CHAPTER 44: ARRIVAL

Probably habit. Or a ritual. Or a nervous tick. Or just the one thing she could control after getting tossed around by dungeon physics for two hours.

Lucen got that.

Callen hadn’t spoken in a while. He sat shotgun, upright, stiff, like the car seat offended his posture. His shield was tucked awkwardly between his legs, and he kept staring at the dashboard like it might offer an explanation for everything that just happened.

Taira slowed the car slightly as they passed a crumbling guard rail.

The road curved along an artificial bluff, an old skyway from the pre-drift era. It had never been repaved. Probably never would.

Lucen caught a glimpse of the lower districts.

Gray buildings stacked on grayer buildings. Mana pipes bleeding glow. Steam vents whistling between alley mouths. A billboard flickered overhead advertising "clean arcfield therapy" with a cartoon squirrel vomiting glitter.

He didn’t laugh.

Just blinked once. Then looked down.

His fingers tapped a slow beat on his knee.

’Two spells down. Five to go. I could wait. Or... maybe I don’t.’

He pulled the system interface back up.

Just a flick of thought. Easy now.

The spell slot matrix hovered into view.

Empty slots blinked with faint potential. No instructions. No suggestions. Just space.

Lucen tilted his head. ’Alright. Let’s pretend I’m normal. What would a C-rank support idiot add after a frost spike and a kinetic push?’

He didn’t answer his own question.

Didn’t have to.

His mind was already sketching loops.

Sharp. Controlled. Efficient.

And cheap.

Because casting wasn’t just about power. It was about mana-to-damage ratios. About effort. About pretending to struggle when you were three steps ahead.

He closed the window again.

Not now.

Too many eyes. Too many ears.

Senna turned toward him slightly. "You’re quiet."

Lucen arched a brow. "I’m never quiet."

"You’re... differently quiet."

Lucen smirked faintly. "I used all my jokes in the dungeon. They’re recharging."

Mira said softly, "Mine aren’t."

Lucen looked over.

She smiled.

Just barely.

Taira sighed. "Everyone shut up. We’re almost there."

Gen sat up straighter. "There where?"

Taira didn’t answer. She turned down an access ramp that wasn’t marked on the city grid. The car dipped again. Mana sensors along the wall flared once, then shut off.

Lucen felt the shift in pressure.

Subtle.

But not nothing.

They were going underground.

Again.

—

After they arrived Lucen stayed in the car a second longer than the rest.

Not because he was tired. Not really.

Because if he stood up too fast, someone might notice his mana threads hadn’t settled yet. The air around his collar still pulsed faintly, like his system hadn’t gotten the memo that the fight was over.

He flicked a hand low at his side. Dismissed the last of the residue.

Nothing to see.

Just a tired C-rank.

He pushed the door open and stepped out.

The air in the safehouse hit different. It wasn’t sterile like the city med bays, or recycled like academy dorms. It was old. Worn in. Real.

Dry lavender. Old iron. Something bitter like sealed potion herbs and soldered copper panels.

He walked past the cracked-glass table. Didn’t touch it. There were two deep lines etched across the top, burn marks, maybe. Or claw scratches.

Either way, not his problem.

Callen was already sitting on the couch like someone had told him it might vanish if he waited too long. His shield rested against the leg, half-polished and cracked down the center.

Mira stood by the stove, flicking the dials like they owed her rent. She didn’t say anything, but her jaw moved slightly side to side. The leftover adrenaline hadn’t gone quiet in her yet either.

Senna leaned against the wall near the coat rack. Still damp from the hallway rinse. Her sword hadn’t left her side. Her posture said rest. Her fingers said ready.

Lucen dropped into the armchair closest to the far corner.

The upholstery hissed faintly. Someone had warded the cushions with a cheap stabilization glyph, probably to stop mana bleed from wrecking the foam.

He didn’t mind.

Taira passed him without a word. She dropped a thick bag on the counter, pulled out a mana kettle, and started pouring like she’d been here for years.

She hadn’t said much since they parked. Just moved like she knew exactly how much space each of them needed and how little she cared to fill it.

Lucen watched her out of the corner of his eye.

Gold irises. Calm gait. Zero wasted motion.

’Either ex-military or she’s killed enough people that she doesn’t flinch at blood anymore.’

His system pinged.

Not loud. Not urgent.

Just a faint tug at the edge of his vision.

He blinked it open discreetly. Lower opacity. Angle-tilted toward his lap.

[Spellcraft System – Node Update Available]

[Your spell design behavior has significantly diverged from standard archetype.]

[Core has adapted.]

[Would you like to initialize revised loadout logic for your current spell tier?]

[Note: This action is optional. Your current spells will remain unless overwritten.]

Lucen narrowed one eye.

Mira walked past behind him.

He tilted the screen down.

Nothing to see.

He flicked the alert sideways and tapped hold.

’Later. When I’m alone. When no one’s asking what a support caster is doing with adaptive node expansion and seven slots.’

Senna sat on the arm of his chair.

Didn’t look at him. Just said, "Your glyphs hit harder than mine."

Lucen gave a slow shrug. "Trace class. All utility. Mostly timing."

She didn’t respond.

But her mouth ticked like she almost didn’t believe him.

Callen grunted. "Still blew the helmet off a reaper. I’ve seen B-ranks who can’t pull that."

Lucen kicked his foot up on the broken leg of the table.

"It was cracked already."

Taira set a cup beside him. Steaming. Faint orange tint. Cinnamon and mana bark.

He nodded once. "Thanks."

"You’re welcome, kid," she said flatly. "Try not to pass out before you drink it."

Mira glanced back from the stove. "He won’t. He’s the kind who secretly likes the attention."

Lucen gave her a lazy smirk. "Only when I deserve it."

The room fell quiet again.

Not awkward.

Just... the kind of silence that comes after too many close calls and not enough answers.

Lucen’s screen dimmed slowly.

He didn’t close it.

He just waited.