The rich aroma of black tea lingered in the drawing room. Blake set down his teacup, a faint, amused smile playing on his lips as he glanced at Ophelia beside him. Though she maintained impeccable poise, sitting upright with the grace befitting a noble lady, the confusion in her eyes and the way her fingers tightly clutched the hem of her dress betrayed her inner turmoil—this former princess was far from as calm as she appeared.
As Blake had suspected, from the moment she stepped into the drawing room, Ophelia's mind had been racing to untangle the complex web of relationships before her. It was clear that the two girls knew Blake well, yet their choice of address left her utterly perplexed. The white-haired girl, who seemed slightly older, called Blake "brother," while her raven-haired counterpart referred to him as "father," and the pair addressed each other as sisters. Setting aside their youthful appearances, these conflicting titles alone were enough to baffle Ophelia. Still, she reasoned that this was ultimately Blake's personal business, and she was not one to pry into trivial matters. What truly piqued her interest was the introduction the girls had given when reporting to Blake earlier.
**Leader of a knight order.**
Even Ophelia, who had little knowledge of military affairs, knew exactly what that title entailed. A knight order's leader was its supreme commander, and knight orders were the backbone of any nation. Those who held such a position were anything but ordinary—take the three great knight orders of the Kingdom of Wester, for example. Their leaders were not only formidable in strength but also stood head and shoulders above others in terms of prestige, connections, and family influence.
Yet, judging by her observations, Ophelia could not reconcile the girls before her with the title of knight order leader. For one thing, they looked far too young to be adults. For another, they had no entourage whatsoever. Convention dictated that a knight order leader would never travel without their personal retinue. And according to the girls themselves, they had come from a great distance to rendezvous with Blake—logically, they ought to have brought their entire combat unit with them. But Ophelia saw no sign of any army; besides the two girls, there was no one else.
At this thought, Ophelia glanced involuntarily at Blake. She had long harbored doubts about whether her lord's background was truly as simple as he claimed. To begin with, rescuing her from a state of spectral existence and granting her a mortal form was a feat no mere "disgraced noble scion" could accomplish. If he truly possessed such power, he would never have been exiled to this desolate place to die by a powerful noble family. Everything that had happened since only reinforced her suspicions: the spectral warriors, Blake's own extraordinary strength, and now these two girls—strangers to her, yet clearly long-acquainted with Blake—all pointed to the fact that Blake's identity was far from ordinary.
What surprised Ophelia even more was the greeting the girls had extended to Charlotte when they arrived. They had stared at Charlotte for a long moment before smiling and calling out, "Sister Charlotte, long time no see." This revelation left Ophelia astounded. After all, Blake had claimed that his maids were purchased from the slave market—they should never have crossed paths with these girls. Nor should Charlotte have known them. Yet Charlotte had responded with nothing more than a calm curtsy. In every way, their interaction belied that of strangers meeting for the first time.
Despite Ophelia's belief that she understood her young lord to some extent, she still could not form a clear picture of who he truly was.
She could hardly be blamed for this, though. While Blake had once been a legendary figure whose name echoed across the continent, after his death, various factions had deliberately sought to erase his memory. The Kingdom of Wester was no exception—it had not only deleted all records of Blake but also buried his story deep in the annals of history, a secret unknown even to Wester V himself. What was more, most of Blake's achievements had been forged on the battlefield, whereas Ophelia had always focused on internal affairs and diplomacy, rarely crossing paths with the military sphere. She had even deliberately kept her distance from the military system, so it was hardly surprising that she knew nothing of Blake's legendary past.
After a moment's reflection, Ophelia shook her head with a bitter smile. What right did she have to dwell on these matters? Regardless of Blake's true identity, he had saved her life, granted her a physical form, and allowed her to return to the world of the living—that fact was unshakable. Moreover, she was no longer a princess. No matter what Blake planned to do, she would not stand in his way, for she no longer possessed the status or authority to do so.
Even so, as she looked at Blake's face, a flicker of melancholy crossed her eyes. This young lord was undoubtedly hiding something, but what that something was, Ophelia could not fathom. Perhaps he thought she was unworthy of knowing, or perhaps he simply did not wish for her to learn certain secrets of his just yet.
This feeling stemmed not from resentment at being kept in the dark but from a vague sense of unease and insecurity. After all, it was hardly unusual for those in power to conceal things from their subordinates, and Ophelia understood her place and duties perfectly well. However, judging by the current situation, everyone around her—from the spectral warrior Judy to the maid Charlotte, and now these two newly arrived girls—seemed to share a history with Blake. Only she was left completely in the dark, excluded from their inner circle. It was this sense of being an outsider that filled Ophelia with anxiety and unease.
"Now, there is something I wish to ask of you two," Blake's voice cut through her thoughts, and Ophelia quickly refocused her attention, waiting intently for what he had to say.
"Something to ask?"
At Blake's words, the two girls tilted their heads curiously, their gazes fixed on him. Their movements were once again perfectly synchronized yet mirrored—an eerie symmetry that made Ophelia wonder what kind of beings they truly were.
"What is it, brother?"
"What is it, father?"
"It concerns the young lady beside me," Blake said, patting Ophelia's shoulder. "I imagine you've already sensed something about her, haven't you?"
At this, the two girls turned in unison to look at Ophelia. Though their gaze made her nervous, Ophelia maintained her composed posture without the slightest waver. After studying her carefully for a moment, the girls narrowed their eyes slightly, then clasped each other's hands tightly.
"Phantom attribute."
"Illusory mana."
"Hunters of mages."
"Guardians of Mana."
As always, the girls paused for a heartbeat before speaking in perfect unison. "You have found quite a treasure, my lord."
"I'd like to think I've been rather fortunate," Blake replied with a smile and a shrug. "But as you both know, I have no aptitude for magic whatsoever, and this young lady has never received any formal magical education. So I must ask for your assistance. I trust this will not be too difficult a task for you two?"
"Lord Blake," Ophelia finally found her chance to speak, curiosity getting the better of her. "Might I ask… are these two young ladies mages?"
"No!"
To Ophelia's surprise, it was not Blake who answered but the two girls sitting across from her.
"We are not mages."
"We are knights."
That again.
Ophelia froze for a moment, then turned involuntarily to glance at her young lord beside her. She vividly remembered asking Blake this very question after she had been revived, and receiving the exact same answer. *Not mages—knights.* On the surface, it seemed like a simple denial, yet both Blake and the two girls spoke with a hint of disdain, as if being mistaken for mages was a most disagreeable thing. This puzzled Ophelia deeply. After all, mages held a lofty position on the continent—they were not only powerful but also widely respected. Why then did all three of the people she had met so far seem to regard mages with such contempt, as if thinking, *We are nobles, not beggars—stop lumping us in with those sorts*? Were mages really so contemptible in their eyes?
"They are knights," Blake explained, noticing Ophelia's confusion, "yet they are also exceptionally skilled in the use of magic. As I'm sure you know, unlike swordsmen, mages are born, not made. Those without innate talent, like myself, can never hope to wield magic. But though these two specialize in swordsmanship as knights, their understanding of magic is no inferior to that of so-called grand mages—indeed, few mages in the Mage's Guild could stand against them."
"Brother, do you wish for her to become a mage?"
"Father, I do not think that is a wise suggestion."
The two girls spoke again in unison, their eyes fixed on Ophelia. "For someone with the phantom attribute, becoming a mage would be a terrible waste."
"If Father approves, we have a far better method."
"Oh?"
Blake raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by this proposal. From his years of experience and keen judgment, Ophelia had no natural combat instinct and possessed little physical strength, though her mana reserves were extraordinarily vast. Given her talents and limitations, it was a pity, but becoming a mage seemed to be her only viable path. Yet now, it seemed the girls were suggesting there might be another option?
"I'm listening."
"Those with the phantom attribute have frail constitutions, ill-suited for conventional combat styles."
"Yet according to the records, they once created a combat technique of their own."
"It was so unique that it was never put to the test."
"But now it seems we have the perfect candidate."
As the girls spoke, they turned their gaze back to Ophelia. This time, the usually unflappable former princess paled slightly—and with good reason. By any measure, what they had just said sounded like an extremely dangerous proposition.
"A unique combat technique?"
In contrast to Ophelia's apprehension, Blake looked positively intrigued. "I do recall encountering someone once who was neither quite a mage nor quite a swordsman—a rather odd fellow. Could this be what you're referring to…?"
"The essence of the phantom attribute is to decompose objects and restore them to their original mana form."
"Conversely, it can also condense mana to create the form of objects."
The girls smiled, their hands still clasped together. "To fight using mana alone—this is the power of those who possess the phantom attribute."
Over the course of the girls' explanation, Blake and Ophelia finally uncovered the secret of the so-called phantom attribute combatants.
And it all came down to the very nature of this world.
On this continent, all things were formed from condensed mana, and mana was the source of all growth. Mages wielded power by drawing mana from the air, condensing it, and shaping it into tangible energy to attack—that was how spells were born. Naturally, casting spells consumed a great deal of mana, and the more powerful the spell, the greater the mana cost. Some forbidden spells, once unleashed, could even drain an entire region of mana completely. The consequences would be catastrophic: a forbidden spell might kill a thousand or so people directly, but the subsequent mana depletion would cause the entire region to wither and die, affecting tens of thousands more in the process.
This loss of mana was similar to the decline caused by the unrestricted use of mana conversion devices, though the latter could be regulated through the combined efforts of nations, royal families, and other powerful factions. The former, however, could not be controlled. Fortunately for mages, the spells they cast generally drew on mana generated within their own bodies rather than siphoning mana indiscriminately from the surrounding environment. It was for this reason that mages retained their esteemed status—otherwise, they would have long since been eradicated by a coalition of other nations.
The phantom attribute, however, operated on a principle entirely opposite to that of conventional magic. It took mana that had already been condensed into a spell and reversed the process, restoring it to its original form—much like turning ice back into water. The crucial difference was that this transformation did not consume any mana at all. What was more, when a mage cast a spell, they relied on their own internal mana to resonate and draw forth external mana. The phantom attribute paid no heed to such distinctions; it indiscriminately converted all mana back to its primal state, whether it originated from the mage's own body or the surrounding air. In some cases, after a battle between a mage and a phantom attribute wielder, the mana density in the area might actually be higher than it was initially.
To put it in Blake's terms: if mana were a forest, mages were carpenters, and phantom attribute wielders were environmentalists. The carpenter chopped down trees to make furniture, while the environmentalist took that furniture and turned it back into trees, replanting them in the forest. What was more, they even took the carpenter's tools—the lathes, the saws—and turned those into trees too, planting them alongside the rest. No wonder the Mage's Guild viewed phantom attribute wielders with such wariness; if this continued, they would surely be driven to ruin. No—ruin would be a mercy. Before long, they might even find their workshops being turned into forests, and then they would truly have nowhere to turn.
Of course, if the phantom attribute only targeted externally condensed mana, the Mage's Guild might not be so concerned. But the problem was that this attribute was utterly impartial; it detected mana and reversed its condensation regardless of its source, whether it came from the environment or another mage's body. This was the real reason mages found it intolerable—no one wanted their years of painstaking cultivation to be reduced to nothing in the blink of an eye.
The phantom attribute was a bane to mages, but it was equally problematic for those who possessed it. Because its essence was to revert condensed mana to its original state, phantom attribute wielders generally had a stronger affinity for mana than most people. However, their drawbacks were equally obvious—like Ophelia, they often lacked any natural combat instinct, a common flaw among those with the attribute. In fact, very few phantom attribute wielders possessed any noteworthy combat skills.
Even so, they had managed to develop a unique combat technique tailored to their abilities—the **Illusionary Battle Style**.
To put it in numerical terms: a typical mage required roughly ten units of mana to condense a fireball. Once the fireball exploded, only two or three units of mana would remain. For a phantom attribute wielder, however, creating the same fireball would consume only a third of that mana, and two-thirds of the mana would remain intact after its detonation.
**Low consumption, high efficiency.**
This was another defining characteristic of the phantom attribute.
"I think I get the gist of it," Blake said, rubbing his temples, which had begun to throb slightly. He glanced at Ophelia, who looked just as overwhelmed as he felt. This was their first exposure to such advanced magical theory, but that was not the real problem. The most taxing part was keeping track of which girl was saying what, with their back-and-forth exchanges and the barrage of technical jargon… it was no wonder Blake was feeling a little lightheaded.
"Let's cut to the chase, then," he said. "What exactly is this unique combat technique for phantom attribute wielders—the so-called Illusionary Battle Style?"
At Blake's question, the girls raised a finger each, pressing them to their chins in a thoughtful gesture.
"A combat style that involves condensing mana into a physical form and integrating it into one's own body to fight."
"It places extremely high demands on the body; those who cannot withstand its power will die from mana backlash."
"But Big Sister doesn't need to worry about that."
"Because Big Sister was already dead once, wasn't she?"
"And so…"
The girls broke into innocent, pure smiles, extending their hands toward Ophelia. "Big Sister, would you like to give it a try?"
When they spoke in perfect unison like this, it meant their minds were made up.
Blake picked up his teacup again, savoring the rich aroma of the black tea inside. He took a slow sip before turning to the young woman beside him—and as luck would have it, Ophelia turned to him at the exact same moment, her eyes filled with a mixture of alarm and confusion, silently seeking his guidance.
"This is your decision to make, Lady Ophelia," Blake said. "I believe it should be left entirely up to you."
"..."
Ophelia's lips parted in a soundless protest, but in the end, she simply sighed, defeated.
What was there to hesitate about? Was this not exactly what she had been hoping for? If this was what her lord needed of her, then she would do it. Besides…
Ophelia glanced at Blake again. His young face wore that familiar, elegant smile, unwavering as ever, yet it somehow exuded an air of profound mystery.
If she joined the fray, if she fought alongside him—surely that would bring her closer to this enigmatic young man. And when that day came, would he finally tell her the secrets he had been hiding all along?
With this thought, Ophelia rose to her feet and bowed deeply to the two girls. "Then… may I entrust myself to your care?"
What Ophelia failed to see was that the moment she bowed her head, Blake's expression suddenly shifted. A mischievous grin tugged at his lips as he winked at the girls, shot a meaningful glance at Charlotte standing beside him, and finally made a subtle gesture toward Ophelia. The girls' eyes lit up with curiosity at Blake's antics—and then their faces broke into expressions of delighted realization.
"Of course, Big Sister," they replied in unison. "Leave it to us."
"However, we have one small condition."
"Please, name it."
Ophelia looked up quickly, her eyes tinged with nervousness as she waited to hear what the girls would ask of her. Then she watched as they raised their hands, pointing toward Charlotte, who stood faithfully at Blake's side.
"During the training period…"
"We hope that Big Sister will…"
"Wear the same uniform as Sister Charlotte!"
At these words, Ophelia's face turned as white as a sheet in an instant.