The soft scratching of a quill echoed through the dark chamber. The heavy curtains were drawn completely shut, blocking out every trace of moonlight from the city streets outside. Only a single oil lamp resting on the wooden desk illuminated the space, casting long, dancing shadows across scattered parchment and leather-bound notebooks.
Lucien sat hunched over the desk, completely absorbed. His hand moved relentlessly, line after line, page after page, recording his thoughts in tight, elegant script.
The charm floated nearby in absolute silence. It did not dare interrupt him. This was not because Lucien had ever explicitly demanded quiet, but because the man’s sheer, unblinking concentration felt almost sacred. Disturbing it felt like a dangerous prospect. Even so, the charm could not stop worrying. Just yesterday, Lucien had collapsed onto his mattress in absolute agony. The image remained terrifyingly vivid in its memory: the trembling hands, the uneven, ragged breathing, and the way his features had twisted with unbearable pain. Yet today, he was acting as though none of it had ever transpired, as though enduring the brutal physical toll of drawing unfiltered arcana was perfectly normal.
The spirit simply could not comprehend it. Lucien possessed no blessing from a deity, and no divine protection whatsoever. Every single spell he cast came at a direct cost, a cost his own flesh and blood had to pay. So why continue? Why push his mortal frame this far? He already woke with splitting headaches, struggled to find rest, and looked utterly exhausted most of the time. Yet he never stopped. He never slowed down. The charm could not understand what could possibly be worth such constant suffering.
A quiet, spiritual sigh escaped it.
Moments later, Lucien finally set his quill down. The room fell into a sudden, heavy stillness. Slowly, he rose from his chair and dropped heavily onto the edge of the bed.
"Are you finished?" the charm asked cautiously.
Lucien stared up at the dark ceiling. "No," he murmured, his voice sounding deeply tired. "But I have a much clearer understanding of what we are facing now."
The charm hesitated, then gathered its courage. "May I ask a question?"
Lucien turned his head slightly. For several moments, he simply stared at the spirit in silence. Then, without a word of warning, the charm yelped as an invisible pull dragged it sharply through the air. A second later, it found itself hovering directly in front of Lucien's face.
Golden eyes examined it thoughtfully. "Now that I think about it..." Lucien tilted his head, "you don't have a name, do you?"
The charm froze. A name. Such a simple thing. Everyone possessed one, the common folk had names, the beasts of the field had names, and even grand cities had names. Yet it did not. It had always been referred to as "the charm." An object. A tool. A vessel. Never anything more. For the first time, it realized how much that underlying truth had actually bothered its consciousness.
Lucien continued to look at it, not as a discarded tool, but as if he were acknowledging another living being. For some reason, that gaze made something deep inside the charm’s essence tremble.
"Will you give me one?" The question escaped its lips before it could think to stop itself.
Lucien thought for a brief moment. Then, a small, genuine smile touched his face. "Mo."
The charm blinked. "Mo?"
"It is simple," Lucien shrugged, a soft laugh escaping him.
The reasoning sounded absurdly simple, yet somehow... the charm did not care. A strange, unfamiliar warmth spread through its form. It had a name. Its own name. It was no longer just an object or a floating anomaly.
Mo. For the very first time, it felt real.
"Do you like it?" Lucien asked.
"...Yes," the answer came immediately.
Lucien’s smile lingered before he stood up, stretching his aching limbs. "Good."
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
He walked over to the small mirror, beginning to fix his hair. Mo watched him quietly for a moment before asking, "Are we going somewhere?"
"Yes," Lucien replied, reaching for his heavy outer coat.
"Where?" Mo floated after him curiously.
Lucien dragged a comb through his slightly tangled dark hair. "To find the hooded man."
The answer came so casually that Mo almost thought it had misheard him. "You are still hunting him?"
"Of course," Lucien sounded genuinely confused by the spirit's surprise. "As annoying as he is, what he has done is far too interesting to ignore."
That response somehow worried Mo even more. "What did you actually discover in those documents?"
Lucien paused, his hands stilling. For a moment, he seemed to weigh exactly how much he should explain to the spirit. Then, he let out a long, heavy sigh. "Do you truly wish to know?"
"Yes," Mo answered without a shred of hesitation.
Lucien shrugged fluidly. "Fine." He set the comb down and leaned casually against the edge of the heavy desk. "Apparently, the hooded man discovered a methodology to summon a deity."
The room fell entirely silent. Even Mo froze mid-air. "A god?"
"That is what the ledgers suggested," Lucien said, folding his arms as his eyes narrowed slightly. "Normally, summoning a divine presence into this realm should be impossible for a mortal. But according to his records, every deity has specific, worldly conditions that can be exploited to establish a gateway. For example, he was attempting to call upon the God of Sacrifice." A faint hint of disgust crossed his face. "Under normal circumstances, you would need a mass of blood connected directly to that god's devout followers. The problem is that the believers of Sacrifice live in completely isolated, forbidden regions. Reaching enough of them would take years."
"That is why he targeted nonbelievers?"
Lucien nodded. "Exactly," a cold, sharp smile appeared on his face. "He theorized that those without a god could act as a perfect, blank substitute."
Mo fell completely silent, the implications turning horrifyingly clear. "So all those people in the cages..."
"Were merely raw materials for the ritual." Lucien’s voice remained completely calm, detached, and matter-of-fact.
The bluntness of the answer made Mo feel physically sick.
After a quiet moment, Lucien continued. "The fascinating part isn't that he attempted it," his eyes suddenly gleamed with a sharp, intellectual light. "The fascinating part is that his framework might actually work."
Mo stared at him. "You sound impressed by him."
"I am," Lucien answered immediately. "Any mindless brute can commit murder. But very few individuals can construct an entirely new, functional law of magic from scratch."
That response felt even worse. Mo did not know whether to be more horrified by the mastermind’s cruelty or deeply concerned about the moral alignment of the man standing in front of him. "So what was the cultist planning to do after summoning a god?"
Lucien laughed, though the sound carried absolutely no warmth. "Control it."
"...What?"
"Apparently, he believes he can siphon a deity's authority to reshape the entire world," Lucien shook his head, looking toward the corner. "A ridiculous, arrogant notion."
"Then why are you stopping him?" Mo asked.
Lucien’s expression darkened instantly. Every trace of humor vanished from his voice, replaced by a cold, unyielding weight. "Because I despise the concept. I am trying to free humanity from the suffocating influence of the heavens." His golden eyes glittered dangerously in the fading lamplight. "I want mortals to stand entirely on their own two feet. And meanwhile, this fool is trying to bind himself closer to them. How utterly ironic."
Mo remained silent for several moments, processing the immense gravity of the confession. Then, another glaring question surfaced. "But how did a back-alley cultist even learn any of this?"
Lucien’s bitter smile disappeared completely. "That is the true problem." For the first time, genuine concern appeared in his tone. "At first, I was simply insulted. I kept asking myself how a complete amateur could have deduced something this grand before me. But after calming down, I realized something critical." His eyes narrowed fiercely. "There shouldn't be any records of this ritual. There are no known precedents. No existing theories. No historical accounts in any library in the kingdom. Nothing."
The more he spoke, the more serious his tone became. "So how did he know the exact sequence?"
The room grew dead quiet. Finally, Lucien shook his head, his voice lowering to a sharp whisper. "I don't know. But I do not believe he figured it out alone."
A sharp chill ran through Mo's form. Someone had taught him. Someone else knew. Someone far more dangerous was actively pulling strings from the shadows.
"So..." Mo hesitated, choosing its next words carefully. "You want to destroy his work because innocent people will be harmed?"
The moment the words left its mouth, Mo instantly regretted them.
Lucien stared blankly at the charm. Then, he laughed. He actually, genuinely laughed aloud, the sound rich with mockery. "Me?" He pointed a finger at his own chest. "Saving people?" His amusement was almost insulting. "Dear Mo," his smile widened, the lingering warmth completely vanishing from his expression, "the only reason I am pursuing this is because I loathe the gods. If I possessed the power today, I would slaughter every single one of them."
The room suddenly felt distinctly colder.
"But I am no fool," Lucien turned away, casually breaking the tension as he began organizing his belongings into his coat. "I know they are far beyond my reach for now."
Mo watched him quietly, a deeply familiar feeling settling back inside its core: utter confusion. What had happened in this man's past? What could possibly breed a hatred so consuming and deep that someone would dedicate their entire existence to opposing the heavens? And perhaps more importantly... why was Lucien so desperately determined to force the rest of the world to do the exact same thing?