Even though Lucien had smirked in the Headmaster’s face, the confidence had been a calculated bluff. He had originally set the timeline at one year because he knew, even with his past-life experience, that the soul was a fickle thing. Connecting to an Origin Vein wasn't just about knowing the coordinates; it was like walking through a maze covered in fog and mirrors.

  Half a year wasn't just "asking a lot"—it was a death march.

  Instead of returning to the snotty chatter of the student dorms, Lucien had moved his meager belongings into a quiet room at a local inn. It was the temporary headquarters Dame Seraphine had established for her reconnaissance, and it suited him perfectly. He needed constant updates on the cult’s movements, and frankly, he preferred the company of a mature, silent Paladin over a group of teenagers obsessed with ranking points.

  Every day was a repetitive cycle of pain and focus. Lucien didn't just meditate; he pushed his body through the "Hell-bound" regime his teacher had once beaten into him. He trained in the center of his dimly lit room, his back bare to the cool air, the fresh Engraving pulsing like a living thing against his skin.

  He was using his master’s "Constant Strain" method—a grueling form of isometric conditioning. For minutes at a time, Lucien would purposely flex every fiber of his being, maintaining awkward, agonizing positions that forced his muscles to scream for release. He would hold a half-crouch with his spine twisted just so, or suspend his weight on his fingertips, before slowly stretching the tension out until his joints popped.

  This physical torture served a dual purpose. By forcing his body into these extreme states, he was manually clearing the "noise" from his nervous system. The intense physical feedback acted like a sonar, helping him map the internal landscape more clearly.

  Combined with the search for the Origin Vein, the constant blood flow and energy circulation were finally knitting his shattered tissues back together. His body wasn't at 100 percent yet—his hands still trembled after a long session, and his ribs ached with every deep breath—but the "walking corpse" look was fading. He was becoming a weapon again.

  Four months left, he thought, sweat dripping from his chin onto the wooden floorboards.

  He could feel the Origin Vein now. It was no longer a distant flicker; it was a low, heavy thrum at the base of his spine, like a dormant beast waiting to break out. The path was almost clear. He just needed to reach out and grab the tether before his heart gave out from the strain.

  "Almost there," he grunted, shifting into a new, bone-creaking pose. "Just a little further into the dark."

  He closed his eyes and sank inward. In the beginning, the interior of his body felt like a vast, lightless cavern filled with the roar of a storm. The lightning he had pulled at the altar was still there, but it was wild, crashing against his ribcage and searing his lungs.

  He had to find the Origin Vein—the primordial source of his unique power. He navigated through the "Biomes" of his own spirit, pushing past the stagnant pools of his physical exhaustion and the jagged cliffs of his lingering pain. In his mind’s eye, he was a traveler in a fog, searching for a golden thread he had held decades ago.

  It should be here, he thought, his mental form hovering near the base of his spine.

  He pushed his consciousness deeper, past the superficial layers of muscle and bone, into the metaphysical "void" where the soul anchored itself to the body. He felt a flicker—a cold, sharp needle of resonance.

  Found you.

  But the moment he reached for it, the connection snapped. His body jolted in the real world, a mouthful of copper-tasting blood hitting his tongue. The pathways were too narrow; He wasn't just looking for the vein; he was having to manually carve the way back to it with his own willpower, inch by agonizing inch.

  He wiped the blood from his lip and straightened his back, the red script on his skin pulsing with a dull, rhythmic light.

  "Again," he whispered into the silence of the room.

  Before Lucien could attempt another dive into his consciousness, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed through the small room. He dropped from his isometric hold, his muscles twitching with a mix of exhaustion and residual electricity. He grabbed a loose shirt, threw it over his damp shoulders, and opened the door.

  Standing there in the dim hallway was a woman in a heavy traveler's cloak, her face partially obscured. Dame Seraphine.

  "May I come in?" she asked, her emerald eyes scanning the hallway for any prying eyes.

  "Yes, you may," Lucien said, stepping aside to let the Paladin enter.

  As the door clicked shut, Lucien began to towel off the sweat that coated his torso. Seraphine made herself comfortable on the room's only sturdy chair, her gaze lingering on the lean, corded muscle of his back where the Engraving sat. She let out a soft whistle.

  "Out of all the bodies I have seen in the Order, yours is exceptionally well-sculpted for combat," she noted, her voice clinical yet appreciative. "There isn't a single ounce of wasted movement in your frame."

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  "You're making me blush," Lucien quipped, though his face remained neutral. "If you're impressed by mine, you should see my teacher's. His body is a literal sculpture of a god of war—scarred, iron-hard, and built for nothing but slaughter."

  "You bring up your teacher a lot," she said, leaning forward. "But you shouldn't underestimate yourself, Lucien. I haven't seen you for a week, yet the progress you've made is staggering. At this rate, you might actually connect to your Origin Vein within the six-month deadline."

  She looked at him with genuine praise. "By the fastest standards of the entire continent, that process usually takes three years, not six months. Can your teacher say he accomplished the same?"

  Lucien didn't answer immediately. Instead, a slow, knowing smile spread across his face, followed by a dry chuckle.

  Seraphine’s eyebrows shot up. "He can?" she asked, her voice dropping into a tone of absolute sincerity.

  The weight of her own question hit her, ringing in the silence of the room. She was already deeply impressed by Lucien; he was proving to be an invaluable asset every single day. He was knowledgeable and witty, possessing a mind that seemed to have lived a dozen lifetimes. She had sparred with him on several occasions since their return, and his technique was unsettling—he fought with a cold, predatory efficiency that was better than most seasoned veterans she had trained with in the Holy City.

  And he had accomplished all of this at such a young age, with a body that was still recovering from a near-death ordeal.

  Lucien laughed again. Lucien looked at Seraphine and knew what she was thinking. He couldn't help but shake his head at the mental image of the Church trying to "recruit" a man who argued with himself in three different voices. He opened his mouth to explain, then thought better of it and shut it.

  "Well... he is eccentric," Lucien smirked. Rather than letting her dig deeper into a past he couldn't explain, he pivoted the conversation with practiced ease. "What did you find out there?"

  Seraphine sighed, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features. She knew that look. When Lucien decided a topic was closed, he would lie, misdirect, or weave a dozen half-truths to stay in the shadows. She stepped back mentally, accepting the shift.

  "I did find something," Seraphine said, her voice dropping an octave as she leaned in. "I managed to discover that there has been a massive prison break. A high-value criminal named Orren Kest managed to escape, and from what I have gathered, dozens of others vanished with him."

  She paused, her brow furrowed in a deep, troubled line. "The others are small fry, but this man... his records are chilling. His crimes include the slaughter of entire households, roadside ambushes, and the ritualistic execution of travelers along the lesser-patrolled trade routes."

  "But you don't believe the records," Lucien noted, watching the way her jaw tightened.

  "No, I don't," she admitted. "How can an 'unknown' man commit such heinous, large-scale crimes without a single whisper reaching the public? Only guards and high-level officials are privy to these files. It took all my connections to find any information on him. For a man to do so much and remain a ghost... something isn’t right."

  Lucien nodded slowly, his mind already spinning through the possibilities. "You're right. That smells like a cover-up."

  "Do you know something?" Seraphine asked. Her eyebrows arched, her gaze searching his face for a tell.

  "I don't," Lucien said flatly.

  She clearly didn’t believe him. She was used to him lying at the drop of a hat, but rather than push, she gave him a measured look and backed off.

  Ironically, Lucien was telling the absolute truth. In his previous life, he hadn't even been within the Empire’s borders during the original attack. He knew the broad strokes—the blood, the fire, the fall of the capital—but he didn't know the names of the specific pawns the cult was moving across the board.

  Seraphine gripped the hilt of her hidden dagger, the knuckles of her gloved hand turning white. The weight of her duty as a Paladin was clashing violently with the grim reality Lucien was painting.

  "Are you certain we shouldn't report this to the Imperial High Command?" she asked, her voice hushed and strained. "Hiding the fact that both Valerius and I are well—and not deathly ill as we officially reported—while I stay here undercover... that alone is a foundation for treason. If we are caught, there will be no trial."

  "I am certain," Lucien responded, his voice cold and devoid of his usual snark. He stood up, the towel draped over his shoulder, and looked at her with an intensity that made him seem far older than fourteen. "You’ve been shielded by the Church’s walls for too long to notice how deep the rot has spread through this Empire, Seraphine."

  He paused, letting the silence hang heavy in the room before dropping a name that carried the weight of a death sentence.

  "Lord Veylan Marr," Lucien said. "That man will be the death of this nation. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the one holding the leash of every 'ghost' and criminal currently walking the streets. He’d burn the capital to the ground if he could rebuild the throne out of the ashes for himself."

  Seraphine’s face went pale. Veylan Marr was a pillar of the Imperial court, a man of impeccable reputation and terrifying influence. "Are you saying... are you saying he is the one behind the curse? Behind the mines?"

  "I don't know," Lucien responded, turning his back to her to look out the window at the flickering lights of the city. "What I do know is that trusting a man like Marr is equivalent to signing your own death warrant. If we report this to the 'proper authorities,' we are likely handing our findings directly to the person who wants them buried."

  He turned his head slightly, his profile sharp in the moonlight. "If you want to save the people, you have to stay outside the system for a little while longer. Can you do that, or is the 'Goddess’s Light' too bright for you to see in the dark?"

  Seraphine didn't answer immediately. She looked at her hands, then back at the boy who spoke of treachery as if it were an old friend.

  Orren Kest, he thought, etching the name into his mind.

  As much as the mystery gnawed at him, he couldn't afford to play the investigator yet. He was still a boy with a broken body and a ticking clock. If he didn't win his bet with the Headmaster, he wouldn't have the status or the resources to stop a massacre, let alone hunt a ghost. Besides, his pride wouldn't allow that man the satisfaction of a win.

  "Keep tracking him," Lucien said, turning back toward his meditation mat. "For now, I have one job. I need to win this bet before the Headmaster’s head gets too big."