Chapter 96 - - 96 - A Day to Live for a Criminal

Chapter 96: Chapter - 96 - A Day to Live for a Criminal

In a massive building that resembled a palace in this beautiful country, a man lay on one of the beds. His astral pool was completely exhausted, leaving him unable to open his eyes for two days. A young woman tended to him, waiting patiently until his astral pool refilled itself through rest and medicine.

"Miss, are you truly going to take care of that man? The one who collapsed in front of your house last night?" asked Besriel, an assistant healer in service to Aelene.

"Yeah, and don’t worry about me. I know he’s human, but I’ve known him since childhood. I’ll take care of him—because that’s what friends do," Aelene replied.

"Don’t you find talking to humans is like talking to dogs? They don’t have long lifespans, they’re far too emotional, and with their short lives they always seem to be fighting wars," said Besriel.

"True. But that doesn’t mean they’re inferior. In fact, look at some of them—those who go down in history, most of them are humans," Aelene said with a smile.

"Miss, you’re too kind for this world. But I’m curious about that human—where is he from?" Besriel asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"He’s from Valtheria," Aelene replied.

"Isn’t that very small compared to Azurefall? So what does he do in Valtheria?" Besriel asked with a questioning look.

"Well, he’s the prince of Valtheria," said Aelene.

"Prince? Th-then why is his condition this bad?" Besriel stammered.

"That’s what I’d also like to know. Who did this to him? I’ll never forgive that person," Aelene said, her mind racing with thoughts of who could have harmed Prince Andrin.

Somewhere in a cheap inn, four figures rested after traveling from Valtheria to Azurefall. Since Lucien, Anne, Princess Verna, and Norrik had disguised themselves as commoners, they used a cheap inn so people wouldn’t grow suspicious. After all, this was a country that did not have a very good relationship with Valtheria. They didn’t want to stand out, so they wore commoner clothes that wouldn’t even hint at their true identities as realm masters.

"So tell me, who is this childhood friend of Prince Andrin?" asked Lucien while drinking wine at the table. In front of him sat Princess Verna, and beside her was Norrik. Anne sat beside Lucien—not because she wanted to, but because Lucien had positioned himself there.

"Her name is Aelene, and she’s the greatest healer in Azurefall. Her reputation matters. It’s also the reason Prince Andrin can come here as he pleases without any disguise. His friendship with her is very strong," said Princess Verna.

"And how can a healer harm Valtheria alone? Why has Prince Andrin come here to ask for help?" Lucien asked with curiosity.

"It’s not her—it’s who she’s with. She’s engaged to the prince of this country, Prince Rumil, and he essentially controls Azurefall. He’s in love with her, and elven love is very different from human love. They love deeply, since they have to live with each other for thousands of years. They’re very serious about it. Prince Rumil would do anything just to make her happy—even destroying a small country like Valtheria," said Princess Verna.

Lucien fell into deep thought, contemplating love—or perhaps he was making a plan, or scheming something. No one could tell.

"If Prince Andrin is already here, then chances are he’s already met with Aelene. Now it’ll be very difficult to capture him, and one mistake could mean the whole of Valtheria disappears," said Lucien.

"Our main priority is to save Valtheria from Prince Andrin—even if we have to kill him. So our priorities have changed from capturing to killing Prince Andrin. He brought it on himself," said Princess Verna.

"I’ll send some shadow agents to gather information about Prince Andrin’s arrival in Azurefall and whether he’s met Aelene," said Anne.

"I hope you’ll do this job well, and not mess it up," said Lucien, his hand resting on the table beside Anne.

"I know how to do my job—unlike you, who makes things messy," said Anne with a frustrated expression.

"Am I doing my job right?" said Lucien. He continued, "Princess Verna, I’m doing a good job, right?"

"Yes. I believe you are doing well," said Princess Verna, while Lucien gave Anne an amused look.

Lucien rose from the table and stretched his arms. "Well, it’s time to go and do some good work," he said, and then disappeared.

Besriel was walking home in the middle of the night after working with Aelene—healing people, taking care of people. The place where Besriel worked was sophisticated, but the place where she lived was not. Azurefall was a country filled with realm masters, but that didn’t make it a perfect country. No matter how perfect a country seems, crime exists. Income disparity exists. Developed and underdeveloped places exist. And people always try to find opportunities to climb the social ladder—in every world, in every realm, in every country.

Besriel walked alone at night. She was nothing but a healing realm master—someone who was rare but replaceable. Unlike Aelene, who was irreplaceable, who was the fiancée of Prince Rumil. Besriel was just some healer.

Every night she took this same path home, but this time something was different. She felt as if someone was following her. Maybe five realm masters. It was night. She was scared. She just wanted to reach her home. She realized she wasn’t as brave as she thought she was.

The footsteps drew closer. She increased her pace, but then stopped. Four more realm masters stood in front of her. There was no way to run. She knew this path was dangerous—women getting kidnapped, men getting killed was quite common here. But she never realized that someday it would be her.

Where did she go wrong in life? This was the only path connecting her home and her workplace. It wasn’t her fault she was born poor. She just wanted a good life. But now her life could be over simply because she was born poor.

Not fair. Not fair.

What did I ever do wrong? I just wanted to move ahead in life. Why? thought Besriel.

Everyone was closing in slowly, but for Besriel it wasn’t slow—it was fast. As soon as one of them tried to grab her, she jumped and started running in the opposite direction, leaving them behind. But it wasn’t a walk anymore—they were all running.

If only I was a little stronger. If only I could have done more. If only someone could have saved me, these thoughts of regret flooded her mind.

Before she realized it, her vision began to blur and she started to fall—but someone was there to catch her.

His height was above average, with blonde hair like a prince stepped out of a book. His eyes were like a golden abyss, hiding something more than what lay on the surface.

"Are you okay, miss?" said Lucien.

"Th-those people are trying to kidnap me! Please save me!" said Besriel.

Lucien looked at them, then took her hand and stood in front of her, smiling politely.

"What do so many gentlemen want from this beautiful woman?" said Lucien.

"Listen, boy—go wherever you came from. We’re not someone you want to mess with. This is our matter, so just go home, human," said one of the brutes.

Lucien noticed something—almost all of them were humans or half-elves. He immediately understood the situation. This was what they called a backward area, where the government turned a blind eye. No law was applicable in these kinds of places. The strong preyed upon the weak, and the weak disappeared without a trace.

"Big words for humans. Or should I say half-humans? Or should I say half-men? Because the way you’re all desperate, running just to catch one woman—and it’s taking nine of you to do it—you’re more desperate than animals. How can I call you men?" said Lucien with a smile.

The air grew thick with tension. The nine figures shifted uneasily, their eyes darting between each other. They had not expected interference—especially not from someone who carried himself with such unnerving calm.

"You bastard!" snarled one of them—a large man with a jagged scar running down his left cheek. He channeled his astral energy into his fist, the air around his knuckles crackling with a dull orange glow. He lunged forward with the speed of a mid-tier realm master, his fist aimed directly at Lucien’s face.

Lucien didn’t move.

The punch connected—or so it seemed. The brute’s fist passed clean through Lucien’s head as though striking smoke. The man stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him off balance, his eyes wide with confusion.

"What the—" he started.

Lucien’s speed was so immense that they had thought they hit him—but his form simply phased through, like a ghost made of shadow and light.

"I feel so much pity..." Lucien said, his voice soft, almost contemplative. "...so... pathetic..."

He pivoted on his heel, his body moving with a fluid grace that seemed almost choreographed. His leg arced upward in a devastating kick, connecting squarely with the scarred man’s face.

The impact was catastrophic.

The man’s head didn’t just snap back—it exploded. Flesh, bone, and blood erupted outward in a gruesome spray, painting the cobblestones crimson. What remained of his skull was nothing more than a shattered remnant, his body crumpling to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. The headless corpse twitched once, then lay still, a dark pool of blood spreading beneath it.

Silence.

The remaining eight stared in horror, their minds struggling to process what they had just witnessed. One kick. One single kick had obliterated a realm master as though he were nothing more than a paper doll.

"Maybe I should relieve you from your lives and all this desperation," said Lucien, his golden eyes gleaming with something ancient and predatory.

That snapped them from their stupor.

"Run!" one of them screamed.

They scattered like cockroaches exposed to light, bolting in every direction—some toward the alleyways, others toward the main road, desperate to escape the monster in human skin.

They didn’t get far.

"A day to live for a criminal... is to create another victim," Lucien murmured.

He raised his hand—a single, almost lazy gesture—and the ground beneath them began to tremble.

From the cracks in the cobblestones, from the gaps between the buildings, from the very earth itself—vines erupted. Thick, dark green tendrils, pulsing with an otherworldly energy, shot upward with impossible speed. They were not ordinary plants; they moved with intent, with hunger, with a predatory intelligence that defied nature.

The first man to fall was caught mid-stride. A vine wrapped around his ankle, yanking him off his feet. Before he could even scream, three more tendrils descended upon him, wrapping around his arms and legs. They pulled—tore—in different directions.

His scream was cut short.

His body came apart in a wet, sickening symphony of snapping bone and tearing flesh. Blood sprayed across the walls of the narrow street, and his remains were flung aside like refuse.

The second and third met similar fates. One tried to channel his astral energy into a defensive barrier, but the vines simply pierced through it as though it were made of paper, impaling him from a dozen angles. He hung suspended in the air for a moment, impaled like a grotesque puppet, blood dripping from the tips of the vines that protruded from his chest and throat. Then the vines retracted, and he fell in a heap of mangled flesh.

The fourth tried to climb a wall, his fingers scrambling desperately for purchase on the old stone. He had almost reached the rooftop when a vine caught his leg and dragged him back down. He clawed at the ground, his fingernails tearing away as he screamed, leaving bloody trails on the stones. The vines didn’t care. They pulled him into the darkness of an alley, and his screams echoed for a moment longer before abruptly ceasing.

The fifth and sixth tried to fight. They turned, weapons drawn—one wielding a curved blade crackling with lightning, the other conjuring flames in his palms. They stood back to back, eyes wild with terror.

"Stay back!" the fire-wielder shouted, hurling a sphere of flame at the approaching vines.

The fire splashed against the greenery—and did nothing. The vines didn’t even smolder. They simply kept coming, unhurried, inevitable.

"That’s impossible!" he gasped.

The vines engulfed them both.

The lightning-wielder managed to sever a few tendrils with his blade before one wrapped around his wrist and squeezed. The sound of his bones shattering was audible even over his scream. The blade clattered to the ground. Then the vines took him.

The fire-wielder lasted only a moment longer. A vine pierced through his chest from behind, emerging from his sternum in a fountain of blood. He looked down at the protruding tendril with disbelief, flames sputtering and dying in his palms. Then more vines wrapped around him, and he was pulled apart.

The seventh and eighth were the fastest. They had almost reached the end of the street when the vines caught them. One was lifted into the air, his body bent backward at an impossible angle until his spine snapped with a crack that echoed through the night. The other was dragged along the ground, his face scraping against the cobblestones, leaving a trail of skin and blood before the vines finally tore him limb from limb.

The ninth—the last one—had made it furthest of all. He had reached the main road, his lungs burning, his legs pumping with every ounce of astral energy he could muster. He could see lights in the distance. People. Safety. ℴ

He never reached them.

A vine shot from the ground directly beneath him, erupting through his chest and lifting him into the air. He hung there, impaled, blood bubbling from his lips. His hands grasped weakly at the vine that had killed him, his vision fading.

Lucien walked slowly toward him, his footsteps echoing in the sudden silence. He stopped just below the dying man, looking up at him with those golden eyes that held something far older than any human should possess.

"You should have chosen a different path," Lucien said quietly.

Then he opened his shadow world.

The darkness beneath all the bodies—the headless corpse, the torn remains, the impaled figures—began to ripple. It was as though the shadows themselves had come alive, swirling and churning like a hungry sea. One by one, the bodies sank into the darkness, swallowed by the void. The bloodstains on the cobblestones, the scattered limbs, the shattered weapons—all of it was consumed, pulled into the abyss of Lucien’s shadow realm.

Within moments, the street was clean. No trace remained of the nine men who had tried to kidnap Besriel. No blood, no bodies, no evidence. Just the cold night air and the faint scent of iron that lingered like a bad memory.

Lucien turned back toward Besriel.

She stood where he had left her, frozen in place, her face pale as moonlight. Her hands trembled at her sides, and her eyes—wide, unblinking—were fixed on the spot where the men had been torn apart.

"Let me give you company until you reach home," said Lucien, his voice gentle now, as though he hadn’t just slaughtered nine men with a gesture.