The ground beneath their feet trembled, trees creaked in distress, and the air itself seemed to freeze.
The kidnappers staggered, their expressions stricken with terror. Instinctively, their eyes turned towards the source, their courage faltering in the face of this unfathomable presence.
Lucan’s own body froze momentarily, eyes widening slightly in shock and recognition. His heartbeat quickened in disbelief.
He knew this presence—recognized the underlying mana signature as distinctly Orion’s—but its magnitude was now far beyond anything he thought possible.
"That... that’s the Young Master’s mana," Lucan whispered softly, shock bleeding into uncertainty. "No... that can’t be right..."
One of the enemies turned frantically, panic evident in his voice. "What the hell was that?! Who the fuck is releasing that kind of Draconic pressure?! Is it a True Dragon?!"
Lucan’s icy composure returned instantly, his eyes sharpening, and a ruthless determination surged through him.
That momentary distraction, that chink in their armor—was exactly what he needed.
In a single, blindingly fast motion, Lucan darted forward again, sword slicing decisively. Another enemy screamed as his arm separated from his body in a spray of blood.
Lucan’s expression never changed, emotionless and cold as he finished the man with a merciless thrust through the chest, before making quick work of the other two lower-level foes.
The remaining Tier Nine cultivator, heavily injured and drenched in sweat and fear, stumbled backward. Lucan’s gaze turned slowly toward him, his voice chillingly calm. "Not staying for your friends?"
The man, eyes wide with terror, quickly drew a one-time-use spatial talisman from his robes, slamming it desperately against his chest.
A bright flash enveloped him, and he vanished moments before Lucan’s blade pierced through empty air.
Lucan stood in silence for a few seconds, chest heaving as the adrenaline gradually faded. Frustration flickered briefly across his bloodied face.
"One escaped..." he muttered softly, blade still humming softly with deadly intent. "Well fuck it. I need to hurry back toward Young Master."
He sheathed his sword swiftly, the motion sharp and precise. His heartbeat was rapid, his muscles aching deeply from exertion and accumulated injuries.
Yet he ignored the pain, turning immediately toward the source of that overwhelming Dragon’s Might—toward Orion.
Lucan sprinted through the ravaged forest, his boots crushing scorched leaves and splintered wood beneath him.
Each breath rattled painfully in his chest, and the deep gash in his side burned like molten steel. Blood seeped from numerous wounds, soaking into his torn uniform, but adrenaline masked his pain as urgency propelled him forward.
The forest around him had become a nightmarish scene—a landscape brutally reshaped by battle, littered with bodies, shattered weapons, and scorched earth.
Smoke drifted among the shadows, and embers danced briefly before extinguishing, a somber aftermath of violence. Lucan’s blade, though sheathed, still pulsed faintly with the killing intent that lingered after his desperate fight.
His mind raced as fast as his body, eyes narrowed sharply in concern and disbelief. "What was that aura?" Lucan muttered under his breath, weaving agilely around the debris of fallen trees.
The sheer, suffocating pressure of that Dragon’s Might echoed vividly in his memory—vast, primal, and impossibly fierce. It had been Orion’s mana signature, he knew without a doubt, yet it was magnified to an intensity Lucan could scarcely fathom.
His heart clenched in dread. "Did something happen to the Young Master?"
Ahead, through the thinning veil of smoke, faint shapes became discernible—the broken outline of the carriage, the figures of Magi, Rina, and Fiora, silhouetted beneath pale moonlight.
His eyes widened sharply, sensing urgency in their posture, tension thickening the air around them.
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