Cosmic Crucible

Chapter 7: Within the Citadel

Lucien Vance’s gaze swept over Zane Shaw. Every word rang true. The so-called Seven Paragons of Huaxia, revered as Sky-level powerhouses on Earth, were mere insects against the cosmos’ vastness. Even a student from the stellar academies could swat them aside.

Sky-level. The universe named it the Scout Realm—only the second rung on the ladder. The first step was the Gaze Realm, fledglings who watched but dared not act. Lucien stood there now. Next came the Scout Realm, probing the body’s potential. Third was the Fusion Realm, where true power bloomed, brushing against human limits. Fourth, the Extremis Realm, shattered those limits and crossed the void. Beyond lay the Voidwalkers, striding through emptiness. Such beings could level mountains and sunder continents with a gesture, should they ever tread on Earth.

Yet not even Voidwalkers could craft a Flesh Forging Essence. The path of cultivation stretched into eternity. For rogues like Zane Shaw, relying on Bio-Crystals to grow, reaching Voidwalker heights was near impossible. The stronger one grew, the smaller they felt—a speck of dust in the grand design.

“Hah. Why am I telling you this?” Zane Shaw chuckled, the sound rough as gravel. He waved a dismissive hand. “Come. Let’s see the show. Zoya Rain should be sparring with one of my Legion Commanders by now.” He strode from the conference room, Lucien trailing in his wake.

They emerged onto an overlook above the Judicator Citadel’s main plaza. Through reinforced glass, Lucien watched a Legion Commander crumple under Zoya Rain’s assault, armor scraping stone.

Zoya moved like quicksilver in her combat gear, strikes sharp and economical—a style Lucien knew well. Below, she pressed Ford Magnus relentlessly.

Zane Shaw observed from above, shaking his head. “Earth-level tiers vary wildly,” he murmured. “That girl hasn’t even drawn on her Frost Palm Technique, yet she toys with my commander.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed on the duel. “Her technique relies on botanical catalysts.”

“Obviously,” Zane snorted. “Whether it’s the Frost Witches or the Lumen Paragon herself, their freezing strikes demand external aids. The human body alone can’t conjure such effects.”

Wrong, Lucien thought, his jaw tightening. High-tier arts, combat techniques, even bloodline gifts could warp reality itself. Earth simply hadn’t glimpsed them yet. His own Astral Glyph art could mimic celestial motions—a truth that would earn him laughter here.

Below, Ford Magnus fell. Two more Legion Commanders followed, beaten bloody. No others stepped forward.

Zoya Rain jutted her chin, her gaze raking across the silent crowd. “I heard Judicator Citadel’s commanders were warriors,” she called, voice cutting through the hush. “Where’s that spine? Or are you all spent?”

Ford Magnus flushed crimson where he knelt.

Above, Zane Shaw actually grinned. “The Lumen Paragon calls her Frost Witches ‘Earth-level Invincibles’. Seems she wasn’t boasting.”

Suddenly, Zoya’s eyes snapped upward—locking onto Lucien. She crooked a finger. Come down, the gesture screamed.

Ford Magnus and the others followed her stare, shock rippling through them.

Lucien’s brow arched. Challenge accepted.

“Still smarting from yesterday?” Zane rumbled beside him.

“No clear victor,” Lucien countered flatly.

Zane clapped his shoulder. “Then go. Spare the Citadel further embarrassment.”

Lucien turned without a word.

Murmurs surged through the plaza’s hundreds of Evolved as he descended. Many watched Zoya with naked admiration—a woman who cowed the Citadel’s elite.

Zoya took a sharp breath as Lucien approached, her knuckles whitening on her dagger’s hilt. Yesterday’s defeat festered—dominance stolen by some trick she couldn’t name. She needed to see that technique again.

“Lucien!” Ford Magnus rasped from the sidelines. “Her Frost Palm—don’t let it touch you!”

Lucien gave a curt nod, stopping before Zoya. “Your move.”

Battle-lust ignited in her eyes. She exploded forward, dagger flashing silver. No testing strikes—just the same lethal blitz as at the sinkhole. Steel hissed through air turned suddenly frigid.

Lucien flowed aside. Yesterday’s Lucien had been merely strong. Today, he was Gaze Realm—cultivator.

His movements seemed lazy, effortless. Ford Magnus held his breath. Zoya’s onslaught became a blizzard, strikes accelerating until her blade blurred. Frost crackled along the steel, the air around it crystallizing. Cold bit deep.

Stone cracked underfoot. Zoya spun, dagger whirling—a cyclone of ice and steel sealing every escape. Razor winds shrieked, gouging walls. Evolved spectators recoiled, gasping against the pressure.

Lucien’s gaze never wavered. He moved.

A blur. A clash. Silence.

Lucien stood immaculate, a frost-rimmed dagger balanced casually in his palm.

Breaths froze. Every eye fixed on Zoya Rain. She stood rigid, hands empty.

Ford Magnus’s roar shattered the stillness. “By the Paragons! He took it!”

Cheers erupted. “Lucien! Lucien! LUCIEN!”

Lucien turned. He flipped the dagger, catching it by the blade. Offered it hilt-first. “Again?”

Zoya stared, chest heaving. “How?”

He lifted a shoulder in dismissal. “See the strike. Move faster.”

No s**t, half the plaza thought.

Color flooded Zoya’s cheeks. She snatched the blade back. “You win,” she bit out. “To disarm me untouched… no Earth-level here can match you.”

Amusement flickered in Lucien’s eyes. Earth-level. How quaint. These were fledglings stumbling through the Gaze Realm, ignorant of true arts. They’d be crushed in any star-faring academy. Yet here… she wasn’t wrong. He doubted any Gaze Realm soul on Earth could best him now.

Zoya sheathed her dagger, disappointment etched on her face. Only then did she truly see him—the subtle shift in his presence. “Your energy… yesterday. You were depleted?”

Lucien offered nothing. He turned, stalking toward the Citadel gates. The wild hills had yielded nothing. His prize lay elsewhere in Crimson Fortress.

Zoya watched him go, the question about yesterday’s technique burning her tongue. But combat arts were soul-deep secrets. She swallowed it.

Ford Magnus exchanged stunned glances with his comrades. Rumors said Lucien slew the alien Sky-level—a wounded one, but still. Now they believed.

Though Lucien’s Legion Commander rank granted no troops, the Judicator Citadel assigned him a century of soldiers—tools and watchers both.

Outside Mount Bellcrest’s gates, Lucien beckoned. A young Evolved soldier snapped to attention. “Legion Commander?”

“The city’s old Thermal Weapons depot,” Lucien said, his voice flat. “Where?”

“Northwest sector, sir!”

A map appeared in Lucien’s hand. “Mark it.”

The soldier circled a grid.

“Dismissed,” Lucien ordered. “I go alone.”

The soldier stiffened. “Sir, the depot’s rubble since the Cataclysm. Salvaged arms are secured elsewhere. Access requires the Judicator’s approval—”

“Noted.” Lucien cut him off. He was already moving northwest, the squad left behind.

Let them report, he thought. His search was no secret. What he sought was buried deep—too deep for blind digging. An Earth-level hunter wouldn’t raise alarms… only curiosity. Perhaps it would flush his prey.

He was right.

Within Mount Bellcrest’s command nexus, Zane Shaw scowled at the report. “The Weapons Depot ruins? Why?”

Lens adjusted her glasses, holographic data flickering over the lenses. “Not after guns. Something else sleeps there.”

Zane’s scowl eased into a sharp smile. “Let him dig. We’ve no secrets worth hiding.”

Crimson Fortress sprawled outward from Mount Bellcrest’s shadow—a decaying jewel where safety dwindled with every mile from the peak.

The city’s old bones lay shattered. Survivors huddled in alleyways, storm drains, planter boxes—eyes hollow with daily terror. Others reveled in the ruin, morals abandoned. Lucien passed Evolved shoving starving children from food lines. Judicator Citadel patrols intervened, but always too late.

This, Lucien knew, was evolution’s teeth—a civilization tearing itself apart to be reborn. The cost would drown worlds.

Steel-grey clouds burst. Rain sheeted down, sluicing grime and old blood through gutters, swirling with refuse.

Lucien slipped into a diner less grimy than most. Survivors crowded its awning, flinching from the downpour. When a server lugged out slop buckets, a desperate scramble erupted—elbows, nails, teeth.

“Back, leeches!​” The server—an Evolved with corded arms—kicked at grasping hands. “Scrub the buckets spotless before returning them! Fail, and you starve tomorrow!”