Lucien grabbed his sword back firmly, the cold steel still humming faintly from its flight through the air. He pressed the blade deliberately against the assassin's neck, his breath heavy and uneven from the chase—chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled gasps. His crimson eyes locked onto the assassin's, unyielding.
"Now then," Lucien said, voice low and sharp, "who hired you?"
The assassin sneered and laughed, a harsh, bitter sound that cut through the tension. Without hesitation, he spat defiantly toward Lucien's face.
Lucien sighed, a sound mingled with exhaustion and restrained irritation, and stepped quickly to the side, narrowly dodging the glistening spit.
"Let me repay you then…" he said with a cold grin.
Closing the distance with measured steps, Lucien stomped down hard on the assassin's chest with his boot, the impact forcing a painful cough from the man's lungs. He kept his foot planted firmly there, ensuring the assassin couldn't catch his breath.
Cautious of hidden poisons or blades, Lucien used his sword like a long staff, hooking the edge under the figure's hood and pulling it back carefully, maintaining distance.
What greeted him was a surprising sight—no ordinary assassin. The figure was a young Zoanthari, a member of the fierce Beastfolk, marked by sharp canine ears twitching atop his head and animalistic eyes that glimmered with wary intelligence beneath dark, tousled hair. Yet the face and body were mostly humanoid, muscles tense and coiled, scowling fiercely at Lucien despite being pinned beneath the duke's weight.
The gathered onlookers murmured in surprise. Zoanthari were rare visitors here, almost unheard of in these lands—especially canine types from the Throgan Wilds, the wild frontier just north of the empire.
"A Zoanthari? And a canine one at that," Lucien chuckled darkly, grinding his boot harder into the assassin's chest. "You're a long way from the Throgan Wilds, my dear friend."
The assassin growled in defiance, pain twisting his features.
"Torture me all you want! I'm not talking, softskin!"
Lucien laughed softly, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his thick, dark hair, the gesture revealing the faintest glimpse of fatigue.
"Oh please," he said dryly. "I've heard dozens say that. Guess what? None of them stayed true to their word."
With a deft, practiced hand, Lucien dragged the tip of his sword in careful, shallow cuts across the assassin's legs, precise enough to cripple without causing permanent damage. The Zoanthari snarled, a deep canine growl vibrating from his throat as the sharp sting set in.
"You're coming with me, kid," Lucien said, hauling the assassin up by his shoulder with effortless strength, as if lifting a bundle of hay.
Around them, the townsfolk began to relax, some waving farewell to their duke with relieved smiles, while others exchanged skeptical glances at Lucien's ruthless methods of interrogation—methods that left no doubt who held the power here.
A few minutes passed as Lucien made his way down the winding path back toward his estate. The morning sun had risen higher now, casting long golden rays through the canopy of trees lining the road. He passed caravans laden with goods and packs of armored adventurers heading into town, many of whom gave him wide-eyed looks as they noticed the struggling figure slung over his shoulder.
The assassin flailed wildly, fists pounding ineffectively against Lucien's back.
"Put me down, damn it! Where are you taking me, you bastard!?" he barked, his voice hoarse from shouting.
Lucien chuckled under his breath, his stride unbroken, entirely unbothered by the thrashing or the insults. He didn't even spare a glance at his captive as they approached the grand marble steps of the estate.
Without ceremony, he raised a boot and kicked the entrance open with a loud crack, the twin doors swinging inward violently. Inside, the foyer fell into stunned silence. Servants froze mid-step, eyes widening as Lucien tossed the assassin onto the polished stone floor like a sack of grain.
The Zoanthari hit the ground hard, snarling and baring his teeth, limbs scrambling as if still hoping to escape.
"An assassin," Lucien said curtly, gesturing toward the writhing figure. "Make him talk. I'll be back."
His voice was clipped, efficient—no time wasted on dramatics. The staff, though shaken, snapped to action. A pair of guards moved in immediately, seizing the assassin by the arms as he thrashed and shouted.
"No! Get your filthy hands off me! You think I'll break?! I'll rip your throats out!"
Lucien turned on his heel, already heading back out into the light. The ornate doors swung closed behind him, muffling the shouting that echoed deeper into the estate. Even as he walked away, the sounds of resistance and the dragging of boots across the marble floor followed him faintly—echoes of the chaos he'd just delivered.
Outside, the sun warmed his skin, a sharp contrast to the chill that still lingered in the shadows of the manor. He stretched his arms slowly, bones cracking slightly, releasing the tension from the morning's chase.
"Now, where was I?" he mused aloud, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Oh right… Trent City."
He exhaled deeply, eyes scanning the horizon where the road curved toward distant banners and noble ambitions.
"Even a vengeful psychopath has to have fun sometimes, right?" he muttered with a laugh, voice laced with sardonic amusement.
The wind carried his words down the stone steps and out into the open world as Lucien set off once more—his sword sheathed, but his mind already dancing with the possibilities that lay ahead.