Chapter 12: Shadows of Retribution and The Encounter

The night hung heavy with an air of anticipation, as if even the stars themselves held their breath. In the heart of darkness, Lucius Draegon moved with the grace of a specter, his steps silent and purposeful.

As he approached the estate of Saint Rosward, a shiver ran down the spine of even the bravest souls. The moon's pallid light cast long, eerie shadows, painting the scene in a macabre tapestry of dread.

Lucius's presence seemed to command the very elements, as if the night itself bent to his will. His eyes, gleaming with an otherworldly intensity, pierced through the darkness, leaving no corner unexamined. His blade, the embodiment of death's embrace, lay sheathed but poised, a silent promise of retribution.

With a precision born of years of training, Lucius navigated the labyrinthine halls, a wraith in search of his quarry. The ancestral home of the Roswards bore witness to the echoes of his footsteps, each one a harbinger of doom.

As he reached the heart of the estate, he beheld his targets - the Rosward family, blissfully unaware of the impending storm. The air grew colder, and a quiet dread settled over the room as they sensed the malevolent force in their midst.

With a single, fluid motion, Lucius unsheathed his blade, the steel gleaming in the dim light. The room seemed to hold its breath, the moment stretched taut with anticipation.

Then, the first strike fell, swift and precise. The room erupted into chaos, the echoes of anguish and terror harmonizing with the deadly symphony.

As the last vestiges of resistance crumbled, Lucius stood amidst the carnage, his blade stained with the legacy of Saint Rosward. The shadows seemed to recoil from him, as if in awe of the darkness he had wrought.

Wordlessly, he turned to leave, the weight of his task carried out with chilling efficiency. The night seemed to exhale, releasing the tension that had gripped it.

In the aftermath, the estate lay in ruins, a testament to the wrath that had been unleashed. The legacy of Saint Rosward, once steeped in power and prestige, now lay shattered and vanquished.

As he emerged from the shadows, he found himself face to face with a figure draped in the regal garb of authority. Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro, the sword master of this generation, stood before him, a formidable presence in his own right. Yet, in the face of Lucius's dread-inducing aura, he seemed but a shadow.

Without a word, Lucius unsheathed his blade, the steel gleaming in the moonlight. The clash of steel against steel echoed through the night, a discordant symphony of power.

In a matter of heartbeats, it was over. Lucius stood victorious, his blade held steady against the defeated Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro.

"You are but an ant compared to the shadows," Lucius intoned, his voice as cold and unyielding as the steel in his hand. With a dismissive gesture, he left the fallen figure behind, a testament to the vast chasm of power that separated them.

As Lucius continued on his path, he felt the weight of his King's command, the gravity of his purpose. Before him, the estate of Saint Rosward lay in ruin, a tableau of retribution.

But before he could disappear into the night, he turned, his eyes meeting the fallen figure of Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro.

"The King of the World has awakened," Lucius declared, his voice carrying the weight of prophecy. "He will reunite this fractured world and reclaim his rightful throne."

With those words hanging in the air, Lucius Draegon , the harbinger of retribution, disappeared into the night, leaving behind only whispers of his fearsome presence.