SSS Rank: Spellcraft Sovereign-Chapter 94: Recruiter

Lucen stepped down from the platform without looking back.

The floor beneath him was rougher here, old footing, mana-stained from too many fights, too many pulse flares that went sideways.

His boots scuffed past the old groove where someone had carved "Died Here" in cracked glyph-script.

No one applauded.

No one spoke.

But the sound of silence wasn’t real silence. Not here.

There were whispers.

Low.

Tight.

Not all directed at him, but none of them ignored him either.

"That wasn’t a vanish glyph."

"Did you see the afterimage? I blinked and he was—different."

"He didn’t even flare full mana. How’s that legal?"

"Is it legal?"

"Wait, what rank is he again?"

Lucen ignored all of it.

He didn’t slow until he reached the wall near the old conduit pipe, peeling black tape, faint mana flicker under the lining—and leaned one shoulder against it. He kept his head down. Let his breath come shallow, even.

Gen approached two seconds later.

Not fast.

Not smug.

Just... knowing.

He held out a chilled drink bottle, same fancy canister as always.

Lucen didn’t take it.

Gen didn’t seem surprised.

He leaned next to him, sipping once, scanning the crowd casually like he was people-watching in a nice district café.

"You’ve changed," Gen said.

Lucen tilted his head. "Got a haircut."

"Nope." Gen sipped again. "You used to hesitate before flaring anything high-output. Now you’re dropping... whatever the hell that was like it’s your middle name."

Lucen rolled his shoulders, slow. "Needed the stress test."

Gen looked at him sideways. "You made him miss a skill cast. Not block. Not dodge. Miss. That’s not stress-testing. That’s tech-developing in public."

Lucen didn’t reply.

Gen added, "You also phased on a swordsman. Not a caster. Someone who doesn’t think in glyphs. You know how hard it is to trick someone who fights off instinct?"

Lucen’s voice was flat. "Turns out instincts don’t mean much if your eyes lie."

Gen made a soft noise in the back of his throat, impressed, but hiding it.

Then said, quieter, "Still don’t know what you cast."

Lucen gave a tiny smirk. "Neither do they."

One of the crowd members, not close, maybe ten paces away, muttered something half-audible. Something like "Thread split?" or "Illusion fracture?"

Gen muttered, "You’re gonna start a whole new myth if you keep this up."

Lucen shrugged. "As long as I don’t have to join the fan club."

Gen eyed him. "You want it quiet, but you also came here."

Lucen turned, finally taking the drink. Cold against his fingers.

"I want data. I don’t care if they misread it."

"You sure?" Gen asked.

Lucen popped the cap and took a sip. Didn’t answer.

Across the platform, the swordsman had already left, disappeared down one of the auxiliary tunnels. No speech. No complaint.

Gen tilted his head toward where he’d gone. "That guy trains against casters for breakfast. You know that, right?"

Lucen gave a low hum. "Must’ve been hungry."

Gen laughed once. Short.

"Your second spell," he said. "The scramble one. That was... mean."

Lucen replied, "Didn’t have to be nice."

Gen tapped his canister against the wall once, thoughtful.

Then said, "I’m gonna keep this place quiet. But you should know—someone was watching from the upper perch."

Lucen’s gaze flicked upward once.

Shadowed alcove.

Empty now.

Gen continued, "Didn’t come to bet. Didn’t come to record. Just... watched."

Lucen’s jaw tightened slightly. "Guild?"

"No insignia," Gen said. "Didn’t flare. But they weren’t just here for the drinks."

Lucen nodded once.

Then asked, dry, "Think they liked the show?"

Gen grinned. "I think they’re wondering why a ’C-rank’ just made a physical-class fighter panic using spells no one’s ever heard of."

Lucen straightened.

Finished the drink.

Dropped the bottle on a nearby bench without looking.

Then muttered, "Good."

Gen blinked. "Good?"

Lucen stepped toward the stairs.

His voice was calm.

"Let them wonder."

—

The night outside the match hall didn’t feel like night.

Not really.

The undergrid lighting always made it feel too clean, soft yellow bars tucked behind protective mana glass, humming low and constant. No wind. No stars. Just the same concrete scent of old air and burned mana residue from the last fight someone dragged too far outside the legal zone.

Lucen stepped out of the hatch alone.

No escort. No comment. Just footfalls echoing once on the mid-tier walk path.

He made it twenty steps before someone called out.

"Hey. Excuse me."

The voice wasn’t rushed. Not pushy.

Just... placed. Calm. Measured.

Lucen stopped.

Turned slightly.

Man in a dark slate coat. Tailored. Minimal threading. No guild crest showing, but the cut gave it away—, subtle mana shimmer along the cuffs. Recruitment-grade jacket.

Top third placement, at least. City-licensed, probably carrying three layers of credentials under the interface.

Lucen didn’t speak.

The man stepped forward, hands visible, no weapons, no hoverclip.

Just confidence.

"I watched your match," the recruiter said.

Lucen raised an eyebrow. "You and thirty other people."

"Only I walked down to talk."

Lucen tilted his head. "So you’re either the bravest or the dumbest."

The man smiled. "Or the first one to recognize opportunity."

Lucen didn’t answer.

The recruiter continued, voice smooth. "We don’t see that kind of casting down here often. Especially not from a listed C-class."

Lucen kept his tone flat. "Everyone lies on their system profile. It’s part of the fun."

The man chuckled. "True. But not everyone can fake a cross-discipline counter and vanish mid-engagement. You weren’t just improvising. You were performing."

Lucen shrugged. "Maybe I had a good teacher."

"Maybe," the man said. "But there’s no record of your instruction path. No guild marks. No traceable sponsors. No school sigils. No draft trials."

He paused.

Then added, "And yet you just made a weapon specialist miss."

Lucen didn’t blink. "Lucky angle."

"Twice."

Lucen smiled, faint. "Really lucky angle."

The recruiter’s eyes narrowed a fraction.

Then he straightened his coat and offered a small silver card.

No crest.

Just a folded glyph sequence—nonbinding.

"You’re interesting," he said. "Our unit trains for all environments. Rift, city, and classified site control. We take in specialists. Unusual ones. The kind that don’t wear their resumes on their sleeves."

Lucen didn’t take the card. freewёbnoνel-com

The man didn’t retract it either.

He just waited.

Lucen finally said, "You offering a trial?"

"I’m offering discretion. Support. Money."

Lucen’s smile sharpened, just a little. "That last one almost made me care."

The recruiter laughed quietly. "You wouldn’t be the first to join for the bonus."

Lucen studied him for a second longer.

Then took the card.

Flipped it once between his fingers.

"Maybe next time I’m broke."

He didn’t pocket it.

Just dropped it into the drain slot beside the walkway.

The recruiter didn’t flinch.

He just inclined his head. "If you change your mind, the contact trace lasts three days."

Lucen turned away.

Walked.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t have to.

This content is taken from fr(e)ewebn(o)vel.𝓬𝓸𝓶