When Viscount Byrd woke again, it was already the wee hours of the morning. By then, he had escaped that terrifying, distorted realm and returned to the world of the living—and when the first rays of sunlight streamed through the window, he felt a surge of pure, unadulterated bliss and relief like never before in his life. But he had no time to dwell on the feeling. Daylight might have brought safety, but the horrors of the night still haunted him. After rousing Thompson, who had collapsed unconscious in the second-floor corridor, master and servant fled the castle in a desperate hurry. It was hardly polite, but having cheated death, neither of them had any desire to linger in that accursed place a moment longer. They left a hastily scribbled note for Black, claiming an urgent family matter had forced their immediate return, then vanished without a trace. Never again did they wish to experience such terror.
"Don't let the door hit you on the way out."
Standing by the window, watching Viscount Byrd's carriage disappear into the forest, a faint, satisfied smile tugged at Black's lips.
"Master, how did we do?"
The voice came from behind him—from the very girl Viscount Byrd had hacked to pieces the night before. She stood there, twirling her own severed head in her hands as she spoke. The once-crushed, disfigured face slowly reshaped itself under her fingers, smoothing out into a features that, while slightly different, still retained their playful beauty. She held the head up to a mirror, checked her reflection with a satisfied nod, then snapped it back onto her neck.
"Perfect. I'd say that gave the good viscount a memory he'll never forget."
"Such a shame about Charlotte's uniform, though."
The girl glanced down at herself with a hint of regret. Her maid's dress was still tattered and shredded from the sword strikes—repairing it would be next to impossible.
"Don't worry. Everyone has a spare."
"Good to hear."
She paused, then looked up at Black.
"Master, the time has come. I must return to my sisters now…"
As she spoke, her body grew increasingly translucent. When the first beam of dawn sunlight crested the mountain peaks and spilled into the castle, the girl's form dissolved into a wisp of smoke, vanishing into thin air. Her tattered, hole-ridden uniform, now without a wearer to sustain it, fluttered to the floor in a heap. Only then did Black turn to look at the dress.
"You did well," he murmured softly.
"So, our esteemed viscount has fled back home?"
Ophelia watched Black across the breakfast table, a faint, amused smile playing on her lips.
"Yes. Even sooner than we expected."
Black sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and set down his half-eaten slice of bread.
"A pity. I was rather looking forward to keeping him here a few more days, letting him fully experience my hospitality…"
"Do try to know when to stop, my lord."
Ophelia finally laughed aloud. She had suspected something was afoot when she sensed the restless stir of the spirits the night before—Black had clearly been plotting to scare the viscount half to death. And Black's casual admission this morning had confirmed her guess. She felt not the slightest twinge of sympathy for the poor man's ordeal, but Black's dry wit never failed to amuse her. Letting the viscount stay another two or three days? She doubted he would have left the castle with his sanity intact.
Of course, they both knew it was idle talk. If Viscount Byrd had mustered the courage to remain at the castle after the night's horrors, he would have proven himself far from ordinary—and a man worthy of far greater caution. But as it turned out, he was exactly what Black and Ophelia had judged him to be: a man not worth wasting any more time on.
But Ophelia had other questions lingering in her mind.
"Lord Black, why did you insist on demanding a demarcation map from him?"
She had, of course, been privy to every detail of Black's negotiations with Viscount Byrd the night before. But she could not fathom his motives for asking for the map. A responsible, rule-abiding lord would have requested such a document as a matter of course—but coming from Black, it was deeply suspicious. Knowing him as she did, she would have expected him to feign ignorance about the unclear borders. If any disputes arose later, he could have used the lack of a formal agreement to squeeze concessions from the Byrd family. After all, Duskwood was still in its infancy, with no real profits to speak of. The Byrd family, on the other hand, had controlled the Golden Trade Route for over a century—their power was vast, but their interests were tangled in countless conflicts. It was a classic case of the bold having nothing to lose. With the borders undefined, Black could have used the ambiguity as a shield to deter the Byrds from making trouble. But with a clear demarcation map in place, responsibilities would be set in stone—and the Byrds would find it far easier to meddle in his territory. They could, for instance, hire thugs to pose as bandits and raid the trade route from Duskwood's side, which would be more than enough to give Black a massive headache.
Thus, Ophelia could only come to one conclusion about Black's unexpected demand.
"You must have found something… *worthwhile*."
"It's not exactly a treasure trove," Black replied casually, slicing into the fried egg on his plate.
"Just a hint of a *Source* while I was out recruiting maids, that's all."
Irene, standing nearby, stared in shock at a sight she never thought she would witness. Ophelia—who was always so poised, so regal, so utterly composed—heard Black's words and her eyes went wide as saucers. She nearly spat out the food in her mouth, but managed to clamp a hand over her lips just in time, swallowing hard and choking violently in the process. Irene rushed to pour her a glass of water, which Ophelia gulped down greedily, finally catching her breath.
"No need to look so shocked," Black said, completely unfazed by her reaction.
"It's just a Source, after all. As a princess, you must have seen them before."
Ophelia rolled her eyes, feeling as if she might faint from exasperation. Of course she knew what a Source was—that was precisely why she had lost her composure so spectacularly.
The continent was permeated by an energy called Mana. It was not only the lifeblood of all living things, but also the source of all arcane power. According to legend, when all living beings died, their souls dissolved into primal energy—Mana—and returned to the boundless Sea of Souls. Mana was as essential to life as sunlight, air, and water. It was the power wielded by mages, who channeled it according to their elemental affinities to weave powerful spells.
Naturally, Mana was not evenly distributed across the land. In some regions, it flowed thick and strong; in others, it was thin and weak. But there were rare places where Mana gathered in infinite, concentrated pools—fountains of power that radiated energy outwards, nourishing the surrounding land. These places were known as *Sources*.
The Mana contained within a Source was limitless. Once humans discovered this, they immediately set about harnessing its power. They developed devices that drew on Mana to fuel their civilizations, catapulting their progress to unimaginable heights. Every Source ever found by humans had become the heart of a great city or even a kingdom's capital. With the endless supply of Mana at their disposal, these regions far outstripped the rest of the continent in terms of development. While Duskwood was as backward as a medieval fiefdom, the royal capital was a marvel of magical innovation—towering spires pierced the sky, and instead of horse-drawn carriages, the people traveled in Mana-powered constructs. All because the capital was built atop a Source.
Of course, even the power of a Source had its limits. As Mana radiated outward, its concentration diminished, weakening its effects. What was more, humans had not yet fully mastered this power—they could not store Mana like a battery and transport it. Only magical crystals and mages themselves could hold Mana, but the former were rare and prohibitively expensive, while the latter were far too proud to be used as living batteries.
This was why, despite the advanced civilizations centered around Sources, warfare between nations still relied primarily on cold steel and mage spells. The size of a Source also varied greatly, much like oil fields. Some could sustain a sprawling metropolis, while others were barely enough to power a small town. Their quantity and quality dictated the growth of the cities built around them—a fact that could never be changed.
In regions without a Source, humans could still extract Mana using their devices—but doing so would drain the land dry. Rivers would run empty, soil would become barren, forests would wither and die, and even the hardiest humans would sicken and perish. Mana was the source of life, and no one could survive its loss. A land left depleted in this way would take centuries, if not millennia, to recover—a fate no one wished to see.
This explained Ophelia's reaction. She could already envision the future: if a Source truly existed in Duskwood, this land would instantly become the most coveted prize on the entire continent. The Golden Trade Route? It would be as insignificant as a copper coin compared to a diamond. If Ophelia had been confused by Black's actions before, she now understood perfectly. If they could confirm the Source's existence, securing a clear demarcation map was essential—it would give them legal, indisputable ownership of the land.
But…
"Then, my lord, have you decided which faction you will ally yourself with?"
She looked at Black's calm expression, forced to voice the question weighing on her mind. Mana extraction devices were not something just anyone could get their hands on. After the catastrophic consequences of using them in non-Source regions became known, all nations had tightened their control over the technology. Currently, only three organizations had the authority and capability to manufacture these devices.
First were the royal families who controlled existing Sources. They guarded the technology as their most closely held state secret, never sharing it with outsiders. Black could report his discovery to the Wester royal family, and they would certainly respond—but it would mean the end of his tenure as lord of Duskwood. After all, he was merely a lord of a noble fief, with no power base of his own. He had no right to control a territory with a Source. It was easy to imagine what would happen: the crown would give him a meaningless honorary title, grant him a new fief elsewhere, and take Duskwood back under royal control. Black was far too shrewd to trade a priceless treasure for a handful of empty titles.
The second faction was the Mage Association. As the wielders and masters of Mana, they were naturally in possession of Mana extraction technology. In fact, their central city—the City of All Spells—was built atop one of the largest Sources on the continent. The mages themselves were incredibly powerful, with formidable combat prowess. Their influence spanned the entire continent, and they would be desperate to claim any newly discovered Source.
The third and final faction was the Holy Grace Church. Unlike the Mage Association, which viewed Mana as a mere tool to be exploited, the Church revered Mana as a divine gift bestowed upon humanity by the continent itself. They taught that Mana should be used with gratitude and humility, and opposed its wasteful exploitation to fuel endless human expansion, warning that such greed would lead to destruction. While this philosophy clashed with the interests of the ruling classes, the Church enjoyed immense popularity among the common people and possessed significant military strength, making it a force no one could afford to ignore.
But allying with either the Mage Association or the Holy Grace Church would not improve Black's situation all that much. He might retain the title of lord in name, but he would become a mere puppet in their hands. Mages and clerics were notoriously arrogant—with Black's current status and power, he would never be able to command them to do his bidding.
"I haven't decided yet."
Black wiped his hands clean and gave her a straightforward answer.
"After all, I haven't even confirmed if it's truly a Source—or where its exact center lies."
Finding a Source was an arduous task. Like oil deposits, many lay hidden deep underground, impossible to detect without specialized exploration and excavation. It was a highly technical job, performed by experts in the employ of royal families, the Mage Association, and the Holy Grace Church. They had been searching for centuries, with little success—and Sources were so rare that the odds of finding one were slim to none.
But Black happened to know a few essential facts about locating Sources. They could not be detected by ordinary Mana-sensing methods, but their energy concentration was infinitely higher than that of normal ambient Mana. This was what had sparked his suspicion after his encounter with the mutated boar. The Mana concentration in Duskwood was far too low to cause such a drastic mutation in an animal—unless there was a place where the Mana density was far higher than normal. His suspicion had been all but confirmed when he had killed the boar and found no magical core in its body.
Sources also had a profound effect on humans. People living near a Source's center were blessed with enhanced health and vitality, and their children had a far higher chance of being born with magical talent—Ophelia herself was a perfect example, even if her powers had awakened rather late in life.
"Then…"
"Don't worry about it," Black cut her off with a wave of his hand.
"No need to make a deal with those bloodsuckers. I have a better plan."