Ultimate Spin System: Ero Spin?-Chapter 146: For The Last

The other Lucas tilted his head, smirking. "A possibility. A path. A promise."

Lucas stepped back, his breath shallow. "You’re not me."

"Oh, but I am." The doppelgänger grinned wider. "The version of you that lets go. That stops pretending this weight doesn’t excite you. That stops hiding behind sarcasm and starts burning for real."

The void around them pulsed. The corridor warped—walls stretching, mirrors trembling like ripples on water.

Lucas glanced at the cracked mirror behind the figure. Through the shards, he saw flames... and followers kneeling. Not out of loyalty, but fear.

"No," Lucas muttered. "That’s not who I am."

Other-Lucas stepped closer. "Not yet."

He raised a hand, and suddenly, fire burst along the walls, racing in jagged lines like veins across the corridor. The mirrors reflected not images, but futures—war, conquest, worship, betrayal.

"You’ve seen what they’ll do for you," the doppelgänger hissed. "The chains are broken. The world is watching. You could build something real. Something powerful."

Lucas gritted his teeth. "Not like that."

The doppelgänger’s smile faltered. "Why not? Afraid of becoming a monster?"

Lucas stared into the glowing eyes. "No. Afraid of becoming you."

For a moment, silence. Then the doppelgänger’s expression darkened, his voice now low and thunderous.

"You will choose. Whether by fire, blood, or mercy. You don’t walk away from destiny, Lucas."

The ground beneath his feet trembled, glass cracking like ice.

"You lead," the figure said, "or you burn."

And just as the void began to collapse inward, Lucas felt something tug him—sharp and sudden, like a hand yanking his soul backward—

He woke with a gasp.

Morning light streamed through the canopy above. Dew glistened on leaves. A soft breeze moved through the trees.

The camp was already stirring.

The slime on his chest let out a sleepy mumble. "You okay, boss? You were twitching like a squirrel on espresso."

Lucas ran a hand through his hair, sweat cold on his forehead.

"Yeah," he said, still trying to steady his breath. "Just a bad dream."

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t just a dream.

It was a warning.

Or a promise.

He looked out at the camp—his people preparing for battle. Trusting him. Believing in him.

He stood.

No more waiting.

No more doubting.

Today, they would strike.

And he would lead them.

Not as a king.

Not as a tyrant.

But as Lucas.

Whatever that meant... he’d find out along the way.

"Let’s go steal some wagons."

The sun had barely risen above the treetops when Lucas and his strike team emerged from the forest’s edge. Dew clung to the grass. Mist still curled around the roots of the trees. It was quiet—too quiet.

The village loomed ahead.

Drovek’s former stronghold.

But it didn’t feel like a stronghold anymore.

Velwen raised a hand, signaling a halt. The group froze instantly—beastmen, elves, humans, all crouched behind the tree line, eyes locked on the abandoned village.

Lucas narrowed his eyes.

No sentries.

No smoke from chimneys.

No sound of morning life.

Just silence.

Mbaku moved beside him, one hand on his massive cleaver. "Where the hell is everyone?"

Velwen’s brows knit together. "This doesn’t make sense. Even if some fled, someone should’ve stayed behind. A captain. A scout. Anyone."

Lucas took a slow step forward, hand resting on the hilt of his borrowed sword. "Maybe they knew we’d come back."

The slime peeked out from his collar. "So they packed up and ran?"

"Or regrouped somewhere else," Lucas muttered.

He turned to the group. "Stay sharp. We go in quiet. Check every house, every alley. And someone keep an eye on the sky."

With practiced silence, they moved.

Boots on dirt. Blades drawn but lowered.

They swept through the village like ghosts.

And what they found... was nothing.

Empty homes. Half-eaten meals. A firepit still smoldering. A chessboard with pieces mid-game.

But no people.

Mbaku kicked open a door to a large storage shed. "Still full," he grunted. "Armor, grain, tools. Even the forge is intact."

Velwen knelt near a cart, inspecting the wheels. "Wagons are usable. Horses are gone, but we can improvise. Rope harnesses. Team pulls."

Lucas entered what used to be Drovek’s barracks.

The place was stripped of bodies but not memories. Scorch marks lined the walls. Blood stains hadn’t been cleaned. Chains still hung from the walls—open, swinging slightly in the breeze.

He stood in the center of the room and exhaled.

"They left in a hurry," he said aloud.

Velwen entered behind him. "Or they were called elsewhere."

"To regroup?"

She nodded. "Or retaliate."

Lucas looked at the open chains. "Then why leave all this?"

Mbaku stepped in behind them. "Because they wanted us to find it."

Velwen turned. "You think it’s a trap?"

Mbaku shook his head. "No. I think it’s a message."

Lucas felt it too—that quiet chill in his spine.

Not fear.

Not a threat.

A warning.

The enemy hadn’t vanished.

They’d adapted.

But for now... the spoils were real.

And they had a mission.

"Load the wagons," Lucas ordered. "Take only what we can carry. We’re not staying longer than we need to."

Velwen nodded and left to relay the command.

Lucas lingered for a moment in the silence of the barracks, then whispered to himself:

"They left the firewood stacked."

The slime blinked. "Huh?"

Lucas turned and walked out.

"That means they think they’re coming back."

And when they did... Lucas planned to be ready.

The return journey was strangely peaceful.

No ambush.

No pursuit.

No howling horde cresting the ridgeline behind them.

Just the quiet creak of wooden wheels, the rhythmic thud of boots on dirt, and the low murmurs of tired warriors.

Lucas rode at the front of the convoy, sitting awkwardly on a bench seat beside Mbaku, who was steering a wagon like it was a war chariot. Behind them, others followed—wagons loaded with supplies, wounded resting under makeshift canopies, and a few beastmen pulling the heavier carts with steady determination.

The slime sat perched on Lucas’s shoulder like a sleepy shoulder ornament. "So... was that a win? Or just... weird?"

Lucas squinted at the path ahead. "I think it was both."

By the time they reached the clearing, the sun had climbed higher, cutting golden slants through the forest.

The camp had stirred to life. Cooking fires smoked. Tents flapped lightly in the breeze. Children played with sticks that looked suspiciously like swords. It almost looked... normal.

Too normal.

And standing at the edge of the camp, arms crossed and eyes sharp, was Sylmara.

Her robes fluttered gently as she watched them return. She said nothing until Lucas hopped off the wagon, brushing dirt off his boots and cracking his back like an old man.

She raised an eyebrow. "So. How was the glorious battle?"

Lucas looked at her, deadpan. "The village was empty."

Sylmara blinked. "Empty?"

Lucas nodded. "Like, haunted house on a budget empty. No guards. No horses. No screams. Just a lot of very convenient loot."

Sylmara tilted her head slightly, curious. "No resistance at all?"

"Not even a passive-aggressive note," Lucas replied. "It was like they packed up in the middle of breakfast and vanished."

The elf mage narrowed her eyes. "That’s... troubling."

"Tell me about it," Lucas muttered. "I brought you a bag of enchanted nails, though. So, you know. Win?"

She gave him a flat look. "Unless the nails summon a tactical map of enemy movements, I’m not impressed."

Behind them, Velwen was already directing the unloading of supplies, while Mbaku shouted at someone to "Stop throwing the potatoes like grenades, dammit!"

Lucas glanced at Sylmara again. "No attacks here while we were gone?"

"None," she said. "Not even a scouting hawk. Just a lot of anxious pacing. Mostly mine."

Lucas exhaled and nodded. "Alright. Then this is the part where we rest, regroup, and try not to go insane wondering what they’re planning."

Sylmara folded her arms. "And if they come back tomorrow with a full battalion?"

Lucas smirked, tired but steady. "Then we make them regret not finishing breakfast."

The slime hummed happily. "Do I get to bite ankles again?"

Lucas nodded. "Only the bad ones."

And with that, they returned to the camp—not as desperate survivors...

...but as the ones who returned from a war that never happened.

For now.

But Lucas could feel it.

This quiet?

It wouldn’t last.

Something was coming.

As the last of the wagons rolled into position and the camp settled into a buzz of unpacking and triage, Sylmara stepped forward, her robes catching the wind like a battle banner.

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t need to.

The moment she walked toward the center, toward the front of the formation, people noticed. Beastmen paused mid-lift. Elves set down bundles of arrows. Human mercenaries straightened up from sharpening blades.

Even Mbaku cocked his head.

And then, she spoke—clear, calm, and sharp as glass.

"We march again."

A hush fell over the camp.

Lucas, halfway through untying a sack of bread from the side of a wagon, froze. "You’re kidding."

Sylmara turned to face them all, her expression unreadable but her voice laced with urgency.

"We found them," she said. "The last elven caravan. The final group taken before Drovek’s fall. They’re alive."

Velwen, who had been organizing scouts, stepped forward slowly. "Where?"

Sylmara’s eyes darkened. "South of the mountain pass. Near the old stone pits."

Lucas frowned. "That’s deep slaver territory, isn’t it?"

She nodded grimly. "One of the biggest holding camps. Underground. Fortified. And according to my contacts... they just received a large shipment."

Velwen’s fists clenched. "How many?"

"Dozens," Sylmara said. "Maybe more. Not just elves. But ours make up the majority."