The guardian stood tall—
Well, not exactly tall.
He was short, round-bellied, wearing rusted armor at least two sizes too big, and a helmet that kept slipping over his eyes every few seconds like it was trying to run away from the embarrassment of being seen with him. His sword belt was dragging on the ground, and a giant, squeaky fork floated dutifully behind him like a loyal duckling.
But the sheer force of mana radiating from him made even the air hold its breath. The cracked ground quivered. The dead silence of Sambhala seemed to press down heavier, as if even the floating rocks were watching and thinking, oh boy, here we go.
Lucien blinked, expression torn somewhere between disbelief and pure existential dread.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
Was this... really the mighty Gate Guardian of Sambhala?
The one feared in ancient songs and drunken campfire tales?
He looked less like a mythical sentinel and more like someone's drunk uncle who got lost on his way to a costume party.
The guardian, undeterred, gave a dramatic spin, almost tripping over his own foot, and stumbled onto a raised platform with all the elegance of a rolling potato. He threw his arms open wide like a second-rate stage actor who definitely thought this was his big break.
"At last!" he bellowed, voice cracking halfway through, chest puffed out proudly as his armor jingled and rattled. "A challenger!"
Lucien was about to say something extremely sarcastic when Bhulla—the guardian, apparently—struck a heroic pose (helmet sliding over his eyes again) and proclaimed:
"Nam hai mera Bhulla!"
Lucien squinted.
"…Wait—"
Bhulla interrupted with the gusto of a man possessed.
"Aur rakhta hu khulla!"
Mana surged out like an invisible tidal wave. It wasn't the graceful, awe-inspiring kind of magic. No, this was the chaotic, 'hold my beer' kind of magic.
Lucien barely had time to process the incoming disaster.
His cloak? Disintegrated in a dramatic fwoosh.
His shirt? Gone, evaporated like a guilty conscience.
Pants? Ripped away as if the universe itself decided he didn't deserve dignity.
Boots? Vanished mid-step, like soap in a slippery shower.
Even his undergarments — those traitorous last defenses — disintegrated into sparkling dust.
One moment, Lucien was a proud, imposing figure.
The next, he stood there—naked, furious, and utterly betrayed by the laws of magic.
Eyes twitching, fists clenched, and the cold Sambhala breeze brushing places it really, really shouldn't.
There was a beat of silence.
Lucien's expression slowly morphed into the dead stare of a man questioning every decision that had led him here.
This… This is the reason Ignis lost the fight in the novel.
Lucien realized bitterly, remembering the scene in vivid, cringeworthy detail.
Ignis had tried desperately to cover himself, flailing like a drunken octopus, and got pancaked by Bhulla's second attack. Dignity: gone. Life: barely spared.
Lucien's fists trembled, not with embarrassment, but with pure, unfiltered rage.
He refused to follow that path.
Across the platform, Bhulla cackled triumphantly, spinning his massive club in wide circles like he was performing a victory dance at a village fair. The floating fork twirled alongside him, adding an extra level of absurdity.
Lucien inhaled deeply.
And then he charged.
Naked.
Unashamed.
Glorious.
"ORA ORA ORA ORA ORAAAA!" he roared, fists blurring with speed.
Bhulla's eyes widened—well, whatever was visible under that ridiculous helmet—as he barely raised his club in time. Sparks flew. Shockwaves cracked the ground.
Flesh met mana-infused metal.
The battle was chaos incarnate.
Bhulla swung with surprising agility for someone who resembled a cursed dumpling, each attack shaking the ground and sending mana ripples into the air.
Lucien, however, was relentless, weaving through the attacks with the grim determination of a man who refused to let history repeat itself.
Clothes might've abandoned him. Pride might've been shredded into confetti.
But Lucien's fists carried the wrath of a thousand wronged protagonists.
Each strike landed harder than the last.
Each blow sang with the fury of denied modesty.
Each movement burned with a singular thought:
I will not die naked in a magical wasteland!
Bhulla fought back valiantly.
He spun. He flailed. He even tried to whack Lucien with the floating fork.
(Which was honestly more insulting than dangerous.)
At the brink of defeat, gasping for breath, Bhulla pulled out his trump card.
He puffed out his chest again, magic gathering in wild, flickering surges, and screamed:
"NAM HAI MERA BHULLA…"
Lucien's eyes widened, instincts screaming.
Bhulla was about to cast that spell again.
"RAKHTA HU KHULLA—"
BAM!
Lucien didn't give him the chance.
One clean, savage uppercut to the jaw shut down the spell mid-cast.
Bhulla's eyes spun like dinner plates.
He let out a strangled squeak, stumbled backward, tripped over his own armor, and collapsed like a sack of potatoes, spinning in lazy circles on the cracked stone floor.
His armor fell off in a series of comedic clunks and clatters, until only the ridiculously oversized helmet remained, rocking back and forth like a bobblehead.
Lucien stood over him, chest heaving, mana crackling off his skin, looking like the world's angriest Greek statue.
He exhaled slowly, conjured clothes from his storage ring with a flick of his wrist (thank the gods for portable wardrobes), and muttered under his breath:
"You're lucky I respect the elderly, Bhulla…"
A glowing notification pinged before his eyes.
> [Trait Acquired: Eye of Data – SSS Grade]
[Ability: View system interfaces of others (excludes Demigods and higher)]
Lucien's lips curled into a victorious smirk.
Standing over the unconscious guardian, he allowed himself a moment of pure, undiluted satisfaction.
"To think this goof almost ruined Ignis's life," he said, shaking his head. "And now…"
He flexed his newly gained power, feeling the unfamiliar pulse of Eye of Data humming in his mind like a fresh engine.
"…now his power is mine."
Without a backward glance, Lucien stepped past Bhulla's twitching form, heading toward the glowing runic room that loomed beyond the platform.
The ancient ruins, cracked and half-sunken into the purple wasteland, shimmered as runes activated under his feet. A vast doorway opened ahead, its light swallowing the gloom.
Lucien's crimson eyes sharpened, his silhouette framed by golden mana.
A new arc had begun.
New legacies awaited.
And one flustered red-haired protagonist wouldn't even know what hit him.