Standing in the center of the grand hall, Viscount Wen felt a chill creep up his spine. He might not have made a fool of himself in front of everyone like Pelzer had, but the imposing aura weighing down on him left his mood just as foul.
He knew exactly why he'd been summoned. The moment rumors spread that the insolent young noble Blake was a high-ranked swordsman, Viscount Wen knew he was in trouble. He'd been the one sent by the family to test the boy's true strength—and now, thinking back on his report, he wanted nothing more than to slap himself silly. What he'd once deemed thorough and flawless now sounded like nothing but childish drivel. He dared not imagine the old Patriarch's reaction when he heard the news, especially since they'd already lost one high-ranked swordsman. To have turned away another one who'd practically walked right into their grasp? It was nothing short of suicidal.
Viscount Wen didn't even have the gall to go confront that wretched young noble—not that he dared, given his current strength and status. A high-ranked swordsman—with that title alone, Viscount Wen was certain the boy would soon become a core figure in the kingdom's three great knight orders. With the realm in turmoil and the threat of the Sith Empire looming overhead, King Wester V might not be a brilliant ruler, but he was no fool. Any king with half a brain would jump at the chance to secure the loyalty of a noble-born high-ranked swordsman in times like these.
What puzzled Viscount Wen, though, was why a man so cunning and powerful would isolate himself in the backwater of Duskwood. A talent like that should have made a name for himself long ago, becoming the toast of the royal capital. Yet here he was, masquerading as a penniless, down-on-his-luck noble exiled to that godforsaken place… What game was he playing? Was it true that high-ranked professionals all had such eccentric personalities?
But that was none of his concern. Right now, Viscount Wen's only priority was saving his own skin. He'd always been the old Patriarch's most trusted and valued subordinate, the right-hand man he relied on in times of crisis. Yet now, when the family faced its greatest challenge, he'd bungled things so badly. If it weren't for his lifelong habit of caution, he might have ended up just like Pelzer—locked away in the backyard to "reflect on his mistakes." The family heir was still confined there, and Viscount Wen had no desire to share his fate.
"Wen," the old Patriarch's voice cut through the silence, sending a heavy thud to Viscount Wen's heart. He bowed his head, remaining silent.
"It seems we've all been made fools of…"
The Patriarch didn't seem to expect a reply, continuing on with a weary sigh. "If the rumors are true, a high-ranked swordsman has every right to look down on us. But…"
He paused, coughing violently, his breath coming in ragged gasps—whether from illness or anger, Viscount Wen couldn't tell.
"We, the House of Byrd, may endure humiliation, but we will never shrink from a challenge!"
The Patriarch's voice rose sharply, only to be cut off by another fit of coughing. Viscount Wen sighed inwardly. The old man's health was clearly deteriorating fast, far worse than it had been in years. He wondered how much longer he could hold on.
"I assume you've heard about the attack on our outpost the other day, Wen?"
"Of course, Your Excellency," Viscount Wen replied quickly, nodding his head. The Golden Trade Route was the lifeblood of the Byrd family—how could he not have paid attention? He'd received word days ago that a group of raiders had attacked one of their outposts, killing several guards. At the time, though, he'd been too preoccupied with his own troubles to care. It was a serious incident, to be sure, but the family would have sent someone to handle it already; there was no need for him to waste his energy worrying about it. He'd never imagined the Patriarch would bring it up now.
"We've received intelligence that the raiders were heading straight for Duskwood."
*Perfect timing.*
Viscount Wen's heart sank. He could already guess why the Patriarch had summoned him.
"I'll say it again, Wen—we may endure humiliation, but we will never shrink from a challenge!"
The Patriarch's sharpened tone sounded like a death knell to Viscount Wen's ears.
"If they've dared to provoke us with such brazen actions, we must respond in kind!"
He fell silent, and Viscount Wen's anxiety spiked with every passing second. He stared down at the red carpet beneath his feet, for the first time in his life cursing his own excellence. If only he'd spent his days carousing with wine and women like the other young nobles in the family, he wouldn't be stuck in this mess! True, their lives were decadent, but at least they were happy. As for him—what good had being hailed as the family's "rising star" done him? Now he was nothing more than a fish on the chopping block, powerless to save himself.
"Wen, you've dealt with that young man once before, but you failed to see his true strength. I do not blame you for that. This time, however, I will not tolerate any mistakes. I order you to go to Duskwood once more, on behalf of the House of Byrd. Find out if those raiders have any connection to that young man. If they do, make it clear to him that even though he is a high-ranked swordsman, we will never back down from him!"
"..."
Viscount Wen suddenly thought that being dragged out and beheaded on the spot might actually be a relief. Dealing with a high-ranked swordsman? Confronting him with anger and protest? By the saints, he wasn't suicidal! Life was far too precious—he immediately decided to summon Mary Sue, the most beautiful courtesan in the city, to spend the night with him. He'd spent his whole life buried in work; he wasn't going to die a virgin.
"And one more thing…"
*More?*
Viscount Wen had already resigned himself to his fate, thinking nothing else could possibly make his situation worse. But the Patriarch's calm "and one more thing" sent his heart soaring into his throat all over again.
"He is a high-ranked swordsman, after all, and he is on our territory. If we mishandle this, we'll not only become the laughingstock of the other great nobles—we'll also make a dangerous enemy for ourselves. So you must tread carefully, Wen. Do not let that young man grow to hate our family…"
The Patriarch slowed his voice, as if he knew full well he was giving Viscount Wen an impossible task.
"Ah, yes—I read in your report that the young man requested a detailed, surveyed map of the borderlines."
"That is correct, Your Excellency."
"Then we can use that to our advantage. But do not forget—the honor and dignity of the House of Byrd must be preserved at all costs."
Viscount Wen's lips twitched. At that moment, he truly wished he were dead.
He understood the situation perfectly.
Ever since news of Blake's status as a high-ranked swordsman had leaked from the House of Zach, the Byrds had clearly made winning over the young swordsman their top priority. And since Blake had openly revealed his identity and strength in Zach territory, it was only logical to assume he'd struck some kind of deal with the Zachs—especially after Keller Zach had ascended to the patriarch's seat so smoothly. Anyone with half a brain could see that without the high-ranked swordsman's support, a half-blood like Keller would never have stood a chance.
This was the last thing the Byrds wanted. Great nobles were nothing but fair-weather friends, their alliances nothing more than thinly veiled rivalries. They had no desire to see a potential enemy grow stronger—especially not on their own territory. Allowing such a thing to happen in Duskwood would be a disaster.
Originally, the Byrds had probably been waiting for the perfect opportunity to curry favor with Blake after his return, win his allegiance, and then discuss a possible alliance. They'd thought they had all the advantages—even if they lacked goodwill, they could always manufacture it. But fate had other plans. The outpost attack had completely derailed their strategy, and everyone could see that the raiders were almost certainly connected to the young noble in Duskwood. Otherwise, why would they have gone out of their way to detour through the Golden Trade Route?
This left the Byrds in an impossible position. They had to express their displeasure over the attack, or risk being mocked by the other nobles. But they couldn't go too far, for fear of making a deadly enemy of the swordsman. If Blake were an older high-ranked swordsman, it would be a different story—they had their own power bases, families to protect. No matter how strong they were, they'd think twice before provoking a noble house to the point of all-out war. But this young man was different. He was an orphan with no family ties, no power base to lose. To put it bluntly, he had nothing to lose, while the Byrds had everything to risk. If they angered him, who knew what reckless things the hotheaded youth might do?
Viscount Wen felt his hands and feet go cold, the weight of the impossible task pressing down on him like a mountain. If he had to put it in simple terms: the House of Byrd was like a young maiden who'd been slapped across the face. She had to protest the insult, but she couldn't afford to provoke her attacker too much—she even had to let him take advantage of her to some extent. And through it all, she had to maintain her dignity as a lady, lest he think her a wanton harlot…
*I'm going home to write my will tonight!*
At that moment, Viscount Wen already had the entire document—opening and closing lines included—planned out in his head.
"Then I shall take my leave now."
Seeing that the Patriarch had nothing more to say, Viscount Wen bowed deeply and turned to leave the hall. He understood the risks, of course—the higher the risk, the greater the reward. If he succeeded in this impossible mission, his status in the family would skyrocket. He'd never become patriarch, but he'd certainly be second only to the head of the house. But even with that tempting prize dangling before him, Viscount Wen couldn't summon up any enthusiasm. Just the thought of returning to that terrifying castle in Duskwood made his scalp prickle with fear.
*By the saints, please let me have a little luck this time.*
While the poor viscount prayed silently to himself, Blake stood in the underground training grounds of Duskwood Castle, swinging his longsword through the air.
The air was thick with the damp, earthy scent of soil, but it did nothing to hinder the black blade's fluid movements. It sliced through the air in tight, controlled arcs before snapping back to rest at its wielder's side.
"Still not good enough."
Blake eyed the black longsword, a hint of dissatisfaction crossing his features.
The blade in his hand was no longer the tattered, worthless thing he'd bought all those weeks ago. Its slender, razor-sharp edge seemed to absorb the light around it, dimming the very air in its vicinity. The intricate, ornate patterns that had once covered its surface were gone, replaced by two parallel grooves running down the length of the blade. If the sword had still retained a hint of elegance during his battle with Daros, now it looked as plain and unremarkable as a blackened fire poker. It was hard to believe how much it had changed. Its streamlined blade was smooth and unadorned, but if one looked closely in the flickering torchlight, they could see something churning beneath the jet-black surface—like a raging tide trapped under a sheet of ice.
"The soul of an injured high-ranked swordsman really isn't enough," Blake muttered, his eyes lingering on the blade with a touch of disappointment.
In truth, this sword wasn't really his weapon. Strictly speaking, it didn't belong to Blake at all—not yet.
Few people knew that those who reached the pinnacle of knighthood had no need for mortal weapons, for their true weapon had always been with them. Just as knights could manifest their convictions into tangible swordsmanship, those who attained the highest rank could even fuse their very souls with their beliefs, forging them into a weapon that existed not in the physical world, but in the realm of the spirit—a weapon that was not mere steel and iron, but a true comrade-in-arms, bound to its wielder's heart and soul, sharing in their life and death.
As once the most powerful knight on the continent, Blake had possessed such a soulbound weapon. What he was doing now was using this black sword as a vessel to reforge his lost soul weapon. To awaken it fully and restore its power, he needed the souls of countless powerful warriors. But since his resurrection, while he'd fought many battles, the quality of the souls he'd claimed had been sorely lacking.
*Truly, the wheel of fortune turns—and each generation is worse than the last.*
Blake clicked his tongue in annoyance. Once upon a time, a single battle in Duskwood would have been more than enough to fully awaken his soul weapon. Back then, even the bandits by the roadside were high-ranked swordsmen. In wars between nations, knights were nothing more than cannon fodder, the lowest of the low, only fit to be thrown onto the front lines. As for anyone below the rank of high-ranked swordsman? They were considered commoners, to be protected rather than sent into battle.
But those days were long gone.
Blake sheathed his sword, staring silently at the flickering torches before him. He suddenly thought that the old legends of sorcery and ghosts he'd heard as a child might have held some truth after all. The story of the giant who split the heavens with a single axe was a bit far-fetched, but those immortals and demons might have actually existed once—only to decline into obscurity, then rise again in a never-ending cycle of rebirth and decay. Such was the way of the world.
He wondered if it was the will of fate, or simply the natural order of things.
*There will be opportunities.*
A faint, meaningful smile tugged at Blake's lips. According to Charlotte's reports, the Kingdom of Wester was now facing the imminent threat of war with the Sith Empire. He'd never imagined that a nation long lost to history would return in such a dramatic fashion. Fate truly had a twisted sense of humor. Still, Blake had already made up his mind—when the Sith Empire and the Kingdom of Wester clashed, he would wade into the fray. After all, if he couldn't find enough high-quality souls to feed his sword, he would have to make do with quantity instead.
Of course, this wasn't a trick that any knight could pull off. Blake's ability to do so stemmed from his immense soul power—the very same power that had pulled him back from the brink of death time and time again, making him the most elusive and formidable knight the world had ever known.
Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed through the training grounds. Blake turned around, and soon spotted the figures of the two girls approaching.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Instead of answering, the girls just smiled sweetly, standing on either side of the doorway and gesturing behind them.
"Big Sister, come on in!"
"Big Sister, we're waiting for you!"
"Just a moment, please!" Ophelia's voice called out, trembling slightly with embarrassment. "Please give me a little more time to prepare myself… Lord Blake, could you please not look at me?"
"But isn't that why I'm here?" Blake replied with a playful grin, crushing the poor girl's last-ditch effort at modesty with a single sentence. Ophelia fell silent for a moment, seemingly at a loss for words, before finally mustering a response.
"T-then at least… at least let me get used to the idea first…"
"Don't worry—I have plenty of patience. And time."
"..."
An awkward silence hung in the air.
After a long moment, Ophelia seemed to give up her futile resistance, letting out a long, defeated sigh.
"Very well. But please… don't laugh at me."
With those words, the girl stepped into the training grounds.
The moment he saw Ophelia, even Blake couldn't help but draw a sharp breath. He'd imagined that the former princess would look stunning in that uniform, but the reality far exceeded his expectations. Stunning didn't even begin to cover it—she looked absolutely breathtaking.
Unlike Charlotte, whose delicate frame suited the image of a sheltered noble lady, Ophelia's figure was nothing short of perfect. Her full, shapely breasts were accentuated by the tight fabric of the uniform, creating a tempting silhouette that was impossible to ignore. The short skirt ended high on her thighs, revealing a pair of long, slender legs that seemed to go on forever—truly a sight to behold.
Ophelia had spent her entire life wearing elaborate, floor-length gowns that covered every inch of her body, taught from childhood that a lady should never show skin in public. Even when she'd ventured out among the common folk, she'd always chosen practical, modest clothing that kept her covered from head to toe. While Blake's uniform wasn't actually that revealing by modern standards, for Ophelia, it might as well have been scandalous. It was the shortest skirt she'd ever worn in her life, and she spent the entire time clutching the hem tightly, terrified that a sudden gust of wind would expose her and send her fleeing in shame—oh, wait, she was already dead.
"Nice figure," Blake commented, giving Ophelia a thorough once-over before nodding approvingly. In the past, Ophelia had always hidden her body beneath a cloak, making it hard to tell what she really looked like underneath. While he'd gotten a glimpse when he'd helped shape her physical form, that had only been once—after all, a body couldn't be remolded over and over again. But a young woman's figure was something that bore repeated appreciation.
"Perhaps I should suggest you wear this uniform when handling official duties from now on," he added with a smirk.
"I must respectfully decline your suggestion, my lord," Ophelia replied stiffly.
Blake chuckled and said no more, stepping aside to leave the training grounds to the newcomers. After all, this was supposed to be Ophelia's time to practice magic. She'd struggled to carve out this time from her busy schedule of administrative work, and there was no sense wasting it. Besides, his only goal was to watch—he could do that just as easily from the sidelines. What's more, today was Ophelia's first attempt at practicing the Illusionary Battle Style. As a warrior himself, Blake was genuinely curious to see it in action. A combat technique wielded by phantom attribute users? The very idea was more than enough to pique his interest.
"Alright then, Big Sister…"
Seeing that Blake had stepped aside, the two girls exchanged a smile before each extending a hand toward Ophelia.
"You know what to do."
"I understand," Ophelia replied, taking a deep breath and closing her eyes. When she opened them again, the blush of embarrassment had vanished from her cheeks. In its place was the regal, commanding presence of the princess she once had been. She ignored Blake's playful, teasing gaze and walked straight to the center of the training grounds.
Her mind was completely focused.
Blake watched the determined look in Ophelia's eyes and nodded approvingly to himself. Truly, she was worthy of being called the kingdom's first princess—her mental fortitude was truly impressive. In her eyes, Blake no longer existed—not because she was deliberately ignoring him, but because she'd blocked him out subconsciously. It was clear that her ability to focus wasn't just a natural talent; it was the result of years of rigorous training.
Even a genius would achieve nothing without hard work.
Just then, Blake felt two soft, small hands tugging gently at the hem of his cloak. He looked down, and found himself face-to-face with the two girls' lavender eyes, which sparkled with mischief and curiosity.
"Brother, is she your slave?"
"Daddy, is she your woman?"
"Or your subordinate?"
"Or your friend?"
"She's my adjutant," Blake replied casually, raising his right hand to rap each of the girls lightly on the head. "So watch your words. If the princess hears you talking like that, I'll be in a world of trouble."
"Daddy would never get into trouble," the black-haired girl said, smiling as she threw herself into his arms. The white-haired girl giggled and darted around to his other side, snuggling up against his chest.
"I know Brother is the strongest!"
"That was a long time ago. And besides…"
Blake's voice trailed off as he felt two pairs of soft, wandering hands slide down his waist, moving with surprising coordination toward his legs. He coughed loudly, then raised his hand and smacked them both firmly on the head.
"Ow!"
"Ouch!"
"I know what you're thinking," Blake said sternly, "but we have more important things to do right now."
"Big Sister is still a virgin!"
"Daddy hasn't touched her yet!"
"We thought you'd been holding back for ages!"
Unfairly punished, the two girls pouted, waving their tiny fists in protest.
"I said…"
Blake sighed, casting a helpless glance at the two troublemakers. He was about to say something more when the air in the training grounds suddenly shifted.
The girls, who had been glaring at him indignantly, seemed to sense the change as well. They exchanged a glance, then stepped back in unison, watching the girl standing in the center of the training grounds with wary expressions.
Even though the girls hadn't bothered to lower their voices while talking to Blake, Ophelia had completely tuned them out. In fact, the young woman was in the midst of attempting meditation for the very first time in her life. According to the sisters' explanation, while meditation was typically used by others to replenish their mana reserves, Ophelia had no need for such a practice. Her phantom attribute gave her a natural affinity for mana, and her body was a pure construct of condensed magic—not a mortal vessel tainted with impurities. She had no need to draw mana from the air to restore herself. However, meditation was essential for mastering the Illusionary Battle Style. As the sisters had explained, through meditation, Ophelia would be able to sense the true nature of the mana within her body, and learn to draw it forth and manifest it into a physical form.
This was the first step of the Illusionary Battle Style: to recognize one's true essence, and to shape it into something visible to the naked eye.
Ophelia had never concentrated so hard in her life. She sank into a state of deep focus, feeling her body undergo a profound transformation. Her consciousness seemed to expand beyond the limits of her physical form, spreading outward like a network of vines, coiling upward, overlapping, and intertwining to form a strange, yet oddly familiar pattern.
Then, a warm darkness enveloped her mind completely, pulling her into a deeper realm of consciousness.
Blake frowned as he watched.
From his perspective, what was happening was nothing short of bizarre. Mana, glowing with the seven colors of the rainbow, instantly surrounded the girl, swirling around her in a vortex of light. Then, in the blink of an eye, the multicolored mana faded to black, as if a sheet of colored paper had been dunked in ink. The inky blackness then surged forward like a ravenous beast, swallowing Ophelia whole.
"Are you sure this is supposed to happen?" Blake asked. Even though he'd never used magic himself, let alone been able to use it, this didn't look like a normal or safe process by any stretch of the imagination.
"Of course it's a problem," the sisters replied in unison, confirming Blake's worst fears. Yet despite the obvious anomaly, neither of the girls seemed inclined to intervene. They tilted their heads to the side, studying the swirling mass of black slime with curious expressions, then raised a finger to their chins in unison, thinking for a moment before answering casually.
"But it's only a problem for humans."
"Big Sister isn't human, so it's fine."
"Theoretically, anyway."
In the end, the two girls delivered their final verdict in perfect harmony.
*Theoretically…*
Blake shrugged his shoulders, raising his gaze to continue watching the slowly transforming mass of black energy. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, then slowly relaxed it.
Just then, the strange black construct began to undergo a violent transformation.
The undulating, shifting mass stretched upward, rising tall and rigid. The inky black mist spread outward, gradually solidifying from a intangible gas into a tangible, physical form. The hazy, indistinct shape began to take on a clearer form, like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, unfurling its wings to take flight.
They were a pair of jet-black wings.
Blake's eyes widened as he watched, utterly fascinated. He'd seen countless strange and wondrous things in his time, but nothing like this.
In the center of the training grounds, the girl's figure had vanished completely. In her place stood a towering, two-meter-tall construct that looked like a fusion of metal and living tissue. Its sleek, streamlined armor plates were connected by smooth, elegant curves, lending it an otherworldly, feminine grace. Behind it, a pair of intricately patterned, hollowed-out wings floated in midair, like a work of dark art brought to life.
*Is that Ophelia?*
Blake stared at the towering, golem-like figure, frowning in confusion. He could sense the girl's soul core still beating steadily within the construct—she was unharmed—but what in the world was this? A magic trick? If turning a beautiful young woman into something like this was the goal, then it would have been better not to bother at all…
Just then, the giant construct's outer shell suddenly cracked open, and Ophelia's familiar face reappeared before everyone's eyes.
"W-what is this thing?" the girl exclaimed, staring in shock at the strange armor that had somehow encased her body, completely at a loss for words.
"Don't worry," Blake said, finally letting out a breath of relief now that he knew Ophelia was safe. He shot a disapproving glare at the two sisters standing off to the side, then turned back to Ophelia, flashing her his signature, elegant smile. "It's just a mecha suit."
*A mecha suit? What in the world is that?*
Of course, it had been a joke. And as the two girls went on to explain, Blake and Ophelia finally learned the truth about the Illusionary Battle Style.
The Illusionary Battle Style was a technique that allowed phantom attribute users to fuse the mana within their bodies with their very essence, forging it into a suit of magic armor similar to a golem's outer shell. Unlike ordinary golems, however, this mana-forged armor far surpassed clunky, mortal-made constructs in both speed and agility. Phantom attribute users relied on this armor to compensate for their lack of physical strength and combat experience. They didn't need to wear heavy, cumbersome armor like ordinary warriors—instead, they controlled the magic armor with nothing more than their thoughts. Once the armor was manifested, the user didn't even need to lift a finger to move; the armor would respond to their every command instantly. In this state, they possessed the raw power and speed of a swordsman, enhanced by the armor's incredible resistance to physical attacks and the phantom attribute's innate ability to negate magic. A phantom attribute user who could successfully manifest their magic armor was an incredibly formidable and dangerous opponent.
However, this magic armor was not without its risks. The essence of the Illusionary Battle Style was the fusion of mana and flesh—the armor wasn't just worn over the body; it merged with the user's skin, becoming one with them. For a normal human body, this was an extremely dangerous process. Mana was an external, foreign energy, and merging it with mortal flesh inevitably caused severe backlash. Users who summoned the magic armor to fight had to endure unimaginable pain, and prolonged use would eventually cause their bodies to deteriorate and fail, killing them even if they weren't struck down by a mage or swordsman first.
Ophelia, however, had no such problem. Her body was a pure construct of condensed mana, meaning no one in the world was more suited to merging with mana than her. That was why she'd been able to manifest her magic armor so easily on her first attempt. Of course, her years of rigorous training had also given her the mental fortitude to withstand the process.
Unfortunately, while the magic armor had many advantages, it wasn't without its flaws. It was a construct forged from massive amounts of condensed mana, which meant that every time it took damage, it consumed a portion of the user's mana reserves. Once the mana was completely depleted, the armor would shatter—and if the user hadn't managed to escape the battlefield before then, their fate would be sealed.
"Is this magic armor really that powerful?" Ophelia asked, staring in awe at her giant, clawed hands—hands that could easily crush a man's skull with a single squeeze. Of course, they weren't really her hands, but constructs forged from condensed mana. Still, anyone who laid eyes on those jet-black, razor-sharp claws would have to catch their breath in fear.
This time, however, the girls didn't answer her question. Instead, they took two steps forward, raising the parasols in their hands.
"Now that the condensation was successful…"
"It's time to start the real training…"
"Huh? What do you mean?"
"The Illusionary Battle Style is a combat technique—its true power can only be unleashed through actual battle."
"But Big Sister has never received any combat training at all."
"So Sister and I think…"
The two girls exchanged a glance, then smiled sweetly at Ophelia.
"Big Sister needs to learn how to take a beating first!"
It seemed Ophelia's ordeal was far from over.