[Third Parson Pov]

“At least now we know why Lucian wasn’t taught anything about it,” Annabeth said finally, shaking her head in disbelief, her words pulling everyone’s attention toward her.

Thalia was the only one nodding her head in understanding, arms crossed, while the others stared at her with varying degrees of confusion. “I mean, just look at him…” she motioned toward Lucian, her tone dry.

Everyone followed her gaze. Lucian stood hunched slightly forward, a trembling hand pressed against his mouth as if to stifle laughter—or perhaps madness. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breath coming out in uneven, heavy draws. The wild gleam in his eyes was unmistakable, his expression stretched into something manic and unsettling.

“A trip to hell…” he whispered, a strange grin curling his lips, his voice low but trembling with giddy anticipation. “How exciting~” His eyelids fluttered half-shut in visible delight, like someone savoring the thought of something forbidden and terrible.

Annabeth let out a long sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose before muttering, “It was probably kept from him because Lucian wouldn’t hesitate to take a trip to hell without a warning or a plan. It was for his own protection.” She ended with a weary grin that did little to hide her nervousness.

Hylla and Reyna exchanged disturbed looks, both of them clearly uncomfortable. “What is seriously wrong with him?” Hylla asked finally, her tone sharp, though her eyes betrayed a hint of unease.

“A lot of things…” they all replied in unison, their voices flat and exasperated.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything… oh well,” Circe murmured with a casual shrug, tilting her head slightly as she studied Lucian’s deranged expression. There was no sympathy in her tone, only mild amusement.

Without another word, Circe snapped her fingers. The two devils beside her instantly sprang into motion, blurring into streaks of shadow and motion. Their speed was beyond anything human—supernatural, almost invisible.

“Hm?” Lucian blinked, looking up just in time to see them materialize before him.

His legs were swept from beneath him before he could react. A clawed hand tore across his chest, the attack so fast it left a black, smoking trail in the air. Blood—thick, dark, and glistening like oil—burst from the wound.

Lucian was thrown back violently, smashing into Annabeth’s glowing shield with enough force to make the barrier ripple like liquid glass. He barely had time to brace himself before the devils lunged at him again.

“Don’t get distracted now,” Circe’s voice echoed, smooth and cold. “Just because I was enlightening you doesn’t mean our battle was paused.”

Lucian planted a trembling hand against the shield, using it to steady himself as he pressed the other against his bleeding wound. His breath hitched when the tip of one of the demon’s tails slashed across his chest again, leaving a deep, burning gash.

He managed to catch the tail mid-swipe, but the strength behind the demon’s pull yanked him forward violently, dragging him straight back into the fray. The sound of their clash rang through the air—magic sizzling, claws tearing, the earth scorched beneath them.

Despite his effort, Lucian’s movements were sluggish. His decaying body couldn’t keep up—his muscles trembled, his reflexes faltered, his strength wavered. The miasma within him gnawed at his insides like a slow-burning poison, and every motion sent jolts of agony through his veins.

One of the demons’ fists connected with his jaw, snapping his head back and sending a spray of black blood arcing through the air. Another blow followed, crushing into his ribs, splattering the sand beneath him with inky stains.

Those standing within Annabeth’s protection could only watch, their faces pale and uneasy.

“Why is his blood black!?” Reyna cried out, pointing at the smear that streaked across the barrier.

“Because his body is corrupted,” Thalia answered grimly. “His body is being eaten inside out by miasma.”

“What?!” Scylla exclaimed, eyes wide. “And you allowed him to fight in such a condition? You have to stop this—she’ll kill him!”

Circe’s expression hardened instantly. “If any of you interfere,” she said coldly, her voice carrying an unshakable authority, “I will not hesitate to kill you myself.”

“But he could die!” Scylla shouted back, her tone trembling between anger and desperation. She hadn’t even had the chance to properly repay him for what he’d done for her.

“Then that’s his problem,” Circe scoffed, waving her hand dismissively.

“Calm down,” Thalia said, her arms folded as she kept her eyes fixed on the fight. “Lucian won’t die here.”

“How can you be sure?” Scylla asked, her voice tight. The sisters turned to Thalia as well, both curious for an answer as well.

Thalia didn’t look away from the battle. “Because, as Lucian would say…” she murmured, her voice quieter, tinged with something almost unrecognizable. “‘It’s just not his time yet.'”

The fight raged on. Lucian’s body slammed into the sand once more, rolling before he landed face-first. He lay there for a moment, his breathing ragged and broken.

Blood—thick, black, and alive with faint movement—poured from his mouth. Some of his hair clung to his face, matted with the same tar-like liquid. He coughed harshly, choking on chunks of blood that writhed faintly.

The demons’ tails whipped through the air, black streaks slicing down toward Lucian’s skull. Their aim was merciless—one strike to pierce his head clean through. Lucian was still coughing violently, dark blood spilling from his mouth, when from the depth of his shadow two dark arms erupted upward, catching both tails in a bone-cracking grip before the blades could descend.

The ground beneath him trembled as two figures rose from the darkness—Asura and Golurk—manifesting beside him like sentinels summoned straight from the abyss. The Asura’s many arms flexed, while Golurk’s towering frame shimmered faintly beneath its cracked armor. Both stood protectively at Lucian’s side, their gazes locked on the snarling devils ahead.

Circe’s lips curled into a knowing smirk as she watched the scene unfold. “Finally,” she murmured, almost in admiration.

A thunderous roar tore through the air as the two pairs of summoned creatures clashed. The collision sent out a deafening shockwave, tearing across the beach with enough force to throw sand into a towering storm.

When the dust finally began to settle, the battlefield revealed its cost. Asura’s limbs were mangled and torn, black shadowy matter writhing and knitting itself back together like smoke in reverse. Golurk’s massive shoulder was missing a chunk, its body oozing streams of inky substance that pulsed and reformed, trying to hold shape.

Opposite them, the demons were not unscathed. Blood streamed from their mouths and eyes, flames flickering faintly at the corners of their lips as they grinned through the pain—two beasts that thrived on the taste of battle. Their fangs gleamed under the pale light, wicked and bloodstained.

Lucian, still kneeling, pressed one trembling hand into the sand. From beneath his palm, his shadow spread outward—slowly at first, then all at once. It bled across the beach like an oil slick devouring the light, swallowing everything in its reach. The air grew cold.

And from that Primordial Darkness, they began to rise—his shadow soldiers, one after another. Silent, countless, their forms rippling like broken reflections. Each emerged from the ground and stood tall, surrounding the two demons in a growing circle. The entire beach darkened under their presence.

A guttural roar shattered the silence—a sound so immense it seemed to shake the world itself. The source came from the center of the shadow army: Captain, Lucian’s colossal Shadow Hydra, its heads unfurling and screeching to the heavens.

Lucian couldn’t hear any of it. His ears rang with nothing but a suffocating silence. Yet he could feel it—the ground quivering under his palms, the sand vibrating between his fingers, the bursts of light flashing through his blurred vision, and the heat licking against his cold, dying skin.

His focus drifted to the black blood dripping from his chin, splattering the ground in small, living puddles. Within his hand, his ring’s crystal glowed faintly, its light pulsing weaker and weaker as the fight raged on. His shadows were being destroyed faster than he could reform them—but he knew the demons were suffering as well. And that brought him a great deal of comfort.

He forced himself upright. Every limb trembled with the effort, his knees shaking, his body threatening to collapse at any second. Pieces of his armor cracked and fell away, clattering onto the sand. His hair, sticky with sweat and blood, clung to his face, half-hiding his eyes.

Still, he stood.

He staggered forward one step. Then another. And another. Each movement felt heavier than the last, but he didn’t stop. The explosions and flashes of power erupted all around him, nearly knocking him off his feet, yet he pressed on.

Across the chaotic battlefield, Circe’s eyes met his. She smiled faintly—half mocking, half curious—as she watched him advance through the smoke and fire.

Lucian came to a halt. He stared down at his ring—the once-vibrant crystal now completely drained of light. A hollow sphere. Empty. His jaw tightened as he brought one hand up to his face, pressing his palm against his forehead as the pain behind his eyes flared white-hot.

His shadows faltered but did not fade. With a quiet wave of his hand, he dismissed them—hundreds of soldiers dissolving back into mist and flowing into his body. Their purpose was complete; they had bought him the time he needed.

Across the sand, the two demons hovered in the air. Their bodies were battered, wings tattered, and their flesh riddled with bleeding cuts. Yet still they grinned—wild and unbroken. Their bat-like wings flared wide, scattering droplets of blood that hissed when they hit the sand.

They shared a glance, then dove. Twin streaks of red flame, plummeting toward Lucian like living missiles, shrieking with fury.

Circe’s smirk vanished the instant she realized what he was doing. Her eyes widened. “Stop, you idiots!” she shouted, her voice cutting through the roar of battle. “It’s a trap!”

But her warning came too late.

Lucian shifted a finger from his face, his head tilting slightly as one eye snapped open—its once-crimson hue shifting into a luminous, venomous green. The color spread like wildfire through his iris, the air around him twisting with ancient, cursed energy.

The demons saw it too late. Their manic grins froze. Their bodies tensed mid-dive.

The curse took hold.

The moment their eyes met his, their movements faltered. Their wings locked, muscles seizing, their expressions flickering from rage to sudden fear. Cracks spread across their skin like spiderwebs—thin at first, then splitting wider, deeper.

Their flesh hardened, color draining until it turned a dull, lifeless gray. Their forms slowed, solidified, and within seconds both demons were frozen in the air, suspended in perfect stillness—two grotesque statues mid-attack before they crashed onto the ground.

A faint green glow lingered in Lucian’s gaze as he exhaled.

The petrification curse—a gift born from the curse he once consumed after helping Medusa herself.

Lucian lowered his trembling hand from his face, revealing both of his eyes at last—one a burning crimson, the other now glowing an unearthly green. The contrast was jarring, unsettling, and yet mesmerizing in its unnatural beauty. His heterochromia gleamed under the fractured light of the battlefield, twin beacons of madness and power.

He walked forward without a word, his boots crunching over the coarse sand. The two petrified demons loomed before him, still frozen mid-dive, their snarling faces immortalized in terror. Lucian stopped beside one of them, lifted a hand, and ran his fingers along its stone cheek as if in admiration.

Then, with a slight flick of his wrist, the statue began to crumble.

Cracks raced across its surface like veins of light, and in a matter of seconds, the entire figure disintegrated into gray dust that swirled up and scattered into the wind. A faint, cruel smile tugged at Lucian’s lips.

He turned toward Circe, his expression shifting from calm to deranged in the space of a heartbeat. “Aunt Circe…” he began, voice smooth and sharp as glass. “You said you wanted me to impress you, correct?”

His grin widened, spreading into something feral, unhinged. His eyes gleamed with that familiar spark—the dangerous look he wore whenever inspiration struck him, the kind that always meant something insane was about to happen.

Circe narrowed her gaze warily. “What are you—”

But Lucian cut her off, raising a finger as if silencing a student. “You’re a mighty sorceress renowned for your art of transmogrification,” he said, his tone almost playful. “You turn people into beasts, monsters… things that transcend humanity itself.” He tilted his head, his grin stretching even wider. “So I thought—what better way to impress you than to show you a transformation of my own?”

A faint breeze rippled through the air. The scent of iron thickened.

Lucian lifted his hand slowly, palm facing upward. At first, droplets of blood—his own—rose from the sand, spiraling upward as if drawn by invisible strings. But then more began to rise—their blood, the demons’ blood, every dark droplet that had soaked the battlefield.

The air shimmered as the countless beads of red and black liquid floated toward him, merging together above his hand.

Circe watched intently, her usual smugness fading into genuine fascination. She did not interrupt—she was far too curious, too eager to see just how far Lucian’s madness would go.

The two sources of blood mixed, swirling together until they became a single sphere of black and crimson liquid suspended in the air. The mass pulsed faintly, like a living heart.

Then, slowly, the blood began to descend. It slithered down Lucian’s arm, coiling around his skin in intricate, fluid patterns until it began to etch itself into his flesh. The liquid carved glowing lines into his palm, forming a spinning pentagram that burned with raw curse energy.

Circe’s eyes widened as she recognized the pattern, her composure cracking. “You wouldn’t!” she hissed, her voice sharp with disbelief.

Lucian’s grin turned wild. “I would!” he shouted, his tone gleeful and defiant.

With a single motion, he slammed his palm against his own forearm.

The sound was sickening—like flesh searing against hot metal. Steam burst from the point of contact, rising in curling tendrils as Lucian screamed in agony, his body trembling violently. The smell of burnt blood filled the air.

But through his pained grimace, he managed to speak—his voice shaking but resolute. “I call this Curse…” he gasped, forcing a grin through the pain, “Mark of the Devil!”

The sigil blazed to life, crimson and black intertwining as it pulsed with an infernal rhythm. The pentagram flared once, then bled everywhere—its energy spreading across his body.

Lucian staggered back, clutching his forehead as the mark there ignited. His entire body convulsed, and his eyes—both of them—were consumed in pure red light. The irises vanished entirely, replaced by glowing pools of hellfire.

He arched his back and screamed.

It wasn’t human. His voice split into layers—multiple tones overlapping, echoing, screaming together. The sound was deep, guttural, and resonant, as though a hundred voices were howling from inside him, clawing to escape. The air itself trembled.

Cracks formed along his forehead, blood seeping through before bursting open. From beneath his skin, two black horns forced their way out, curving upward as they grew. His nails blackened, sharpening into claws. His flesh darkened, veins spreading beneath the surface until his entire body turned pitch black, gleaming faintly like obsidian.

Then came the tearing sound.

Large, leathery wings exploded from his back, shredding what remained of his armor and shirt. The wings unfurled to their full span, scattering sand and debris with a single flap.

Lucian straightened, his shadow stretching monstrously beneath him. He began to laugh—a sound low, distorted, and resonant, reverberating through the battlefield like the laughter of something ancient and terrible.

Still covering part of his face, he raised his head, grinning through the chaos. “So tell me, Auntie…” His voice was deeper now, layered and echoing, the voice of something otherworldly. He threw his arms wide, the wings spreading in perfect synchronization, the sky behind him darkening as his aura flared.

“ARE YOU IMPRESSED NOW!?” Lucian roared. The sound of his voice shook the air, carrying across the ocean in a wave of pure, demonic power.

Circe stood frozen where she was, her mouth slightly agape, eyes wide with disbelief. She could feel the raw energy radiating from him, heavy and suffocating.

For the first time in a very long time, Circe felt something unfamiliar crawl up her spine.

Adrenaline, Admiration.

And as Lucian’s distorted laughter rolled across the shore, the very air around her seemed to pulse in time with his madness.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep