mediators story

Lucien walked alongside Valeri as Hector addressed the gathered groups. The decision to redistribute members who had lost their teams was met with mixed reactions. Team leaders felt their authority undercut, while the newly assigned members simmered with unease. For Lucien's team, the atmosphere was particularly tense. Though they had witnessed his strength against the crescent beasts, admiration did little to quell their skepticism.

They didn't trust him. Worse, they didn't like him.

"Give them time," Valeri murmured, glancing at Lucien, who seemed unbothered by the lingering stares.

"Time they may not give us," Lucien replied evenly, his gaze fixed ahead.

Logan trailed behind them, his arms crossed as he half-listened to their exchange. Harigold had insisted he keep an eye on Lucien and Valeri, a task he clearly found beneath him. Yet, despite his reluctance, Logan stayed close enough to catch their conversation.

As the group reached a three-way path, Hector took charge. The leaders—himself, Lucien, and Harigold—were each assigned a route. Mana beacons were distributed to track their locations and progress through the maze-like expanse. The teams split, each setting off into the unknown.

Valeri kept pace with Lucien, his curiosity piqued. The sword strapped to Harigold's back had caught his attention earlier, its faint, almost ethereal glow hinting at its significance. He finally voiced the question gnawing at him.

"That sword Harigold carries—it's unlike anything I've seen. What makes it so special? Or, for that matter, how do weapons even work here? They seem far more intricate than what I'm used to."

Lucien's pace didn't falter as he glanced at Valeri, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You've noticed the difference, then. Alright, let's start with the foundation—elemental control. Weapons and their creation are deeply tied to it."

Logan rolled his eyes but said nothing, tuning in despite himself.

"There are eight tiers for elemental control," Lucien began, his tone calm but deliberate.

1. Makeshift: The basics, raw, unrefined, and barely usable. Think of it as fumbling in the dark with no real understanding.

2. Amateur: A step up, but still shaky. Control is slightly better, though results remain inconsistent.

3. Rookie: Practical and reliable enough for everyday use, but lacking finesse.

4. Adept: This is where control starts to solidify. Users become more confident and capable, shaping their element with precision.

5. Skilled: True mastery begins to show here. Techniques become refined, and creativity plays a significant role.

6. Meta: At this level, the user doesn't just manipulate the element—they dominate it. The surrounding environment bends to their will. For example, a Meta wind user can claim the air itself as theirs, making it impossible for others to influence.

7. Binding: The user creates the element rather than merely controlling it. Their connection with it is so profound that it becomes an extension of themselves. At this stage, no one else can manipulate the elements they produce.

8. One: The pinnacle. The user is the element. Their body evolves to adapt fully, gaining immunity to its natural drawbacks and harnessing its power effortlessly. At this level, the element isn't just a tool—it's part of their very being.

Valeri frowned, digesting the explanation. "And Hector? Where does he stand?"

"Meta," Lucien replied, his tone tinged with reluctant admiration. "It's rare, especially for someone his age. Elemental control takes years of discipline and patience to refine."

Logan snorted faintly. "Guess he's a prodigy, then."

Lucien ignored him, turning his focus back to Valeri.

"What about weapons?" Valeri pressed, his curiosity still unsatisfied. "Harigold's sword—what's the story there? Or are there tiers for weapons, too?"

Lucien nodded. "Weapons are ranked according to their craftsmanship, the materials used, and their abilities. It's a hierarchy as intricate as elemental control."

He began to list them:

1. Common Weapons: These are replicas of higher-tiered weapons—brittle, unreliable, and ultimately useless.

2. Assembly-Tiered: Mass-produced by manufacturing groups, these weapons are functional but not exceptional. They're distinguished by unique markings, shapes, or color tones derived from the materials used.

3. Tailored Weapons: Custom-made for specific users by blacksmith groups. Guilds often employ their own blacksmiths to craft these weapons, securing rare materials to ensure quality.

4. Rare/Isolated Weapons: Heirlooms, often enhanced with mana over generations. Their rarity stems from the unique materials used, like:

Scorned Wood: Resistant to fire, harvested from the Dark Forest.

Perilium: A versatile ore with no fixed weight. Its impurities determine its heaviness, and crafting with it requires mana inductors as limiters.

Void Crystals: Among the rarest materials, these crystals amplify their user's ki and aura continuously.

5. Legendary/Legacy Weapons: Weapons with a legacy, like Harigold's Eleph Blade. Crafted from Perilium, it adjusts its weight through mana, burdening everyone nearby except its wielder.

Lucien paused briefly, then continued. "Above that are Evolution Grade weapons—tools that grow alongside their wielders, adapting to their strength. Then there are Mythos Grade, Forbidden Grade, and Lost Grade weapons, but those are rare even among legends."

Valeri nodded, though a part of him still struggled to grasp the complexity. "And you? What grade is your weapon?"

Lucien's expression didn't change as he replied, "Insignificant."

Valeri blinked, certain he had misheard. "You're joking."

"I'm not." Lucien's tone was calm, almost indifferent. "It suits me just fine."

Logan glanced between them, frowning as if debating whether to challenge Lucien's words. But he held his tongue, falling back into silence as the group pressed forward

Here's the revised and expanded version, incorporating Matthew's swift yet poignant death, Lucien's deep frustration and power, and the reverberation of his attack felt across the battlefield:

The field stretched before them, quiet and serene, its beauty a lie they all saw through. Even in its stillness, it felt alive, as if breathing beneath the moonlight's cold glow.

Lucien took the lead, his steps measured, his gaze sharp. The others followed closely, tension palpable in the air.

"Stay alert," Lucien said, his voice cutting through the silence. "This place… it's wrong."

Francesco narrowed his eyes, his wiry frame taut as he scanned the field. "Wrong doesn't cover it. Something's watching us."

Georges snorted, attempting levity. "Then it should come out. I'm in a bad mood tonight."

Behind them, Vikter and Matthew exchanged glances, their vice leaders' instincts flaring. Vikter's calm demeanor remained intact, but Matthew's sharp gaze darted around, his fingers brushing the hilt of his blade.

"Georges," Vikter said, his voice steady but low, "save the jokes. This isn't going to be a simple fight."

Lucien froze suddenly, his arm outstretched to stop the group. His eyes were locked ahead, where the shimmering flower rested, encircled by void crystals glowing faintly.

"What is that?" Georges asked, frowning.

"Trouble," Lucien replied, his voice heavy. "The crystals aren't just random. They're here because of it."

Francesco's jaw tightened. "A void beast?"

Lucien nodded grimly. "And it's close. Too close."

Before anyone could react further, the air shifted. The grass, once swaying lazily, began to ripple unnaturally. Lucien's instincts screamed at him.

"Scatter!" he barked.

The warning came a second too late. A branch, impossibly fast, whipped through the darkness, severing two members at the waist before anyone could react.

"Damn it!" Francesco growled, his blade flashing as he deflected a second strike aimed at him.

Matthew lunged forward as another branch shot toward a young recruit frozen in fear. His blade moved with precision, intercepting the branch before it could strike. The force of the impact shattered his weapon, the jagged hilt remaining in his grasp.

But the beast wasn't done. From behind him, another branch lashed out, faster and more vicious.

Matthew's sharp instincts flared, and in that split second, he turned his head, his eyes meeting the shadow of his death. A small, resigned smile touched his lips.

A sigh escaped him.

And then, his head was gone.

Francesco's roar of fury tore through the field as Matthew's body crumpled to the ground, blood pooling beneath it. "You bastard!"

Georges cursed under his breath, grabbing Vikter by the arm and pulling him back. "We're getting picked off! Lucien, we need a plan!"

Lucien's mind raced, his heart pounding. They were losing too many, too quickly. He could feel the weight of every death pressing against his chest.

"It's not random," he muttered, his eyes darting around. "It's herding us… using the light and shadows to trap us!

The attacks came harder and faster, the beast growing more desperate. A branch aimed for another recruit, but Georges moved without hesitation.

"Get back!" he shouted, throwing himself in the way.

The branch tore through his arm, severing it cleanly. Georges staggered, clutching the stump, but his expression remained defiant. "I'm not done yet," he growled through gritted teeth.

As the others fought valiantly, Lucien's mind spiraled. Each death replayed in his head—Matthew's smile, Georges' severed arm, the lifeless bodies of those who trusted him to lead them.

This is my fault.

The beast wasn't even strong. It was cunning, yes, but not invincible. He could have ended this sooner. He could have saved them. But his arrogance—his hesitation to unleash his full power—had cost lives.

He clenched his fists, his aura flaring violently. His breath came in ragged bursts as frustration twisted into something darker.

The survivors regrouped, battered and bloodied. Lucien's gaze fell to the broken blade lying in the dirt—Matthew's blade, shattered in his act of heroism.

Slowly, Lucien picked it up. The jagged edge glinted in the pale moonlight.

"Stay back," he said coldly, stepping forward.

Francesco reached out to stop him. "Lucien, wait—"

But Lucien didn't wait. His aura erupted around him, a torrent of raw energy that made the air hum with tension.

The beast sensed it, branches whipping toward him in desperation. Lucien didn't flinch.

With one swift motion, he slashed.

The broken blade cut through the flower, the moonlight, and the very fabric of the space around them. The light split in half, the moon's glow dimming as the void itself trembled under the force of his strike.

The reverberation rippled outward, shaking the ground and echoing into the distance.

The beast was gone, its death a quiet whimper compared to the fury it had unleashed. The survivors stood in stunned silence, the weight of the battle pressing down on them.

Lucien dropped the broken blade, his shoulders heaving. He turned to the others, his face a mask of cold determination, but his eyes betrayed the pain beneath.

"I won't let this happen again," he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

Far across the battlefield, Harigold and Hector paused mid-combat as the reverberation reached them. The ground shook, and even the beasts they fought recoiled, trembling with unease.

Harigold frowned, his grip tightening on his weapon. "What the hell was that?"

Hector's lips pressed into a thin line. "Lucien," he said simply