Lucivar checked the new entry in his system interface.
Skill: Bubble Form Art
Type: Illusion / Stealth
Rank: Low-Tier (Upgradeable)
Affinity: Arcane
Description:
A fragile but clever illusion technique that cloaks the user in a shimmering "bubble" of refracted reality. It produces multiple phantom echoes—distorted reflections that can momentarily deceive sight-based tracking and visual perception.
"Bubble Form Art?" Lucivar scoffed, arms crossed as he stared at the glowing display. "A fragile technique that conjures a handful of shallow illusions to hide the user's presence? Pathetic." He rolled his eyes, amusement flickering in the corner of his mouth. "Still… I suppose it might help the weak stay hidden from prying eyes. Not much more than a party trick—but sometimes, misdirection is all you need."
With a flick of his fingers, he dismissed the notification. The digital text scattered like mist. There was no thrill in acquiring a power that felt more like a magician's distraction than a warrior's weapon. Yet power was power, even in its weakest form. It was a beginning.
His crimson gaze drifted toward the final entry on his interface—[World Travel: Locked]. The words pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat behind prison bars, taunting him with their inaccessibility. He tapped the phrase twice, frowning. Nothing. No explanation. No update. Just silence.
"Huh," he muttered. "Still locked."
He tilted his head. "System? Care to explain?"
Silence.
No guiding voice. No mechanical chime. No cryptic whisper from the ether. Just the same stillness he had clawed his way out of. After a long pause, Lucivar exhaled and scratched the back of his head.
"So… my system's mute." He chuckled softly. "Figures. Guess I'll be learning everything the hard way."
He closed the interface, letting it dissolve into the wind, and turned his attention back to the forest. The trees loomed overhead like petrified giants, their twisted limbs reaching into a fog-drenched sky. Shafts of sunlight stabbed through the mist, painting fractured beams across the mossy floor.
The air was thick and heavy, the sun barely bleeding warmth behind its gray curtain. Time in this world felt slow, but Lucivar knew he couldn't afford to be. He needed to understand the timeline. Was this before Tanjiro's birth? Before Muzan's fall? Or had he been tossed into the chaos midway—into the heart of bloodshed and blades?
Who was alive? Who still mattered? How long did he have before his presence shifted the narrative?
"Time is a weapon," he murmured. "And I've only just loaded the chamber."
Then came the pain.
A sudden cramp twisted violently in his gut, halting him mid-step. He staggered, teeth gritted, hands clutching his abdomen. "What now?"
A low growl rumbled from deep inside him—a sound more void than hunger. It wasn't mere starvation. It was need. The Devour Protocol, awakened and demanding its due.
He leaned against a tree, gripping its bark until it cracked beneath his strength. His breath hissed through clenched teeth as he studied his hand—one that once trembled in sickness and now fractured trees.
"I guess I really am a bottomless pit now."
The hunger was more than physical. It wasn't food his body sought—it was essence. Life. Power. Soulprint. The Protocol hadn't given him an ability—it had given him a curse. A law. If he didn't feed, he wouldn't die. He would decay. Collapse. Become a black hole of lost potential.
"Wonderful," he muttered. "Guess I'll have to become a predator… in every sense of the word."
He clenched his fists. Power had its price—but Lucivar had no plans to bow before it. He walked forward.
Time blurred. Hours passed.
He wandered the forest, unseen and unchallenged. No slayers, no demons, no humans. Only distant howls, the scent of blood, and the growing pressure in his bones.
Eventually, the trees thinned, revealing a slope. Lucivar crept forward and paused. Below him lay a dilapidated shrine, crumbling beneath layers of vine and rot. Statues with cracked faces watched silently, and old wooden charms swayed in the breeze. A faint trace of incense lingered, barely noticeable.
But Lucivar wasn't focused on the shrine.
He was focused on the scent.
There was a demon inside.
His body tensed. Instinct overtook him. His limbs coiled like springs, blood simmering with anticipation. He crouched behind a statue and waited.
The shrine's doors creaked. Inside, something shuffled. A lesser demon, twitchy and slow, unaware of the predator crouched just beyond the door. Similar to the one from before—but this one would not get the chance to scream.
Lucivar exhaled and activated Bubble Form Art.
Light shimmered around him. Phantom echoes rippled outward, mirages of his movement weaving in false directions. He became a ghost. Unseen. Unreachable.
Then—Abyssal Whips: Activated.
Black tendrils erupted from his shadow like serpents in motion. They coiled and slithered silently, ready to strike. Lucivar slipped inside.
The demon twitched.
Too late.
A tendril slashed through its chest. Another wrapped around its leg and tore it free. Before it could scream, Lucivar was already upon it, claws glowing dark red as he plunged them into its throat.
"You're not even worth the scream," he whispered.
He ripped its head off with a single pull.
[You have devoured: Lesser Demon]
Species Traits Absorbed: Bone Mending, Feral Leap
Random Demon Art Unlocked: Grudge Spit
Lucivar raised an eyebrow. "Grudge... what?"
Demon Art: Grudge Spit
A medium-range technique that expels cursed bile infused with emotional residue. Causes minor corrosive damage and sensory disorientation.
He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Blood bubbles and bile spit. I'm building the most disgusting power set imaginable."
Still, his grin widened. Ugly or not, every step was forward.
The hunger dulled.
He dragged the demon's corpse into the undergrowth. No need for trophies. What he needed was evolution.
Night fell. The forest dimmed further. Lucivar sat atop a nearby ridge, staring at the stars. Thin clouds drifted between them like ash across a dying sky.
His mind wandered.
Was he the only one?
Were there others like him—reincarnated, twisted, gifted with systems and ambition?
He didn't know.
But he would find out.
And when he did… they would kneel. Or they would vanish.
"I'll build an army," he murmured. "Not of humans. Not of broken swordsmen clinging to hope. I'll craft monsters. Loyal. Eternal. Mine."
He saw it in his mind—an empire of night, a realm of worship, not fear.
He stood.
The hunger would return soon.
And when it did, he would feed again.
Then—he froze.
A new scent.
Human.
Faint… but near.
Lucivar moved. Silent. Surgical. His steps were quiet as breath, his body a blade in motion. A few minutes later, he found the source.
Beneath a crumbled tree and shattered rocks lay a young man, barely older than twenty. His body was broken—ribs exposed, blood soaking into the moss. And yet, his eyes…
They burned.
Not with fear.
Not with sorrow.
But with defiance.
Lucivar knelt beside him, curious. The man's lips parted.
"Kill me… or save me," he rasped. "But don't waste my time."
Lucivar's smile curved slowly, thoughtfully.
"Well now," he murmured. "Aren't you interesting."