Chapter 6: The Embers of an Ancient War

Far below Stormfall Ridge, the remnants of Caius Voltaris's mansion lay buried beneath smoke and ash.

Once a monument to wealth and influence, the estate had been reduced to scorched marble, shattered pillars, and blackened murals. The roof had partially collapsed, exposing the grand hall to the night sky. Cracks spread across the polished floor, and the air carried the bitter smell of burnt stone, ozone, and lingering mana.

Ignatius Emberlord crouched beside the remains of a shattered pillar.

Before him lay Gideon Silversword's severed head.

For a long time, Ignatius said nothing.

He had known the Sword Saint for years. They had disagreed over politics, argued over the proper use of their authority, and occasionally crossed blades during disputes that neither man had been willing to settle through words alone.

But Gideon had never been weak.

He had been stubborn, proud, and often infuriatingly convinced of his own judgment. Yet his strength had never been in question. Even among the National-Class Hunters, few could challenge him and expect to walk away unscathed.

Now, he was dead.

Ignatius slowly rose to his feet. The metal of his gauntlets creaked as his fingers curled into fists.

"Three of us are gone," he said.

His voice was low, carrying none of the theatrical fury that might have been expected from a man of his temperament.

Three National-Class Hunters had fallen.

And the person responsible was a young man who, until recently, should never have been capable of threatening them.

Footsteps echoed through the ruined archway.

Alaric Spellbinder entered the hall, his dark robes drifting around him despite the absence of wind. His gaze passed over the broken pillars, the scorched walls, and finally the severed head resting among the debris.

He stopped.

"There's no need to debate what happened here," he said. "The mana signature is unmistakable."

Ignatius turned toward him.

Alaric's expression remained composed, but a faint tension had settled around his eyes.

"Only one name leaves destruction this precise."

"Lucian Blackthorne," Ignatius muttered.

The name seemed to linger in the ruined hall.

A growl answered from the shadows.

"Then why are we standing here talking about him?"

Leonidas Wildborne stepped into the light, his massive frame partially concealed by a cloak fashioned from the hides of magical beasts. Smoke curled through his mane-like hair, and the stone beneath his boots cracked under his weight.

His expression was openly hostile.

"Let the brat come to us," he snarled. "I'll break his spine and drag him back in pieces if I have to."

Alaric regarded him with a thin smile.

"Your confidence is admirable, Beast Monarch. But perhaps you should consider why Gideon, with four Celestial Swords at his side, failed to accomplish what you're so eager to attempt."

Leonidas's eyes narrowed.

"Are you suggesting I'm weaker than that old fool?"

"I'm suggesting that strength without preparation is merely another way to die."

A low hiss escaped Ignatius's gauntlets as heat gathered around his fists.

"Enough. If we're going to deal with Blackthorne, then we need to understand what we're dealing with. And there's another matter we haven't addressed."

His gaze shifted toward Alaric.

"What about Aldric Voss? The fox has been suspiciously quiet."

Alaric scoffed.

"Let the bureaucrat concern himself with the political consequences. He can investigate the ruins, question witnesses, and chase whatever evidence he believes will restore order. None of that changes what matters."

He turned toward the broken walls, where the remains of an ancient mural depicted warriors standing beneath a black sun.

"The Blackthorne family possessed more than political influence. Their vaults contained relics that other families spent centuries trying to acquire. Some were older than the Hunter system itself. Others were never recorded in any official archive."

His smile faded.

"If even a fraction of those treasures survived the family's downfall, then Lucian's return changes everything."

Ignatius studied him.

"And once we find the vault?"

"We take what we need."

Leonidas cracked his knuckles, a harsh sound echoing through the hall.

"And when the boy is dead?"

Alaric met his gaze.

"Then we take everything."

A heavy footstep interrupted them.

The sound came from the far end of the ruined chamber, slow and deliberate, each impact striking the stone with the weight of a war drum.

The three Hunters turned.

Marcus Ironfist emerged from the darkness.

Mana crackled around his knuckles, flashing briefly beneath the folds of his coat. Unlike Leonidas, he carried no visible rage. Unlike Alaric, he wore no calculating smile.

His expression was grave.

"You speak as though the Blackthornes were merely another family to be stripped of its wealth," he said.

Alaric raised an eyebrow.

"And you believe otherwise?"

Marcus stopped beside the ruined mural.

"I know otherwise."

His gaze settled upon the severed head of Gideon Silversword.

"Before any of you decide to hunt Lucian Blackthorne, I suggest you remember the Dragon Gate."

The room fell silent.

Even Leonidas's expression changed.

The Dragon Gate.

Two decades had passed since its appearance, yet none of the Hunters present had forgotten the catastrophe it had unleashed upon the world.

It had been an SSS-Rank Gate, a disaster of a magnitude rarely recorded in human history. Unlike ordinary Gates, which disgorged waves of monsters driven by instinct, this one had produced something far more terrifying.

Dragons.

Ancient creatures possessed of intelligence, overwhelming magical power, and an understanding of warfare that rivaled humanity's greatest strategists.

Their arrival had transformed entire regions into wastelands. Fortified cities had fallen beneath their claws, while rivers evaporated under the heat of their flames. Even the world's strongest Hunters had struggled to slow their advance.

And at the heart of that calamity stood their sovereign.

Ignis the Undying.

His wings had blotted out the sun. His firestorms had reduced cities to burning ruins, and the mana radiating from his body had driven weaker Hunters to their knees before the battle had even begun.

Humanity had not possessed the strength to defeat him.

Not alone.

Marcus's voice broke the silence.

"For seven days, the world's strongest Hunters fought to contain the dragons. Armies were deployed. Entire guilds were wiped out. National-Class Hunters died trying to create an opening against the sovereign."

He paused.

"And none of it was enough."

His gaze moved from one man to the next.

"Do you remember who stood at the front?"

No one answered.

They didn't need to.

"The Blackthornes."

The name carried a weight that none of them could easily dismiss.

Azrael Blackthorne, Lucian's grandfather, had led the defense against the dragon sovereign. Known in his era as the Dark Warden, he had commanded a power that few could comprehend and wielded a blade capable of cutting through the scales of ancient dragons.

He had not stood alone.

His family had fought beside him, joined by allies who understood that the fall of the Blackthorne line would leave humanity without its strongest shield.

For seven days and seven nights, they had held the line.

Their warriors fought until their armor broke and their weapons shattered. Their mages exhausted themselves casting spells that would have been considered impossible under ordinary circumstances. Every retreat was measured, every counterattack purchased with lives that could never be replaced.

And still, Ignis the Undying had continued to advance.

On the seventh day, Azrael made his decision.

He gathered what remained of his strength and confronted the dragon sovereign in a final battle that shook the surrounding lands. Five National-Class Hunters stood beside him, buying the Dark Warden the time he needed to unleash his final strike.

None of the five survived.

Neither did Azrael.

His sacrifice brought down Ignis the Undying and sealed the sovereign's eternal flame, ending the catastrophe before it could consume the remaining human strongholds.

But victory had come at an almost unbearable cost.

The Blackthorne fortress was left broken. Its forces were decimated, its allies scattered, and its influence diminished by losses from which the family would never fully recover.

A dynasty that had stood at the forefront of humanity's defense was reduced to a shadow of its former self.

Only one member of the direct line remained to carry its legacy forward.

Maximilian Blackthorne.

He inherited a ruined name, a fractured family, and the burden of everything his predecessors had sacrificed. The world remembered the Blackthornes as heroes, but remembrance alone could not restore what had been lost.

Over time, their enemies grew bolder.

Their allies drifted away.

And the family's former glory became a story told by those who had never witnessed it.

Marcus fell silent.

The ruined hall seemed colder than before.

"Azrael gave his life to save the world," he said at last. "His family paid the price for that victory for decades afterward."

His eyes hardened.

"And now, instead of asking why Lucian has returned, you're discussing how to divide his inheritance."

Ignatius looked away.

Leonidas's jaw tightened, but he offered no immediate retort.

Alaric, however, remained unmoved.

"The past doesn't grant anyone immunity," he replied. "The Blackthornes may have saved humanity once, but that doesn't mean their descendants are entitled to rule it."

"Perhaps not," Marcus said. "But you would do well to remember that the world you now enjoy was built upon sacrifices your generation never had to make."

He turned toward the shattered archway.

"Lucian isn't his grandfather. Nor is he his father. Whatever he intends to become remains to be seen."

Marcus paused.

"But Gideon Silversword was no ordinary opponent. If Lucian defeated him, then we can no longer afford to treat the boy as an upstart with an old name."

Alaric's expression grew thoughtful.

For the first time that night, he appeared to consider the possibility that the situation had moved beyond their control.

Then a faint smile returned to his lips.

"All the more reason to act before he grows stronger."

Ignatius nodded slowly.

Leonidas bared his teeth.

"Good. Then we'll stop waiting."

Alaric looked toward the ruined mural one last time.

"The hunt begins now."

Outside, the wind swept through the broken estate, carrying ash into the night.

Far above Stormfall Ridge, clouds drifted across the moonless sky.

And somewhere beyond the reach of the Hunters who sought him, Lucian Blackthorne disappeared into the darkness, carrying the legacy of a fallen dynasty and the first glimpse of a power even he had yet to understand.

The world had once feared the Blackthornes because they stood between humanity and annihilation.

Now, their heir had returned.

And those who had profited from the family's downfall were beginning to realize that the past was not finished with them.

***

A year had passed since the deaths of Caius Voltaris and Gideon Silversword—two titans felled by the last heir of a shattered dynasty, it's obvious the world don't know the reality. Their absence is more than symbolic; it cracked the world’s façade of invincibility. Fear loosened its grip on the masses. Whispers of hope threaded through the streets.

The Hunter Association, once unchallenged, felt its teeth dull as the age of National Hunters waned.

Only Six remained.

Lucian Blackthorne, the last scion of a ruined dynasty, had become a myth in the making. But beneath the myth, his body is still that of a teen age . Strong, yes—but young. Human. And he knew it. Fighting all seven Hunters in succession would not only be suicidal—it would rouse the entire world against him that he last wanted.

He needed time, Patience and Precision. So he hunted in shadows, striking when least expected.

" What a fool, he really thought I would not understand his trap ."

Lucian say with unstable breath while looking on the headline of a newspaper. Sitting on a bench in the Argent city.

During his final clash with Gideon, Lucian’s body was left in ruins—muscles torn, bones shattered, and every movement burdened with pain earned in that brutal battle.

He had intended to leave immediately after killing Caius. But when Gideon suddenly appeared nearby, the sight of him ignited a fury Lucian could not suppress, a savage urge to tear him apart then and there.

The price of that decision was steep. Lucian was forced to spend an entire year in recovery, allowing his battered body to mend before it could return to its former strength—a period of forced stillness he despised.

He grazes up to see the banner hook up high on the building. “ Are we losing our heroes? Is history going to repeat itself?

He grinned and said, "I would have killed Leonidas a year ago if I weren't this much younger."

He stand up from the bench and disappear slowly in the coward.

***

Among the remaining National Hunters, Leonidas Wildborne—the Beast Monarch had supposedly gone into seclusion to train. That is the story fed to the world. In truth, it is a calculated retreat to hunt his prey.

Far in the frozen north, buried beneath endless snowfall, lay the Eternal Frostspire—a towering, ancient mountain sealed away from time. Somewhere deep inside its glacial heart, a hidden chamber pulsed with dormant power.

The mouth of the cave was invisible to the eye, guarded by ethereal wards that shimmered faintly beneath the ice like dying auroras. Inside, the air was thick with raw mana. The walls were carved from dragonbone, etched with runes that pulsed red like veins beneath skin.

At the center of that chamber, On the floor Leonidas sat in stillness—cross-legged, unmoving. Eyes shut. Breath steady. His frame, hulking and beastlike, radiated a strange calm. It is the kind of silence before a storm. A predator waiting for the right moment.

Outside, the blizzard screamed across the cliffs… then paused.

For a single breath, the wind stilled.

Across the ravine, standing atop a jagged ridge, is a lone figure draped in black robe.

Lucian Blackthorne.

Cloaked in obsidian, his hair tousled by the cold wind, he stood motionless—eyes glowing faintly with demonic fire.

He during recovering get to know that his eyes were extreme sensitive to mana which he use unconsciously to kill Gideon, thanks to that he figure out all sort of arrays and inscribe runes left on the mountains.

He whispered to the frost, voice low and cold.

“Clever. But not enough to retain me.”

In a blink, he vanished.

***

A breath later, Lucian stood inside the sanctum, his arrival as silent as falling snow. The air warped around him, mana rippling outward like a stone cast into still water. The seals shattered without fanfare—just a low crack, like ice breaking beneath your feet.

Leonidas’s eyes snapped open. Golden and red, Sharp. Beastlike. He didn’t look surprised.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his throat.

“I was waiting for you,” he said, voice deep and unshaken. “Ember of Blackthorne.”

Lucian stepped forward slowly, each footstep crunching faintly against the frost-bitten stone.

“Then you should’ve prayed instead,” he murmured.

From the darkness behind Leonidas, three more figures emerged.

Alaric Spellbinder glided forward, robes traced with shifting constellations. He smiled, soft and sinister. “Lucian Blackthorne,” he greeted, like an old friend greeting a fool. “So predictable. You walked straight into our trap.”

Beside him, fire flared.

Ignatius Emberlord stepped from the shadows, his robes glowing with molten heat. “Your arrogance,” he sneered, “almost impresses me.”

Lucian step a little forwards in light with his hands on hilt of the Obsidian Oath.

Alaric telepath to Ignatius " Isn't he suppose to a boy in his late teens, seeing his body and eyes it almost look like younger version of Dark Emperor"

Ignatius respond to him in same manner " That's what we all fear of this curse bloodline. The young child who was grieving over his parents' deaths only a few years ago is now here to kill us without warning—just tearing our heads off."

And standing further back, just inside the gloom—silent and immovable—iss Marcus Ironfist. He said nothing. Just watched, his fists pulsing with coiled mana like smoldering mountains.

Lucian already known it was an trap but still he come because he was ready to end this for all once but still it was unexpected that Marcus will also be present there.

Marcus Ironfist, the Martial Saint is not just a normal National hunter, he alone could kill hunters present around him without sweating a drop. So, indeed his presence right now with others decrease the percent of Lucian winning.

He let his arms fall open, a slight smirk touching his lips. “A reunion?” he said. “How touching.”

" Now this going to be pretty hard, I did expect that their will more than one national hunter but..." Lucian said inwardly while touching the hilt of his sword.

Marcus moved.

Lucian’s unshelled his sword, he cover his sword with a dark crimson mana.

His pendant lit with black mana, The sword is all to take Marcus attention the real deal is this.

Without warning, the ground beneath Marcus cracked wide—an abyssal rift tearing the floor apart. Black Maw Ocean—an ancient and forbidden ocean far away from the frozen mountains in which several monster live .

Marcus did not expected this but he didn’t scream. He simply dropped into the void.

Gone.

Silence hung heavy.

" I can't allow myself to be overpowered this time due to the large number of hunters; I feel ashamed to spend a year in the dark just to murder these jerks."

They never in their lifetime thought that such ambushing way of fighting existed.

Then chaos exploded.

Alaric’s expression twisted with fury. He unleashed a Sixth-Tier Mana Lance—raw power shaped into a spiraling spear. It screamed through the air, tearing stone from the floor and vaporizing part of the wall.

Lucian didn’t move much.

He just tilted his head.

The lance missed, slamming into the cavern’s entrance and triggering a distant avalanche.

Lucian gave Alaric a sideways glance. “A lava spear in a ice sealed tomb?” he said, dryly. “You sure a brilliant magician.”

The ground trembled.

Ignatius snarled and raised his arm. Hellfire Cataclysm erupted, flooding the room with flames so intense the walls began to melt, and the air itself seemed to burn.

Lucian didn’t flinch.

He raised one hand.

A burst of freezing demonic mana shot forth—black and glimmering with specks of violet. It swept through the flames, swallowing them, turning fire to ice in an instant. Statues of ash and obsidian formed, then shattered into shards that sparkled like glass.

Alaric was surprise to see it " To think his mana manipulation has reach this much greater heights that he could exclude all the fire atoms from the surrounding"

Lucian could easily perform this level of manipulation thanks to his body.

Ignatius choked back his scream. “You… you shouldn’t even exist.”

Leonidas charged.

His war axe howled through the air, each swing backed by monstrous force. Lucian moved with him—matching, deflecting, redirecting. Steel clashed with steel in brutal rhythm.

With a sharp twist, Leonidas overcommitted and his axe embedded in a scorched pillar behind Lucian.

Alaric moved to cast again, a desperate sixth-tier array. Runes flared in the air.

Lucian’s blade whispered forward.

One cut.

And the array is at the blink of shattering.

Alaric cast more magic for the support of Array.

Lucian give out an aura slash in the mid fight with the beast.

The spell collapsed.

Alaric is flung back like a ragdoll due to recoil of broken magic circle, his body slamming into stone. Blood splattered across ancient glyphs.

“Impossible…” Alaric coughed. “You cut it mid-cast…”

Usually magic above fifth tier does not have physical form before it activate completely. So, physical attack does not have affect on it but Lucian mana is little different and can cut any tier of magic.

Ignatius’s voice slithered into the minds of Alaric and Leonidas through telepathy, low and seething like molten fire.
“He is suffocating us in this cursed cavern. His shadows thrive here. I’ll incinerate this entire place—let it all collapse if I must.”

Leonidas roared like a beast denied prey, fury clawing at his throat. He hurled himself at Lucian, his colossal axe blazing with destructive mana.

Steel screamed against the Obsidian Oath as sparks ignited in a storm of crimson and black. The air shook. The ground fractured. Leonidas pressed forward with monstrous strength, veins bulging, teeth gnashing—yet Lucian’s eyes never flickered, calm and merciless.

Lucian was reading every moment of Leonidas like a book from the start. He is adapting in real time to counter his moment which even Leonidas could feel it.

With a guttural howl, Leonidas shoved, managing to push Lucian back a single step before retreating, sweat dripping from his brow. His lungs burned. His pride shattered.

Then came Ignatius. His blade roared to life, swallowed whole by hellfire, flames spilling like rivers of wrath. Every step he took charred the ground into ash. The cavern walls blistered and cracked under the oppressive heat.

Lucian did not bend. Did not flinch. His figure stood unwavering—his sword, the Obsidian Oath, dripping with a crimson aura that pulsed like a beating heart.

They clashed.

The instant their blades met, reality itself seemed to split apart.

A detonation of mana burst outward, splitting the sky and shredding the mountain’s peak. Rock vaporized. The dome of the cavern was obliterated, the battlefield exposed beneath a bleeding, storm-wracked sky.

Smoke cloaked the ruin. From it, Leonidas and Ignatius emerged again, battered but burning with hate. But Alaric is gone.

Lucian’s eyes narrowed. A chill swept over the battlefield as the world itself seemed to grow dim. He lifted his gaze to the heavens—dark clouds devoured the stars, heavy and violent, their veins swollen with lightning.

Alaric hovered high above, his robes whipping in the storm. His incantation carved the sky with power.

“Eighth Class Magic—Lightning Roar.”

The heavens convulsed. Dark clouds spiraled tighter and tighter, compressing into a singular, blinding core of radiance. A bolt was birthed—colossal, merciless, a spear of sun-bright annihilation that could erase a mountain in a single strike.

The world flashed white.

Lucian did not cower. He lowered into stance, his voice a whisper drowned by the storm.

“Eighth Form—Shadow’s Wrath.”

The Obsidian Oath screamed. From its edge erupted Black lightning not of nature, but of nightmare—dark crimson, jagged and alive, searing through the storm like a serpent of doom. It met Alaric’s Lighting Roar mid-descent.

The collision is cataclysm.

Yellow and crimson clashed in a sphere of pure destruction, radiant waves tearing across the valley. Air was obliterated. Trees evaporated. The shockwaves blinded the eye, and even opening one’s lids became agony.

A voice, colder than death, rose from below.
“How was that, fool?”

The words slithered into Alaric’s bones, draining warmth from his veins. He looked down, Lucian is smiling, sharp and merciless, his aura swelling like the approach of judgment itself.

But instinct screamed. Something else is coming.

Lucian’s gaze fell too late. Leonidas’s colossal axe cover with his mana cleaved downward with the force of a collapsing mountain. Lucian tilted his blade at the last possible instant, diverting the path, yet the monstrous impact still hurled him back across the battlefield, tearing stone beneath his feet.

Heat washed over him. Too hot. Too close.

Lucian hands were almost turn red from diverting the axe, such heat mana can't be of Leonidas—

He turned, and Ignatius is already upon him. His body wreathed in inferno, his blade dripping fire that melted earth to rivers of magma. Everything his flames touched turned to ruin.

Two steps away—then nothing.

Lucian vanished.

The next heartbeat—he is in the sky, body coiling midair. His blade arced, violet-black energy spiraling in a death hymn.

“Sixth Form—Phantom’s Requiem.”

The strike fell like apocalypse. A mountain-spanning slash of darkness carved reality, aiming to devour Ignatius whole.

Ignatius roared and raised his flaming blade to meet it. But even as steel met shadow, his knees buckled. His feet sank deep into the snow, carving trenches. Blood seeped from his gums as the pressure crushed him. His blade split, his muscles tore, his clothes shredded—until at last, he collapsed to one knee, broken and gasping.

But the battle did not relent.

Alaric’s incantations twisted the air again. Storms spiraled above, mana howling like banshees. His 7th-class spell, “Wind Breaker,” bloomed into a storm vast enough to bury the battlefield.

At the same time, Leonidas’s monstrous axe returned, covered in catastrophic mana, thrown with force enough to crack the sky itself.

Time fractured.

Lucian’s eyes narrowed. Not every strike is meant to be dodged.

He spun, body whirling like a storm, catching the colossal axe midair. With a grunt, he redirected its monstrous momentum, hurling it back with tenfold force toward Alaric.

In the same motion, he flung the Obsidian Oath. His sword tore the sky, aura screaming so violently it felt as if space itself split before it. The blade flew straight for Leonidas.

The storm shrieked.

The axe split through Alaric’s Wind Breaker, shredding the spell into tatters. Alaric barely had time to conjure a barrier before the axe tore through him, cleaving his left arm clean off in a spray of blood. His scream echoed across the valley.

Leonidas’s head snapped upward, panic flaring. But there was no time. The Obsidian Oath is already upon him, shrieking death. He barely had the chance to cross his arms, mana flooding desperately to defend himself.

It isn’t enough.

Lucian is already on the ground, his figure a blur. He appeared before Leonidas like a phantom, snatched the Obsidian Oath midair, and with a single motion unleashed—

“Nocturne’s Ascendancy.”

The world silenced.

One second later, Leonidas’s head is no longer attached to his body. Blood sprayed into the snow like a fountain, his corpse collapsing in a lifeless heap.

Ignatius stirred, broken and ruined, his vision fading. He tried to rise, but a chill colder than the grave pressed against his throat.

The Obsidian Oath. Lucian’s blade.

Lucian’s voice slipped into his ears, quiet and merciless.
“How does it feel… to brush against death itself?”

Ignatius coughed blood, lips curling into a grim smile.
“You will face the consequences soon… boy. We are nothing but pawns… beneath him.”

The world shuddered.

Suddenly a body immerge on the snowy peak of the mountain opposite to Lucian. From the dense fog stepped Marcus Ironfist—steam rising from his skin, fury rolling from his shoulders like a tidal wave.

He froze at the sight. Ignatius kneeling. Lucian, standing behind him, blade on the throat to sever his head.

Marcus’s voice thundered. He vanish from the peak of the mountain and appear in front of Lucian.
“Enough. You are spent, young one. Stop now, before you lose everything.”

Lucian smirked, eyes burning with defiance.
“Took you long enough.”

Lucian grumbled inwardly, "What the hell? Did this bastard sprint across half the planet just to kill me? Am I really that evil in their eyes?"

And with a single, casual stroke, he severed Ignatius’s head. Blood sprayed, painting Marcus’s face red.

Lucian sheathed his blade in one smooth motion, eyes never leaving Marcus’s.

“But I’m not in the mood to stop. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

Marcus’s eyes glowed beneath the dripping blood, rage igniting like the birth of a star.