If only Simple Lucon let everything flow as it should be, Lucon thought in his last moments.

  [Mercy’s Refuge]

  A dome of solid golden light manifested around him an instant before impact. Georgi was suddenly at his side, both hands extended, his face a mask of intense concentration. A sound like shrieking metal pierced their ears as the arrow slammed into the barrier. Golden light danced erratically across their faces, the protective spell trembling, unstable.

  “It’s a follower of the Wind-Cutting Goddess!” Georgi grunted, veins standing out on his temple. The barrier shook violently. “We have to run!”

  The Wind-Cutting Goddess, also known as the Divine Huntress. Lucon’s temple education didn’t fail him. One of the last remaining gods, she and the Hidden God were anomalies. Their blessings had the gift of change, transforming the fundamental energies of their followers.

  Tools of stealth were the Hidden God’s domain, warping Mana and Aura, while the Huntress refined both into pure, ballistic force. Those following her path exchanged more than just their energy; they sacrificed their sturdy, inhuman physiques. In return, Arisen’s Aura became “Hunting Aura”—the entirety of their power funneled into their shots, granting them impossible range, velocity, and penetrative power.

  Georgi’s barrier was all that Lucon could stare at, momentarily disregarding the arrow chewing through it.

  “I never learned this spell in the temple,” he murmured, knowing he’d only mastered the basics required to become a monk.

  The arrow began to spin, its tip glowing white-hot, drilling into the holy energy with relentless, screeching purpose.

  “Careful!” Georgi shouted, his voice strained. “The arrow—it’s piercing through!”

  Cobweb cracks splintered across the golden dome, spreading from the point of impact with alarming speed. With a final, crystalline shatter, [Mercy’s Refuge] exploded into fading motes of light.

  [Immovable Hand]

  All the holy power Lucon could muster—guided by the strange second type of energy within him—poured into his right hand. He didn't form a barrier around himself. He compressed the principle of [Mercy's Refuge] into a single, dense point in his palm and thrust it forward.

  His hand met the still-spinning, white-hot arrowhead.

  The impact was silent for a heartbeat—a contest of absolute forces. Then the sound came: a wet puncture as the arrowhead punched through his hand. Its forward momentum died, and the arrow remained stuck there, its energy spent. Blood welled, dripping steadily onto the forest floor.

  Georgi stared, wide-eyed. "You have more new spells?!"

  "I observed yours," Lucon said, his voice calm as he looked at the ruin of his hand. "And applied it locally. Still not enough…"

  "Time to run!" Georgi lunged, trying to grab Lucon and haul him away.

  Lucon sidestepped the grasp with fluid motion. "There's no outrunning a follower of the Divine Huntress. We can’t escape their range if they give chase."

  "Then what…?" Georgi's voice was frantic.

  "Throw me."

  Georgi blanched. "What?!"

  Lucon pointed a bloody finger toward a specific, dense cluster of ancient oaks in the distance. "There. As far and as fast as you can."

  "You're bleeding out! You need healing, not—"

  The archer's voice carried over to them again, cool and mocking. "Two monks against one poor archer. How unfair. I suppose I'll just have to put in a bit more effort."

  Hunting Aura even allowed followers of the Huntress to throw their voices.

  "We're out of time," Lucon said, his eyes locking onto Georgi's. "Throw me. Then put up your strongest barrier. The next arrow is coming."

  "I won't let my friend die!" Georgi roared.

  "It's me, Georgi," Lucon said, a grin tilting his mouth crooked. "The Prince of Revelry. The one who promised you a river of gold. You used to believe every word I spat out, no matter how stupid." He placed his hand on the monk’s bulky shoulder, arrow still in it. "Believe in me now. Like you once did."

  Georgi hesitated. The Prince of Revelry and the Tyrant were together again, doing something they shouldn’t.

  [Protect the Weak]

  Georgi’s muscles swelled to monstrous proportions.

  He scooped Lucon up. "I hope to the Merciful Goddess you know what you're doing."

  The monk planted his feet, twisted his torso, and with a roar that shook the leaves, he flung Lucon through the air like a human javelin toward the distant oak grove.

  [Unstoppable Shot]

  A distant bowstring thrummed. Mid-flight, Lucon tracked the world through the Flow; he smiled as he and the archer’s arrow crossed paths.

  “Excuse me,” Lucon said politely.

  Soaring through the air, his senses spread with the Flow. Below, Georgi thrust his hands outward. A denser [Mercy’s Refuge] flared to life just as the [Unstoppable Shot] arrived. The monk grunted, holding steady as he shifted sideways to clear the arrow’s path when the barrier eventually failed.

  Good. He followed the plan.

  Lucon’s arc carried him toward the dense oak grove. He crashed through the canopy, his eyes locking onto a figure half-hidden among the leaves—a man in dark leathers holding a long, ornate bow. The marksman’s calm the man held shattered, replaced by wide-eyed disbelief as a bloodied nobleman fell from the sky.

  [Nimbus Ballista]

  Lucon pivoted in the air, channeling his momentum into a single, downward kick, becoming a golden missile aimed at the archer’s perch.

  “Crazy bastard!” the man shouted.

  [Archer’s Withdrawal]

  The man’s body quickened, shrouded in a sheath of white aura—the transformed Hunting Aura granted by his goddess. He backpedaled along the branch with preternatural grace, but he lacked an Arisen’s typical explosive speed. Lucon’s kick shattered the branch where the man had stood a heartbeat before into a spray of splinters.

  [Golden Step]

  Before the archer could regain his footing on a neighboring limb, Lucon landed lightly on a nearby branch and pushed off, a streak of gold closing the distance.

  The archer hiccuped.

  [Archer’s Withdrawal]

  He tried to backpedal again, aiming his bow, but Lucon was already there. That was the trade-off of the Divine Huntress’s blessing: unparalleled range and penetrative power, but the sacrifice of the close-combat speed and resilience inherent to other Arisen.

  [Flash Strike]

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Lucon accelerated further. He lashed out with his pierced, bloody right hand—a hardened, focused jab. It connected solidly with the man’s abdomen. The archer grunted, the wind knocked from his lungs, falling out of the trees and onto the ground. He bounced back to his feet as Lucon landed after with a grin.

  He froze, his bow now in Lucon’s possession. Lucon positioned the weapon on the ground and kicked it, snapping the ornate weapon in two.

  “Those arrows were quite unpleasant,” Lucon said with a pout.

  “I’ll carve your heart out for that,” the archer hissed.

  [Big Game Stalker]

  With a snarl, the archer drew a massive, wicked hunting dagger from his hip. He lunged, the blade a blur of silver. But to Lucon, moving in the Flow, every slash was clear, the trajectory of every swipe obvious. He weaved and ducked, avoiding each strike by millimeters, countering with strikes to the man’s face, the arrowhead embedded in his palm leaving marks.

  As they fought, the archer’s sleeve rode up his forearm. Lucon saw it clearly: a faded but distinct military tattoo—a stylized, unbroken ring. The mark of the Eternal Line, the forces of the allied realms that held the line against demons breaching past the Abandoned Verge.

  “You’re part of the Eternal Line?” Lucon asked, his tone conversational even as he avoided a vicious stab.

  The man’s scowl deepened, but he remained silent, pressing his attack.

  Lucon saw the truth in the man’s reaction, in the flicker of shame and defiance in his energy.

  “Oh,” Lucon said, ducking under a swing. “You’re a deserter.”

  The man’s scowl turned into a rictus of rage. “Is abandoning a fruitless endeavor truly desertion?!”

  The outburst cost him. An upward kick caught the man's wrist, sending the hunting dagger flying into the canopy.

  [Silent Rain]

  In a move born of desperation, the archer flicked both wrists. A dozen small, deadly projectiles—needles, razor-disks, barbed caltrops—erupted from hidden sheaths on his arms. Each one glowed with the condensed white force of his Hunting Aura, turning them into a point-blank hailstorm of enhanced, armor-piercing projectiles.

  The speed was impossible. At this range, even the Flow’s warning failed him. Lucon twisted, but the storm enveloped him, leaving no gap to slip through.

  His second energy circulated swiftly, driving his merciful blessing to guard his vitals as he applied the defensive principle of [Mercy’s Refuge].

  It wasn’t enough.

  Blood sprayed from his shoulder, his thigh, and his side. Then, a single, precise needle punched through the layered golden light—and buried itself in his left eye.

  The blizzard of metal staggered Lucon. Darkness enveloped the world from his left side.

  The archer straightened, breathing heavily, a triumphant, savage smile spreading across his face.

  “I won!” he declared, panting.

  The archer’s declaration hung in the air for less than a second.

  [Flash Strike]

  Lucon lunged. His bloody right hand, still impaled by the arrow, lashed out. The impact shattered the arrow shaft, driving the needles and barbs from his own flesh into the man’s cheek, the broken arrowhead carving a deep gash in its wake.

  The man screamed—a raw, animal sound of shock and agony—stumbling back as he clawed at his punctured face. Through blood-smeared fingers, he stared at Lucon: a figure painted in crimson, pierced in a dozen places, one eye ruined and bleeding, yet wearing an unnervingly serene expression, a faint smile on his lips.

  Color drained from the archer’s face beneath the blood. That calm, standing amid such carnage, was inhuman. His military training—his memories of demons on the Verge—surged up in a wave of terror.

  “I know what you are!” he shrieked. “A d-demon!”

  Lucon scoffed playfully, “How rude!”

  [Archer’s Vault]

  Panic gave the archer strength. White Hunting Aura flared around his legs, and he shot upward like a loosed arrow, bursting through the canopy and into the open twilight sky, desperate to put distance between himself and the monster.

  [Heaven-bound Phoenix]

  Lucon didn’t let him go. Gold light ignited around his leg, directed by the third-type energy. He kicked skyward into the empty air, propelling himself upward. A cry rang out as the image of a golden phoenix flapped its wings alongside him.

  He kicked again. And again. Each [Heaven-bound Phoenix] was a climb of golden kicks carrying him higher, chasing the fleeing archer into the darkening sky.

  “Demon! Demon! DEMON!” the man screamed, looking down and seeing the bloody, golden figure closing in with impossible, relentless pursuit.

  Lucon felt it—the well of holy power within him was at its limit. He had to end this. Now.

  He caught up to the archer just as the man, in a final, frantic defense, twisted in mid-air and flung another volley.

  [Silent Rain]

  Needles and discs shot toward Lucon. Lucon didn’t dodge. He tucked his chin, turned his shoulder, and took the barrage with only his vitals protected by holy light. Fresh punctures bloomed across his limp arm and back. He accepted the pain, the feeling never registering, his focus absolute.

  He cocked his one good arm back. Every last drop of his holy power, directed by the second-type of energy, poured into his fist. It began to glow with a fierce, concentrated golden light.

  [Merciless Fist]

  He punched. His fist struck the archer like a falling mountain. The man’s scream was cut short as he was blasted backward, not just falling, but hurled back toward the earth like a launched catapult boulder.

  Lucon watched him vanish into the trees below with a distant thud. The fight was over.

  His own momentum spent, he began to fall. The wind whipped past him. Through his good eye, he saw a familiar sight across the gathering night.

  “I can see the manor from here,” he murmured with a detached amusement.

  He was out of power. Out of tricks. The ground rushed up to meet him.

  But he still had friends.

  [Swift Missionary]

  A glowing, golden figure shot from the treetops. Georgi intercepted Lucon’s fall, his face a mask of frantic determination. The monk grunted, locking a massive arm around him. His other hand snatched at the passing limbs as they fell; branches shattered one after another in his grip, each snap arresting their momentum.

  They landed in a clearing, Georgi absorbing the impact with his knees. He set Lucon down gently, his earlier fear transforming into breathless, incredulous exhilaration.

  “You crazy bastard!” Georgi roared with a wild, triumphant grin. “You actually did it! The Prince of Ruin, finally backing his words with something other than a bottle!” He laughed, the sound shaky with adrenaline and relief.

  Lucon smiled weakly up at him. “I’m…dying, by the way.”

  Georgi’s laughter cut off instantly. He looked down, truly seeing the extent of the injuries—the pierced eye, the dozens of embedded projectiles, the blood loss.

  “Oh. Right.”

  He knelt, his expression shifting to one of intense focus. He placed his hands on Lucon’s chest.

  [Pray for Mercy]

  A soft, steady golden light emanated from the monk, enveloping Lucon in its soothing, mending warmth.

  The golden light knit torn flesh, pushed foreign objects to the surface to fall away with soft plinks, and soothed ravaged nerves. Lucon’s left eye was the last to mend. The ruined orb swam in the healing light as tissues latched together and the crushed lens reformed. Color and depth flooded back into his vision, his eye once more blue and seeing.

  Lucon stretched as if waking from a peaceful nap. He pushed himself up to his elbows, then to his feet, swaying.

  Georgi steadied him with a hand. “Easy. Your merciful blessing must be completely drained. It’ll leave you hollow and weak until it returns to a usable level. You should probably pray. A lot.”

  The sound of paws thudding against the forest floor announced Skhav’s arrival. The barbarian rode his tamed wolf, with Hilda clinging to his back, her face pale with worry. She slid off the moment they stopped and rushed to Lucon’s side.

  Skhav grunted, “Now you are strong again? Why did you let those harpies have their way with me earlier?”

  “Master! You’re alive!” Hilda’s misty eyes showed relief, and a bright, joyous smile broke across her face.

  Lucon, about to offer some flippant, reassuring quip, paused. He looked at his maid—really looked at her. At her eyes, wide and gleaming. He reached for her, then cupped her cheek with his hand. The gesture was unexpectedly tender, intimate.

  Hilda stilled, then a deep, rosy blush spread from her neck to her cheeks. Her breath came up short. Her lips pursed together.

  But Lucon’s next words were not what she expected.

  His voice was thoughtful, realizing. “These eyes…I’ve seen them before.”

  Hilda’s blush vanished. Her relief solidified into a rigid, wide-eyed stillness. In the Flow, Lucon felt it—a sudden, violent eruption of panic and fear from her, so intense it almost made him let go.

  He didn’t get to finish the thought. A disturbance in the Flow—a pocket of unfamiliar Mana seeping into the forest’s energies—drew his attention to a dense cluster of shadows at the edge of the clearing. He focused and was surprised by the sight of someone hidden there.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  The shadows seemed to ripple, then peel away as if blown by an unfelt wind.

  [Dark Wind]

  Julie Othborro stood revealed, her ornate mage’s staff in hand, her pretty face a storm of conflicting emotions—shock, indignation, and a simmering fury. The black glow around her signified her Dark Mana—her magic energy transformed by her deity.

  Georgi sputtered, pointing a trembling finger. “L-Lady Julie?! She’s a follower of the Hidden God?!”

  Julie ignored him, her glare locked on Lucon, specifically on the way his palm still cradled the maid’s cheek. Her lip curled in disgust.

  “The Swamp Princess…” Lucon mused aloud. It was what he’d heard some call the heiress of the southern marshlands.

  Julie paused, then let out a short, humorless laugh. “My, my. No one has ever been brave enough to say that little nickname to my face before.” She scoffed. “I think I’ve seen enough. You really are the worst kind of man. A wastrel, a liar, and worst of all—a womanizer.”

  Her gaze flicked once more to Lucon’s hand holding Hilda’s face.

  [Dark Wind]

  Black wind swirled around her, and she was gone, leaving only the rustle of disturbed leaves.

  Georgi stared at the empty space, utterly bewildered. “The Hidden God…House Othborro…!”

  Lucon’s mind began to connect the dots. “So that’s how House Othborro climbed so fast in the southern trade. They weren’t just lucky. They had a spy in their family, a follower of the god of secrets, eavesdropping on every rival’s deal and strategy.”

  The Swamp Princess could come in handy, he thought.

  Skhav grumbled, “Too many things happen around you…”

  Lucon turned his attention back to Hilda, his hand still on her face.

  “Now, where was I…?” he began.

  But Hilda was already moving. She suddenly shoved a small vial between his lips and tipped it back.

  The liquid—cool, tasteless, and potent—flooded his mouth and throat. Lucon’s eyes widened. He staggered back, a wave of sudden nausea overcame him. He crashed to the forest floor, looking up at Hilda, who stood over him, her expression now unreadable.

  Lucon smirked helplessly and said, “So…this is where your loyalties lie…”