My Infinite System.

The night was fire and ruin. The Thorne Estate bled red, its walls cracked and its wards torn open. Garrick’s body lay sprawled on the balcony, unmoving, blood still dripping in sharp, steady lines.

Eron Thorne saw nothing else.

His scream wasn’t just a sound—it was a shattering. Windows across the estate blew out. Wards ruptured. The very air twisted as his aura detonated outward, a storm of red-gold fire that clawed at the sky.

His sword burned brighter, heat spilling off it in waves strong enough to bend the marble under his boots. His eyes were wild, bloodshot, raw with grief.

”LUCIAN!”

He lunged.

The world broke under his step, the balcony cracking like dry bone as he launched himself into the air, his blade raised overhead. He swung down with a force that could carve mountains in half.

Lucian didn’t flinch. His fortress of black stone groaned beneath him as he raised his shield—constructed steel humming with veins of light.

The strike landed.

The explosion cracked the night apart. Flame and shockwave tore outward, ripping trees from their roots and flattening buildings at the estate’s edge.

Lucian slid back, boots grinding sparks across his own conjured ramparts, but he did not fall. His shield held, smoking but unbroken.

Eron’s teeth ground together. He roared again, slashing again, again—each swing a storm of force, each one splitting the sky with blinding arcs of fire.

Lucian met every strike. His shield twisted into a spear, stabbed through Eron’s flames, then into a bow again, loosing a rain of arrows that curved toward the patriarch.

Eron batted them aside with his blade, his aura flaring brighter with each second. His grief fed his rage. His rage fed his strength. The flames around him thickened, each breath he took dragging the night closer to day.

Lucian’s smirk was still there, faint, unbothered.

”You’ve already lost what matters.”

That line cut sharper than any arrow.

Eron screamed, voice raw and broken. His swings grew reckless, desperate, but no weaker. His blade slammed into Lucian’s constructs again and again, sparks raining like comets.

Lucian let him.

He wasn’t here for Eron. Garrick was gone—that was the only justice he had come for. The rest? Just noise.

Still, he decided to play.

He raised his hand. ”Construction: Living Forge.”

The fortress beneath him shuddered. Its walls rippled like flesh, towers shifting, platforms sprouting new weapons. Ballistae twisted awake, firing massive bolts laced with raw energy. Winged machines screeched from their perches, diving at Eron with blades sharper than diamond.

Eron cut through them all. His greatsword flared brighter, each swing tearing through constructs like they were made of paper. He wasn’t fighting smart. He was fighting like a father who had just lost his son.

Lucian moved with calm precision, always a step back, never more. His weapons shifted form endlessly—sword to axe to whip to spear—testing, striking, breaking. He didn’t press. He didn’t need to.

Every second Eron raged, he burned more of himself.

The ground below the estate split as Eron landed another blow, sending fire cascading outward in molten cracks. His aura was a tidal wave, flooding the battlefield, smothering everything.

Lucian stood at the center of it, untouchable.

”Is this all?” he asked quietly, his voice carrying over the roar of fire.

That drove Eron madder. He rushed, faster than before, his blade screaming through the air. Lucian’s spear blocked it, sparks screaming as the two locked eyes.

Eron’s face was streaked with tears and ash. His teeth clenched so hard his jaw looked ready to shatter.

”You killed my son,” he spat, voice breaking.

Lucian leaned in, his eyes cold. ”And I’ll kill your line with him.”

Eron bellowed. His aura surged higher, crimson light spiraling up into the sky, punching a hole through the clouds. For a moment, the night was gone—the heavens burned with the rage of one man.

Lucian pushed him back with a single step, his spear lengthening into a massive halberd. He swung once, casually, and the ground split under Eron’s feet.

But Lucian didn’t follow through. He stepped back again, letting the distance stretch.

Eron roared and chased, each step carving craters into the floating fortress.

Lucian smirked, voice low. ”Dance.”

His constructs shifted. Walls sprouted spikes. Floors rose and fell like shifting waves. Towers angled themselves to cut Eron off, herding him, guiding him, pushing him where Lucian wanted.

Eron didn’t notice. He was blind with fury, hacking through every obstacle, his fire reducing everything to ash.

But he was dancing in Lucian’s cage.

The battlefield itself bent to Lucian’s will, Adaptive Blueprint shifting every line. Pathways closed. Gates opened. Arrows fired from angles Eron couldn’t predict. Every swing, every scream, every step forward—Lucian was already drawing the next line to catch him.

And yet, Eron pressed on.

Every time Lucian blocked, his arms shook from the sheer ferocity behind the strikes. Every time Lucian’s arrows landed, Eron’s aura flared hotter, burning them away.

The estate below was rubble now. Guards fled or burned. Towers collapsed. But Eron didn’t see it. His eyes were locked only on Lucian.

Finally, Lucian lowered his weapon.

Eron charged. His blade roared with fire, all his strength poured into one final, killing strike.

Lucian didn’t raise his shield.

He lifted his hand, and the world bent again.

Lines snapped into place faster than lightning—an entire wall rising between them, thicker than mountains, layered with glyphs.

Eron’s strike landed.

The explosion swallowed everything.

The wall cracked. The fortress shook. Flames surged high enough to be seen across the city.

And when the fire cleared—Lucian still stood.

The wall was gone, melted into slag, but he was untouched. His smirk was still there.

”You’re not worth more of my time.”

Eron froze. His chest heaved, his sword trembling in his grip. His aura flickered, unstable now, drained by the storm he had unleashed.

Lucian turned his back.

That insult was worse than the arrow.

Eron roared one last time, throwing himself forward with everything he had left. His blade came down, burning bright enough to blind.

Lucian didn’t even look.

The halberd in his hand twisted, reshaping into a black-and-gold cage that snapped shut around Eron like jaws. The Living Forge pulsed, bars knitting tighter every time Eron struck them.

He screamed, slashing, burning, breaking—but the cage healed itself faster than he could destroy it. His aura flared and flared, but it was no use.

He was caught.

Lucian turned his head slightly, eyes glinting in the firelight.

”Stay. Watch your house burn. Watch your son rot. That’s all you deserve.”

And then, without another word, he rose into the air, the fortress folding back into nothingness behind him.

Eron’s screams followed him into the night, raw and endless.

But Lucian didn’t look back.

He had done what he came for.

The Thorne line was broken.

And the world would never forget the night it happened.