SSS Rank: Spellcraft Sovereign-Chapter 104: Preparations (2)

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Chapter 104: Preparations (2)

The lock clicked open with a soft sound, and Lucen stepped inside, letting the door slide shut behind him. The air inside was cooler. Faint trace of old coffee, rubber soles, and filtered mana dust from the converter on the wall.

He dropped his coat on the chair, then slumped onto the couch, arms across the back. The cushions were uneven, but better than standing.

He exhaled slowly.

Not dramatic.

Just real.

The system didn’t ping.

The archive stayed quiet.

But his head?

Still looping.

Frost Spire. Shockweave. Soundlash. Echo timing. Interval space. Watching those duels made it obvious, people weren’t stacking. They were building walls. Every spell isolated. No chaining. No recursion. No loops.

Lucen ran a hand through his hair and grabbed the mana tab off the counter. The seal hissed as he cracked it open.

He took a long drink, wiped his mouth, and muttered, "He’s gonna walk in swinging."

The half-finished wrap hit the sink with a dull flop. He didn’t look at it again. Just let it sit there, half-soaked in whatever grease had built up from the last time he pretended dishes weren’t optional.

Lucen leaned on the edge of the counter, hands gripping the rim like it owed him rent. His eyes dropped to the floor. Gray tile.

A siren rolled past the far end of the block. Not close. Not urgent. Just a long, bored rise and fall, more for rhythm than warning. Somewhere, glass broke. A dog barked once. Then silence again.

Lucen pushed off the counter and headed for the bathroom.

The light flickered once before stabilizing. Cold mirror.

He stared at himself.

No visible damage. But the fatigue was there. In the shoulders. The jaw. The subtle delay between his breath and the rise of his chest.

He rubbed a towel across the back of his neck. No hot water yet. He’d fix it tomorrow. Or not.

Stripped the top half of his gear and let it drop. The shirt clung to one side, sweat or cast residue. Didn’t matter.

He stepped into the shower. No heat. Just pressure. Enough to count.

Steam didn’t fill the room. The water never got there. But the noise was good. Drowned out the rest.

He stood there longer than necessary.

Not thinking.

Just... not not thinking.

When he stepped out, the air felt colder, but his head felt clearer.

Towel over the shoulders, he padded barefoot back to the main room. City glow spilled faintly through the closed blinds, orange bleeding into blue, then cut by black from buildings too tall to let the sky through.

Lucen sat on the bed.

Not heavily.

Just like he’d done it a hundred times and knew it wasn’t going to feel better.

He didn’t lie down.

He just sat.

One foot on the floor.

One arm across his lap.

Staring at the door.

Waiting for nothing.

And still running the fight in his head.

Lucen didn’t check the time.

Didn’t need to.

He’d been sitting there long enough to feel the edges of the room. The way the shadows had shifted. How the blinds threw different stripes now. Narrower. Cleaner. Citylight leaning more blue than orange. The kind of shift that meant early, not late.

Then his phone buzzed.

Just once.

Short. Not urgent.

But it didn’t stop.

Lucen blinked once and reached for it without looking.

He answered. Didn’t speak.

Gen’s voice came through casual, like he was halfway through a drink.

"You asleep?"

Lucen stared at the wall. "What do you think?"

"I think if you were the type to sleep before a match, I wouldn’t be calling."

Lucen exhaled, just barely enough to count. "Then why are you?"

Gen didn’t skip a beat. "Because the venue just double-confirmed the schedule. Match time’s locked. Crowd’s already pushing capacity. You’ve got about six hours."

Lucen rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Great."

"And," Gen added, tone light, "your opponent’s crew just posted a promo vid. Flash cuts, slow-mo, music that sounds like a mana drink commercial. Whole thing’s labeled: ’Sword First, Questions Never.’"

Lucen squinted. "Seriously?"

"Dead serious. He’s got merch already. You want me to order you a hoodie?"

Lucen stood up, slow. Cracked his neck once. "Only if it comes with insurance."

Gen paused, probably smiling on the other end. "You prepped?"

"No."

"You worried?"

Lucen didn’t answer right away. He crossed the room, grabbed the half-dead charger off the table, tossed it to the corner where the rest of the scrap tech lived. Then walked back toward the window and pushed the blind aside.

The city still moved.

Of course it did.

He said, "I’m not worried about him."

Another silence.

Then Gen replied, more careful now.

"Good. Because whether you like it or not, they’re watching this one like it matters. Not just the fans. Not just the street casters. People higher up."

Lucen’s fingers tapped the edge of the glass once.

"Let them."

Gen hummed low. "Yeah. That’s what I figured."

Lucen dropped the blind.

"Anything else?"

"Nope." A pause. Then: "Just wanted to see if you’d say you were ready."

"I’m not."

"But you will be?"

Lucen looked at the city like it was a board he already mapped.

"I always am."

The line clicked off.

Lucen didn’t move.

He just stood there, fingers still resting on the window frame.

The hum of the system settled back in under his ribs.

Time was running.

And the match wasn’t waiting.

Rikta locked the door behind him and flicked the switch twice before the panel finally responded. The lights in the room blinked to life, dim, yellow, uneven. Not studio-lit. Not camera-ready.

Just a normal room.

The kind that didn’t get shown in clips.

His coat hit the back of the chair. He kicked his boots off without looking and let them thud against the wall.

One landed sideways, barely missing the edge of the caster rig. The other skidded into a pile of half-folded laundry.

He walked to the desk and grabbed the mana pouch. Drank half without tasting it.

The taste didn’t matter.

He opened the drawer.

Pulled out a sealed gray case. Slim. Matte. No markings except for a pressure ring on the latch, bright blue, pulsing gently.

He stared at it for a second.

Then tapped it once with his thumb.

The ring turned white. Unlocked.

Inside, nestled in shaped foam, sat a small injector, two vials, clear fluid, no labels. One snapped into place with a soft click. The other stayed sealed.

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