, voice full of worry. "They'll kill you—run! Get the help! I'll hold them off!"
But Claire shook her head, curls jumping wild, her stand like a wall of quiet strength. "No! You'll disappear into their dark if you go—die lost in some pit! Just... go! I'll keep them here!"
The leader tilted his head, mask leaning like a hunter enjoying the chase's turn, fun twisting his laugh to something darker, closer. "Oh? A second little hero for us?" he said deep, sword rising slow, its edge catching the broken light in a bad shine. "Hero Number Two, huh? Cute—let's see how long that fire lasts before I put it out."
He stepped forward, boots heavy like a killer's walk, the air getting thick with coming hurt.
CRACK!
The sound tore the car—not metal on metal, but the wet snap of bone giving to power, breakable as dry stick under foot.
The leader stopped mid-step, his move stopped like by hidden chain, eyes big behind the mask in a quick flash of white shock. Pressure hit sudden and full around his chest—a tight grip of strong will squeezing ribs and armor the same.
A hand—pale as moon on stone, strong as deep roots, cold as winter's first touch—had gone straight through his chest armor, fingers spread inside, curling around the fast beat of his heart.
Blood sprayed in a hot curve, painting the floor in wild red lines, splashing seats and faces in the attackers' shocked group.
Before the choke of no could come, his head jerked—twisted quick and exact—and ripped free from his body in a spray of red fog.
The world stopped breathing, time folding on itself.
Students stared, mouths open in quiet screams, faces going white like horror masks. Amelia stepped back shaky, staff loose in weak fingers, her brave crumbling to nothing. Even Claire, ready for the sword's bite, could only look—eyes big as plates, breath stuck in her throat like a bird in wind.
Behind the falling body stood Lucian.
His gray hair moved in the wind howling through the hole, a silver flow framing a face not touched by wild. His uniform soaked up the attacker's blood like dry ground, drops running slow down his cheek, marking skin that shone almost ghost-like in the red light—pale, clean, a blank for hurt's quick paint.
His face... empty. A peaceful nothing, not moved by the mess at his feet.
Not the fire of anger, nor the cold of planned hate. Not even a small pull of disgust at the warm wet on his skin. Just distance, big as space between stars—eyes black holes that showed the mess without wave, without hold.
He looked at the cut-off head in his hand, the attacker's eyes stuck in forever surprise, and said low, almost like talking to a friend—
"Quiet, you bug."
The prize dropped from numb fingers, hitting the metal floor with a wet smack, rolling to stop in the trash.
The other attackers pulled back on feel, boots scraping a step, the air bending around them with the quick change—a pressure building, soft but heavy, like the quiet before a mountain breathes.
Magic leaked from Lucian's body—not the bright burst of holy fire or the snap of wild element anger, but a deep, dark wave, thick as ink in moon light, mixed with a held-back rage that buzzed like far thunder. It wasn't the shiny bravery of stories, nor the crazy fire of loose anger. It was the quiet push of a storm building in the earth's bones—heavy, sure, the weight of shadows made real.
He turned his head a small bit toward Amelia and Claire, voice coming out even, careful, mixed with a calm that chilled more than any yell. "Get behind the seats."
Amelia blinked, the shock fog breaking like ice in sun; her hold tightened on her staff, knuckles going white. "You—"
"I won't say it twice."
The words hit plain, no extra—no shout of order, no beg hidden in strength—yet they carried the end of a door shutting on kindness's edge. Amelia stopped a breath, red eyes looking his face for the trick, the crazy, but found only the empty's straight truth. She grabbed Claire's arm—fingers like hooks—and pulled her down behind the flipped seats, the two hiding in the wreck's maybe-safe spot.
The attackers pulled together fast, growls twisting their masks to animal mouths, weapons up in a half-circle of shining threat—swords buzzing with bad power, staffs snapping with purple meanness.
"You little jerk!" one yelled, jumping forward, his disc's edge whirring at Lucian's neck. "You think you can—"
Lucian moved.
Not in a rush of anger, but a quick blur of plan—gone in the beat between heart jumps, the air folding around his empty spot like cloth smoothed by hidden hands.
SHHHK!
The first fell before his curse finished, head leaving shoulders in a clean cut, body folding like a doll with cut strings. THWACK! The second turned mid-swing, his chest caving under a hidden hammer, ribs breaking in with the crunch of dry wood.
The car turned to short chaos song: metal screaming on metal in useless blocks, wood breaking under ghost hits, breaths cut short in wet chokes that painted the walls in wild horror. The air got thick as syrup with the smell of blood and magic burst—copper warm mixing with the burned air snap of spells dying before cast. Bodies fell in piles, arms and legs out, masks broken to show faces stuck mid-growl.
Less than a minute: a life's full of hurt squeezed to breaths.
Quiet took back the space, broken only by the drop of settling red and the train's far groan.
Lucian stood in the middle of the mess, breath even like a sleeper's, not a drop of sweat or shake to mess his calm. The walls cried red in streams, pooling at his feet like unwanted gifts, but his uniform unclean—touched, like the blood knew not to stick.
He looked down at the spread of wreck, then out the window, where the outside fight faded: Johnathan, bloody but not broken, had got back on his feet, pulling up the last of his light to take down the last flying shadow.
Lucian's eyes stayed on the boy a second—gold hair wet, sword lit again in weak shine. 'You're still chasing the light, aren't you, Lionborn?'
He turned from the view, shoulders relaxing in the after quiet.
'Do your part. My song in this story ended turns ago.'
Without goodbye or show, Lucian walked the broken aisle, boots soft over trash and bodies like they were just waves in a river—light, not worth stopping for.
Behind him, Amelia and Claire hid in their hole of wreck, breaths matching in short pulls—neither voice breaking the magic, nor minds holding the wild they'd seen.
Because as Lucian passed, his face held no hero's shine—no big smile of win, no quiet happy in kindness done.
It was the look of one who had crossed the veil once in his first transmigration... and come back the same, a ghost not yet ready for rest.