Lucien hit the dirt road like he owned the potholes, boots kicking up little clouds that stuck to his calves in that annoying way only village dust does.
Nyx was already curled on his shoulder in full fox mode, silver-pink fur warm against his neck, tail flicking like she was counting heartbeats.
The Primordial Conquest Bond throbbed behind his ribs, not painful, just this live-wire pulse that made his teeth hum every time Mira stumbled closer.
She crashed straight into his chest, bow snapped clean in half, breath coming out in wet gasps that smelled like road grit and cheap fear-sweat.
The shadows twisted behind her—three ugly smears of corrupted mana, all smoke and teeth, no real shape.
They'd latched onto the faint thrum of the Eternal Seed he'd buried under the fountain days back. Like flies on week-old fruit.
Lucien felt them pulling at the air, hungry for whatever scraps of his cheat they could sniff out.
"Easy," he muttered, one arm looping around Mira's waist before she face-planted.
Her patched tunic was damp under his palm, fabric rough like it had been washed in a river and dried on a rock. She smelled of pine sap and that metallic edge you get when adrenaline decides to camp out in your blood.
Nyx's ears twitched once, golden eyes narrowing at the shadows.
Mira's fingers dug into his tunic, nails bitten short. "They came from the caravan—merchants sent them. Testing us. Testing you."
Lucien didn't answer right away. Just let the bond settle, that greedy little hook in his chest tugging warmer now that she was close enough to count freckles.
Back in São Paulo he'd dodge crowds on the subway like this was some kind of training arc. Funny how dying under a truck upgrades your reflexes to god-tier.
Elara came barreling up the path two seconds later, short sword already out, green eyes wild but steady.
She skidded to a halt beside them, chest heaving, that stubborn tilt to her chin that said she'd chosen this mess and wasn't about to tap out. "Lucien—let me—"
He lifted his free hand, palm open, lazy as checking the time on a dead phone. "Leave it to me. They're just… leftovers."
The words tasted flat in his mouth, but the sarcasm curled right behind them. Classic merchant move—send cheap trash to poke the new boss and see if he flinches.
Nyx's laugh slid into his ear, low and syrupy, her tail brushing the side of his throat like a reminder she was first in line for everything. "They stink of other people's desperation, Master. Want me to paint them pink before you swallow? Make it pretty for the show?"
Lucien's mouth twitched. That half-smile he couldn't kill even if he tried.
The Devourer's Gaze kicked in without him asking twice—world sharpening, edges glowing faint blue like cheap phone filters.
He tasted the mana off the shadows: bitter, watered-down greed, the kind of knockoff power that screamed "budget test run." Merchants probably paid some back-alley mage pocket change and called it strategy.
No big wind-up. No dramatic stance.
He just reached out with the Greed Bloodline uncoiling behind his ribs, hungry the way his stomach used to get at 3 a.m. scrolling Webnovel tabs.
The first shadow lunged—claws of black smoke—and hit his palm like spilled wine on a bar top. It didn't fight. Just folded.
The Linhagem sucked it down, multiplied the corruption on the way in, turned rot into something clean and endless that flooded his veins like cold energy drink after a hangover.
Mira's mouth fell open, eyes wide enough to fit the whole damn sky. She didn't pull away. Just stared while the second shadow tried wrapping his arm—only to get yanked inward like taffy in a kid's fist.
Pop. Gone.
The third one got fancy, stretching thin across the road, but Elara's sword clipped its edge anyway, shearing off a chunk that dissolved into mist before it could even scream.
Lucien felt the level tick somewhere quiet in his head. Nothing flashy. Just a warm buzz under his skin, like the first decent meal after weeks of instant noodles.
His purple-pink hair caught the late sun at the tips, glowing faint neon for half a second before settling. The golden scar over his left eyebrow itched once, sharp, like the Bloodline was laughing at how easy this was.
"You… ate that?" Mira whispered, voice hoarse, like she'd swallowed gravel and liked the crunch.
Her broken bow hung limp in her other hand, wood splintered clean. She smelled stronger up close—road dust mixed with something almost sweet, the way cheap soap fights losing battles.
Nyx shifted on his shoulder, claws pricking lightly through the tunic. "Told you they were cheap. Tastes like yesterday's cachaça left in the sun."
Lucien exhaled through his nose, the air still thick with that burnt-wiring stink the shadows left behind. "Tastes like profit," he said, voice low, that São Paulo drawl still clinging to the edges even after all this time.
He helped Mira straighten up, her weight lighter than it should've been, bones close to the surface like the road had been chewing on her.
The Conquest Bond hummed steadier now, warm static feeding him her relief mixed with that sharp curiosity she couldn't hide.
They walked back slow, boots scuffing the same dirt path he'd claimed weeks ago.
Elara fell in on his left, sword sheathed but hand never far from the hilt.
Nyx stayed fox-shaped, tail occasionally brushing Mira's arm like she was testing if the new stray would bolt.
The village square came into view—fountain still pulsing faint under the moss, wheat fields beyond the huts greener than they had any right to be.
A couple kids paused mid-chase, staring, but nobody ran. Old Tomás just nodded from his doorway, broom paused like he'd seen weirder and decided not to comment.
Back at the shack the night had already dropped heavy, air thick and warm like someone left the oven on.
Lucien pushed the crooked door open with two fingers. The place smelled of damp straw and that sweet-ozone trace Nyx always left, mixed now with whatever roots Elara had thrown in the pot earlier.
She moved first, sleeves rolled up, ladling thick soup into mismatched bowls—roots multiplied fat by the Seed, chunks soft enough to melt on the tongue but still earthy enough to remind you this wasn't some fancy capital restaurant.
Nyx shifted human mid-step, silver-pink hair spilling loose as she dropped onto the edge of the table.
She flicked an illusion at Mira—tiny fox ears popping up on the girl's messy brown hair for half a second, just long enough to make her cheeks go pink. "There. Matches the theme. You gonna keep clutching that broken stick like it owes you money?"
Mira snorted, setting the bow down with a clatter.
She took the bowl Elara offered, fingers still trembling a little but steadier than before. "Merchants don't pay in gold half the time," she said around her first spoonful, voice low like she was testing if the words would stick.
"Secrets. Routes nobody talks about. Who owes who in the next three towns. Stuff that moves quieter than wagons." She paused, green eyes flicking to Lucien. "Eldoria's starting to smell like something too big for the backwoods. They noticed."
Elara settled beside him on the straw mattress, shoulder brushing his, the bond between them warm and solid now.
She tasted the soup, nose wrinkling at the salt she'd probably overdone on purpose. "Let them notice. We're not hiding." Her tone carried that stubborn edge, the one that said she'd run from one arranged mess and wasn't signing up for another.
Lucien leaned back against the wall, bowl balanced on his knee, spoon scraping the bottom already.
The Greed purred low in his chest, satisfied with the easy meal but already eyeing the next bite.
He watched the three of them—Elara gaining that quiet posture of someone who'd chosen the table instead of the escape route, Nyx poking Mira's illusory ears again with a playful growl that hid teeth, Mira still glancing at the door like part of her expected shadows to crawl back in.
Random thought hit him sideways: back home this would've been cold pizza and solo scrolling, now it was root soup and three girls who smelled like smoke and road and something that felt dangerously close to his.
Conversation twisted easy after that, no big speeches.
Mira talked about the caravan fire she'd seen on the way in—purple-pink edges that weren't quite Nyx's work.
Nyx laughed, tail curling around Lucien's ankle under the table, claiming space without saying it out loud.
Elara added details about her father's old debts, voice steady like she was done letting them weigh her down.
Lucien listened more than he spoke, letting the Greed file everything away for later multipliers.
The shack felt smaller in the good way, lantern light flickering across the sagging roof like it belonged there now.
Then the System blinked in the corner of his vision, quiet as a notification you almost miss.
[Greed Points +12,700 for indirect threat absorption. Daily Mission complete.]
No fanfare. Just numbers stacking clean.
Lucien's mouth curved that crooked half-smile anyway.
Nyx's ears shot straight up mid-laugh, golden eyes narrowing at the door like she'd heard something the rest of them missed. Her tail tightened around his leg once, sharp. "Master… that fire at the merchants' caravan? Wasn't my illusion. Someone else is painting the world pink."
The words hung there, soup bowls suddenly forgotten, the night outside pressing a little heavier against the crooked walls.
Lucien felt the bond pulse again—warmer, warning—and the Greed uncoiled slow, already tasting whatever came next.