*Clang!*
Ofalil frowned, fanning away the dust floating toward her face and stepping back a few paces.
"My lord, what exactly are you doing?"
"Something good."
Black turned his head with his usual gentle smile, answering while hauling rusted suits of iron armor out of the underground warehouse. Dressed in clothes so filthy they were barely recognizable, he cut a rather comical figure.
It had to be said that the so-called "Cursed Castle of the Demon" had brought Black no small amount of convenience. After the bizarre and ostentatious death of its previous owner, his family members had wasted no time fleeing the castle. Desperate to avoid inheriting its strange curses, they'd not only readily abandoned the exquisitely decorated furniture but also left behind a large cache of armor—no warrior in their right mind would dare wear cursed armor into battle. Better to spend extra coin on new gear than die an inexplicable death at the hands of a curse.
Now Black was dragging all that armor out of the underground storeroom, and no one had the faintest idea why.
The suits were completely rusted through!
Ofalil watched the dull, grimy armor with resignation, then shot Black an exasperated eye-roll. She was finding it harder and harder to fathom her lord's thoughts… By the grace of the Holy Light, what was he playing at? Ever since she'd been revived, this young lord had done nothing but defy her expectations at every turn. He paid no mind to securing wealth to fill the castle's empty coffers, nor did he focus on developing the domain—though, she supposed, his odd little maxim about "getting rich first by building roads" had made some sense. But now? Why on earth was he hauling ten rusted, nearly immovable suits of armor out of the warehouse? Was he planning to use them himself? Considering how earnestly he claimed to be a knight, it wasn't entirely impossible. But even if he did, one suit would've been more than enough. Ten? Was he going to try them all on like a new wardrobe?
"Alright, Kyle."
Black clapped his hands and glanced at the middle-aged carpenter who'd followed him out of the warehouse. With only himself, Kyle, and old Benba as the castle's male inhabitants—hunchbacked Benba was good for tending the gardens, but useless for heavy labor—Black had enlisted Kyle's help to rummage through the warehouse for hours, eventually cobbling together thirteen suits of armor.
"Take these to the great hall and arrange them carefully on the stands there. I'm sure that won't be too difficult."
"Understood, my lord."
Kyle nodded at Black with a hearty grin, then turned and hauled the ten suits of armor toward the great hall.
"My lord?"
Ofalil's voice, laced with faint disapproval, echoed behind Black.
"Surely there are more important things we should be doing right now, aren't there? What do you intend to do with all these tattered old suits of armor? If you're planning to decorate the castle with them, you could do that any time, couldn't you?"
Though she knew Black was far too sensible for such a trivial idea, Ofalil couldn't shake her irritation. After all, she was no ordinary woman—she was a royal princess, one blessed with exceptional talent, experience, and wisdom. In her lifetime, she'd served the royal family faithfully, even making remarkable contributions to the kingdom's development. Ofalil was not an arrogant person, but she took justifiable pride in her accomplishments. In fact, after her revival, she'd been confident in her ability to help this young lord achieve his ambitions. Even in their current dire straits, she'd believed that with her skills, they could overcome any obstacle.
But the truth was, everything Black did caught her completely off guard. She had no clue what he was planning, and he'd never bothered to explain. Was he aiming to become a warlord, ruling his domain like an independent king? Or was he currying favor with the royal family to join the aristocratic inner circle? To be bold—even if he was plotting to collude with foreign enemies and destroy the kingdom—he should at least be taking *some* action! Yet here they were, drowning in problems, and all Black had done was take on four servants, order the road connecting Dusk Town to the outside world repaired, and now fiddle with these worthless piles of rust. Ofalil conceded that his theory about "haste makes waste" had merit, but that was no excuse to spend his days doing meaningless busywork. And the town mayor had said repairing the entire road would take a month—was Black planning to spend all that time cooped up in the castle, tinkering with junk? Did he have any other plans? Why wouldn't he share them with her?
It was only natural for Ofalil to feel resentful. She genuinely wanted to help Black, to serve him loyally—but her lord kept everything from her. Was it because he didn't trust her abilities, or because he thought she wasn't worth involving? Either possibility stung the former princess deeply.
Black blinked and turned to look at Ofalil, standing a short distance behind him. He wasn't an idiot—he could hear the disapproval in her tone loud and clear. Truth be told, he'd never intended to keep her in the dark, but revealing his true identity was out of the question. In his past life, Black had been notorious across the continent. While he'd had no direct ties to the Kingdom of Wester, his name was still infamous. He had no desire to confess that truth now—if the princess misunderstood his intentions, it would spell nothing but trouble. Capable lieutenants were hard enough to come by as it was.
Capable *and* beautiful ones were a rare treasure indeed.
"I'm not wasting my time, Lady Ofalil," Black said, brushing the dust off his clothes.
"In fact, I'm acting on your suggestion."
"My suggestion?"
Ofalil's eyes widened in surprise. She racked her brain, but couldn't recall ever suggesting anything remotely related to these piles of rusted armor.
"That's right."
Black nodded with a smile.
"Don't you remember? You once advised me to materialize the wandering spirits and make them my subordinates. And I told you then that I would do it—if I had enough materials."
"You mean… these suits of armor can materialize the wandering spirits?"
Ofalil's eyes lit up as the pieces finally clicked into place.
"Precisely."
Black nodded.
"I know what you're thinking, Lady Ofalil. Rest assured—I have no intention of sitting around idly. Once we've summoned these spirits, we'll have our hands full."
A meaningful smile tugged at his lips.
"Trust me—very full indeed."
Night fell.
As the full moon rose high in the sky, silence descended over the castle. After serving Black and Ofalil their dinner, Irene and Marfa had left the great hall and retired to their servants' quarters. Their lives were much the same as before, with one peculiar exception: Black had instituted a strict rule that no one was to leave their rooms after midnight unless absolutely necessary.
After all, even wandering spirits needed room to roam. Under Black's supervision, they wouldn't harm the servants as they had in the past—but if the staff caught sight of them, it would cause no end of trouble. The castle already bore the stigma of being a "demon's cursed lair"; adding "haunted ghost house" to its reputation was a disaster Black dared not imagine.
Now Black stood silently in the center of the great hall, eyes closed, while Ofalil waited nearby. As a spiritual being herself, she'd spent the past few days communicating and growing familiar with the castle's wandering spirits. Though she appeared human, her essence was still that of a soul—and thus, she felt a natural affinity for her fellow spirits.
She was also eager to see for herself how Black intended to materialize the spirits. After all, she found it utterly baffling that a man who was neither a cleric nor a mage could repeatedly perform such impossible feats. When he'd revived her, he'd used a method… well, one she could hardly put into words, but it had been a warm, comforting process that had left her feeling utterly at peace. But Black had told her that these wandering spirits lacked her unique power, so she was intensely curious to see how he planned to pull off the same trick with them.
Yet Black didn't spring into action as Ofalil had expected. Instead, he simply stood motionless in the hall, eyes closed, before opening them again to gaze at the statue before him. Then, quite suddenly, he spoke.
"Lady Ofalil, you've been to this castle before, haven't you?"
It was a statement, not a question—he already knew the answer.
"In that case, I have a question for you. Did you happen to notice the sapphire embedded in this statue back then?"
"Hmm?"
Ofalil looked up in confusion, following Black's gaze to the sculpture carved into the center of the great hall wall. It depicted a beautiful young woman, nude except for a tattered cloak draped over her shoulders, her arms stretched upward as if reaching to grasp something. It was a famous scene from the Holy Scriptures: a thousand years ago, a princess had prayed to save her kingdom, sacrificing her life and soul to gain immense power. With that power, she'd quelled the kingdom's wars and restored peace and prosperity to the land. But the moment the final battle ended, her soul, having fulfilled its purpose, left her body and ascended to the realm of eternal light… The sculpture captured the exact moment the princess channeled that divine mana.
"Huh?"
Ofalil compared the statue before her to her memories and quickly spotted the discrepancy. Originally, the princess's outstretched palms had held a brilliant blue sapphire—but now, the space was empty, devoid of any gemstone.
"That's strange… I could've sworn there was a sapphire clasped in her hands back then…"
"I see. Thank you."
Having received his answer, Black said no more. He nodded, then raised his right hand.
A sudden gust of cold wind swept through the warm hall. The torches mounted on the walls flickered violently, casting Black's shadow dancing wildly across the stone floor.
A draft in a sealed room was a most unnatural occurrence—but neither Black nor Ofalil paid it any mind.
Faint whispers began to echo through the air.
Dim, ethereal figures materialized above Black's head, swirling in a slow, circular dance. These wandering spirits had their own means of communication, and in that moment, they were heeding Black's call and responding to his plea.
Ofalil stood frozen to the spot, watching the eerie spectacle unfold. Black did nothing but hold his hand aloft and close his eyes, as if he'd drifted off to sleep. The spirits continued to circle overhead, their purpose a mystery. Though Ofalil was a spiritual being herself, her upbringing had instilled in her a strict sense of propriety—curiosity warred with decorum, but she resisted the urge to eavesdrop on their silent conversation.
Moments later, the spirits stirred. Their swirling accelerated, and several white, glowing forms shot out from the circle, streaking like shooting stars into the empty suits of armor lined up beside Black.
These suits had never been meant for battle—they were mere decorative pieces, hollow shells cobbled together to look like armored sentinels. But as the spirits merged with them, the lifeless steel suddenly began to tremble. At that moment, Black's expression grew grave and focused.
The power of the Apocalypse Knight—the ability to manipulate souls—was Black's most formidable weapon, but it came at a steep cost to his energy. Reviving Ofalil had required little effort, thanks to her absurdly vast reservoir of latent mana. But these wandering spirits were different. Black would have to use his own power to bind their essence to the armor, forging their ethereal forms into tangible bodies.
He wiggled his fingers with delicate precision, his movements as deliberate and controlled as a musician tuning an instrument. As he moved, the spirits began to separate themselves from the swirling mass above. There were dozens of them, but Black only needed thirteen—and so, a silent competition erupted among the spirits for the chance to be chosen. To these lost souls, gaining a physical form meant freedom: the freedom to leave the castle's cursed grounds and see the outside world. Condemned to exist as spirits, they were trapped within the castle walls, unable to venture beyond. Now that freedom was within their grasp, they fought fiercely for the opportunity.
All Black could do was wait patiently for the spirits to make their choice, then guide their essence into the waiting armor. His soul-manipulation abilities had their limits; if he'd had his way, he would've granted physical forms to every last spirit, but his power was insufficient, and the warehouse held no more usable armor to spare.
A soft, ghostly breeze swept through the hall.
The once-lifeless suits of armor shuddered again—and then, they took their first steps. The disjointed pieces of steel, once held together by rust and wire, now moved with fluid grace and perfect coordination. Ofalil watched, equal parts fascinated and astonished, her words failing her completely.
One by one, the armor suits that had stood rigid against the wall stirred to life. They stepped away from their positions and filed behind Black, standing at attention in neat, silent formation. Only when the thirteenth and final suit joined the ranks did Black finally exhale a long, weary breath. He lowered his hand, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead… This had been no easy task.
"My lord… these are…"
"These," Black said, turning to Ofalil with a smile as she stared, dumbfounded, "are our subordinates."
"We'll call it a night here… We depart at dawn, Lady Ofalil. You should retire early as well. After all, starting tomorrow—we're going to be very busy."
"Busy? What are we going to do, my lord?"
"Oh, nothing much," Black replied, shrugging his shoulders and answering her question with deliberate nonchalance.
"Just… hunting down some bad guys."