To call them fully armed warriors was not entirely accurate—they were, in truth, nothing more than ten suits of animated armor. Bound to these steel shells by Black's power, the wandering spirits used their ethereal energy to move the metal frames. As long as their helmets remained closed, no one would ever suspect the armor was hollow inside.
But this was only a temporary measure.
Ofalil knew little about the mechanics of souls, but Black understood all too well. Though these spirits could move now, they lacked the colossal mana reserves that sustained her physical form. To put it in perspective: maintaining a single spirit bound to a corporeal vessel consumed between five and ten mana each day. These spirits hailed from the Age of Luminous Moons, an era when magic flourished, and their inherent mana stores—around five hundred mana per spirit—had been unremarkable back then. Now, however, with magic in decline, such reserves were the equivalent of a mid-tier mage's power. Given their current state, they could sustain their armor forms for a month of idle activity, or ten days of intense combat. After that, they would lose the energy to maintain their physical shells. In the best-case scenario, they would revert to their spectral forms, drifting aimlessly as they had before. In the worst case, their souls would dissipate entirely, vanishing from the world forever.
Black had no intention of letting that happen. As Ofalil had pointed out, these spirits were his most loyal and desperately needed allies. Bound to him by ancient pacts, they had fought alongside him in his past life, familiar with his tactics and commands. Born in the Age of Luminous Moons, they wielded combat techniques long lost to the modern world. To consign them to menial castle chores would be a criminal waste of their potential.
That was why he had materialized them and brought them beyond Dusk Castle's walls. He needed to strengthen their power, stabilize their physical forms, and ultimately forge them permanent bodies. With sufficient mana reserves and solid vessels, these spirits could unleash the full extent of their ancient might.
Lost in thought, Black glanced at Ofalil beside him. The bright sunlight caressed her delicate features, her lavender hair fluttering gently in the breeze. He could catch a faint, floral scent wafting from her—an ethereal fragrance that suited her perfectly. Compared to the pitiful spirits clinging to existence in rusted armor, this princess had no idea how fortunate she was. Normally, a spectral being's best hope for corporeal form was a crude, barely humanoid shape—little more than a recognizable silhouette with eyes and a mouth—limited by their meager magical power. Yet Ofalil's form was flawless, down to the last strand of hair, and even her clothing had been perfectly recreated. If the armor-bound spirits required five to ten mana daily to sustain themselves, Ofalil's body consumed no less than three hundred mana each day. To maintain her current form, those spirits would burn through their entire reserves before noon the next day—leaving nothing but fading shadows behind.
Black was no mage, but even he could sense the anomaly radiating from Ofalil. He had lied to her before: her mana was not merely on par with an archmage's—it far surpassed it. If Black had to guess her total reserves, they would easily reach seven digits.
How such immense power resided within a single young woman, he could not fathom. But one thing was certain: if Ofalil had awakened this power in life, her astronomical mana stores, combined with her unique spectral nature, would have made her the most powerful mage in the world—bar none.
For Black, however, the current state of affairs was ideal. All that remained was to teach her how to wield that power…
Ofalil suddenly shivered.
She looked up, narrowing her eyes at the clear blue sky. The sun warmed her skin, a pleasant, comforting sensation—so why had she just felt as if she were walking barefoot on ice-cold stone?
"Are we all here?"
Black glanced at the spirit warriors standing before him, not expecting a verbal reply. They were using every ounce of their energy to maintain their armor shells; vocal communication would be a wasteful, inefficient use of their limited power. So he said no more, surveying the surrounding terrain before waving a hand.
"Let's move out."
Black's destination lay on the outskirts of Duskwood, but he had no intention of taking the road leading straight from the town to the outside world. Instead, he led Ofalil on a long detour, skirting the western edge of the Duskspine Mountains to approach the forest's borders.
His goal was simple, as he had told Ofalil: to punish the wicked and eliminate evildoers.
Every word of it was the unvarnished truth.
As the former master of Dusk Castle, Black knew this land like the back of his hand. Duskwood might have been worthless in terms of economy and transportation, but hidden within its seemingly impenetrable borders lay a vital thoroughfare: the Golden Trade Route. Stretching across the Kingdom of Wester, the Kingdom of Shilo, the Crescent Confederacy, and beyond, this route was the economic lifeline of countless cities. Nations spared no expense to protect their sections of the route—and Dusk Castle had originally been built to guard its western flank, preventing raids and ambushes.
It was also the hunting ground of the continent's most ruthless bandit gangs. Composed of deserters, fugitives, disgraced mercenaries, and desperate peasants, these outlaws lurked in the shadows of Duskwood, preying on travelers. Despite repeated crackdowns by various kingdoms, the bandits persisted. The Golden Trade Route was simply too long to patrol effectively; no nation had the manpower to station guards every few steps. As a result, the route was plagued by murder, robbery, and plunder. Merchants either hired elite mercenary bands for protection, paid exorbitant bribes to corrupt officials and their bandit allies, or traveled in large caravans to minimize risk. The weak and unconnected were left to fend for themselves.
In Black's past life, he had known of the bandits hiding on Duskwood's outskirts, but he had never bothered with them. The bandits, in turn, had avoided him like the plague—their targets were the rich caravans on the Golden Route, not a suicidal confrontation with the most powerful knight on the continent. Back then, Black's mission had been defending the border against barbarian hordes; he had had no troops to spare for bandit-hunting. Later, when the barbarian threat faded and Dusk Castle lost its purpose, the bandits remained. The only silver lining was that they had never bothered with Dusk Town—a backwater village with a monthly income of a mere hundred gold coins, not worth the effort of looting.
Sometimes, being poor had its advantages.
Now, however, Black had changed his mind.
"My lord—why must we skulk about like thieves to eliminate these bandits?"
Walking beside Black, Ofalil could not hide her confusion. She understood his plan in theory, but in her eyes, they were the "official authorities." Yet here they were, sneaking through the trees under cover of shadow, forbidden from making a sound or revealing their presence. This was nothing like the heroic bandit-suppression campaigns she had imagined. If anything, they looked more like bandits than the actual outlaws.
"From a military standpoint, we lack the numbers," Black replied, walking at the head of the group. He pushed aside a curtain of leaves without turning his head.
"If I commanded a hundred soldiers or more, I would march out under my banner, surround these bandits, and eliminate them methodically—making an example of them to deter others. But right now, I have only ten warriors at my disposal."
He shrugged.
"So we must proceed with caution if we wish to wipe them out completely. The best approach is to locate their hideout undetected, then strike and eliminate every last one of them. If they spot us beforehand, even if we kill most of them, the rest will escape—and that would be a costly victory. These bandits know the forest like the backs of their hands. Once they flee into the trees, my small force will never be able to hunt them all down."
"But…"
Ofalil frowned, still puzzled but unable to articulate her doubts. The princess had never experienced war or combat. In her imagination, a well-trained elite force had only to march into the forest with banners flying to drive the bandits away. Like many noble young ladies, she had never cared to understand the gritty realities of battle. Noticing her confusion, Black sighed and tried a different explanation.
"Let me put it another way. According to official documents, my jurisdiction extends only to Dusk Town and Dusk Castle. While these bandits operate within Duskwood, their territory falls outside my legal authority to govern or punish."
"So if we are discovered, you will be accused of overstepping your bounds," Ofalil interjected, her political acumen sharp despite her lack of military knowledge.
"But my lord—the forest is vast. We have no idea where these bandits are hiding. How will we ever find them?"
"Excellent question."
Black stopped walking and turned to face Ofalil, placing his hands on her shoulders.
"That is why I need your help, Lady Ofalil."