The Lunar Crest Academy: Marked by The Lycans-Chapter 229: The One Armed King

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Conan Valerius Hunter stood alone in his chambers, facing the towering mirror bolted into the stone wall.

The room was dim, lit only by braziers whose flames flickered restlessly, casting warped shadows that crawled across the floor and up the walls. The mirror reflected a man who still looked every inch a ruler, tall, broad shouldered, commanding, but time and war had carved their price into him.

His long black hair fell past his shoulders in heavy waves, streaked faintly with silver he refused to acknowledge. His face was sharp and severe, high cheekbones cutting shadows beneath his eyes, his jaw clenched in a permanent scowl that spoke of a man who had never learned how to forgive. His gaze was still lethal, cold, calculating, and dangerous.

But it was not his face that held his attention.

It was his left shoulder.

Empty.

Where an arm should have been, there was nothing but the smooth slope of flesh beneath his robe, the absence screaming louder than any wound ever could.

The Battle of Luna Crest.

The memory burned as vividly as the day it happened.

Ronan's wife.

The Ghosthound Queen.

Her howl had torn through the battlefield like a curse from the goddess herself. He remembered everything, the force with which she used to rip his arm out. It was unnatural, monstrous, merciless.

He remembered looking down and realizing his arm was gone.

Gone.

Conan's breath deepened, his nostrils flaring as rage simmered beneath his skin.

He had tried everything.

Witches from the far ends of the continent. Ancient healers who claimed lineage from forgotten gods. Blood mages. Alchemists. Even mad scholars who swore they could bend flesh and bone if given enough time and sacrifice.

For a while, he had been obsessed.

He had lost count of how many nights he spent screaming in pain while spells were carved into his skin, how many rituals ended in nothing but blood and disappointment. How many liars had promised him miracles they could not deliver.

Nothing ever worked.

The arm never grew back.

And slowly, agonizingly, he has been forced to accept the truth.

He had lost it forever.

Conan Valerius Hunter.

Leader of the Crimson Hunt.

One armed.

His right hand clenched.

With a sudden snarl of fury, he drove his fist into the mirror.

The glass splintered violently, fractures spiderwebbing outward from the point of impact. A sharp line opened across his knuckles, blood welling instantly, but he barely noticed.

His reflection stared back at him in a hundred broken pieces.

This... this was why Adrian had dared to plot against him.

Because he smelled weakness.

Because a man with one arm was easier to overthrow.

Because Adrian had mistaken his loss for vulnerability.

Conan dragged in a slow breath, forcing the rage down just enough to keep contained rather than consuming.

There was a sudden knock at the door.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders back, his expression smoothing into cold authority.

"Enter," he commanded.

The door creaked open, and a Crimson Hunt soldier stepped inside, holding a package wrapped in thick black fabric. The man immediately dropped to one knee.

"Greetings to you, my leader," the soldier said reverently. "I…. I have what you requested."

Conan turned toward him, extending his right hand.

The soldier rose just enough to place the package into his grasp, then bowed his head again.

"Everyone has been assembled," the soldier continued. "They are waiting for you."

"Good," Conan replied flatly. "Go ahead. I'll be there shortly."

The soldier retreated quickly, leaving the chamber in silence once more.

Conan looked down at the package.

Slowly, deliberately, he unwrapped it.

Beneath the dark cloth was an imitation arm.

Crafted carefully, disturbingly realistic, molded to match his skin tone. It was hollow and artificial, fitted with leather straps and metal fastenings meant to secure it around his shoulder, across his chest and neck.

A lie.

But a useful one.

He grunted softly as he lifted it and began fixing it into place. The straps pulled tight across his torso as he adjusted them with practiced efficiency, securing the arm so it would not slip or fall.

When he finished, he turned back to the cracked mirror.

The illusion was imperfect, but effective.

At a glance, he looked whole.

Complete.

And sometimes, illusion was all power needed.

He pulled his robe on fully, masking the straps, hiding the truth beneath layers of authority and fear. Then he turned and strode out of his chambers.

The assembly hall was vast and filled with bodies.

Commanders. Generals. Strategists. High ranking soldiers and leaders of battalions of the Crimson Hunt.

The moment Conan stepped inside, the room stiffened.

A ripple of murmurs spread like wildfire.

He's alive.

Adrian didn't kill him.

The leader has returned.

Conan walked to the front, boots echoing against stone, his presence alone enough to silence the room.

He turned to face them.

His eyes burned.

"I know what you thought," Conan began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. "You thought I was dead. You thought I had been killed by my own blood."

The air grew heavier.

"I am very much alive as you can see."

A dangerous smile twisted his lips.

"And I am furious."

Silence pressed down on them like a blade.

"The kingdom is already within our grasp," he continued coldly. "But before we claim it, there are two things that must be done."

He raised his left hand.

"First, Adrian."

The name fell like a curse.

"I took him in like a son. I fed him. Trained him. Gave him power and position. And in return, he shackled me and tried to steal what is mine."

Conan's gaze hardened.

"There is one thing the Crimson Hunt does not tolerate."

He leaned forward slightly.

"Betrayal."

A low murmur of agreement spread through the hall.

"And there is one value we hold above all others," Conan continued. "One non negotiable principle every soldier here lives by."

His voice sharpened.

"Loyalty."

He straightened.

"Adrian is no longer one of us."

A chill rippled through the assembly.

"I want him found," Conan said. "Tracked. Hunted. Dragged before me."

He paused.

"Before tomorrow night."

He swept his gaze across them all.

"Check in with your battalions. Your squads. Spread the word across every corner of the kingdom."

Then his voice dropped lower.

"And once Adrian is dealt with… I want the son of the Alpha King."

A collective intake of breath.

"Kieran Valerius Hunter," Conan said slowly. "Bring him to me."

His expression darkened into something monstrous.

"Whoever finds Adrian or Kieran is to kill everyone they are with. Friends. Allies. Strays. I don't care."

He smiled.

"Bring them to me dead or alive."

The smile widened.

"Preferably alive."

His voice became almost conversational.

"I want to drag them through the kingdom on their knees until the skin is stripped from them like a poorly fed hunting dog."

Horror flickered across several faces, but no one spoke.

"Then," Conan finished calmly, "I will skin them alive."

He lowered his hand.

"And I will end them with my own hands."

The hall was deathly silent.

Conan turned sharply and strode away, his footsteps echoing like a war drum.

The hunt had begun.