Count Errenor stood at the tall, arched window of his study, his hands clasped behind his back. The snow-covered rooftops of the northern capital stretched below him, their chimneys coughing faint wisps of smoke into the frigid air.
Although he had insisted there was no need for protection, his royal guard had argued otherwise—successfully. Two guards now stood just inside the room, silent and tense. It wasn't without reason. There had already been more than one attempt on his life. His oldest friend, Count Ulfrik, was dead. Now, it seemed, it was simply Errenor's turn.
He didn't need a list of suspects. The pattern was too clear. First, the king had fallen ill. Then, the assassins came. The thread connecting both events could only lead to one man—the prince. A young man with an unquenchable thirst for power, who seemed to grow more ravenous with every taste of it. Errenor had no doubt the prince had poisoned his own father to clear a path to his goals.
What troubled him most was the method. How could an S-1 rank—already one of the mightiest in the land—become so utterly corrupted? What bargain had the prince struck? What darkness had he embraced?
The king still had allies. Varien, the war marshal, was also an S-1 rank and not a man to bend to childish ambition. Errenor had tried to contact him, but there had been no answer.
The Kingdom of the North boasted more S-rankers than any other—four in total—but none of them were the strongest of their kind. Still, their presence alone should have made a coup like this unthinkable.
Errenor's thoughts turned to another name: Osvald, the son of his late friend Ulfrik. For years, Errenor had quietly supported the young man's rise. He was on the cusp of S-rank himself—a conjurer with the heart and skill of a warrior. But Osvald had vanished over a year ago, heading deep into the southeastern dark forests in search of the druids, claiming their knowledge could grant him the power needed to protect the realm.
Errenor had already dispatched a search party to bring him back. In his heart, he knew Osvald might be their last hope of stopping the prince and saving the king's life.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his vision pulled him from his thoughts. Shadows along the wall rippled unnaturally. Errenor turned just as a figure in black erupted from the darkness—an assassin, face hidden, daggers drawn.
The strike never landed. In a blur, Errenor's hand shot out, catching the attacker by the throat. The assassin dangled helplessly in the air, boots kicking against empty space, his blades clattering to the floor.
The two guards, a heartbeat too late, froze in place, their eyes wide with concern.
The heavy double doors of the chamber swung open and his royal guard captain strode in mid-sentence. "Sir, we've found—"
He stopped dead when his gaze fell on the assassin, still suspended in Errenor's grasp.
"Continue," Errenor said, his voice calm, almost bored.
The captain swallowed, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. "We've found some information regarding… what we were looking for."
Errenor gave a short nod, then looked back at the assassin. He saw it immediately—the dark energy pooling inside the man, shadow magic spiraling into a dangerous pattern. The assassin was preparing a self-sacrificial spell, one that would turn him into a living bomb.
Errenor sighed, almost tired of the interruption. With a slight flick of his wrist, there was a sharp crack. The assassin went limp. The shadow magic dissolved instantly, its deadly purpose snuffed out.
He let the body drop to the carpet with a dull thud and stepped toward the door, not sparing the corpse a second glance.
"Clean this up," he said simply.
The guards moved in at once, as the Count left without looking back.
…
There were two possible routes for Leo and his companions to reach their destination. The first cut directly through the Dark Forest of the northeast—a place whispered about in taverns and warned against by even high rankers. The forest's twisted trees were said to swallow the light, and even A-ranks could vanish there without a trace. The second route curved south, through the Kingdom of Magic, bypassing a treacherous mountain range that separated the kingdoms. The choice was obvious. They would take the safer, longer way, for the black-walled castle they sought lay far to the west.
Through the church's influence, Arthur had secured a private, heavily warded carriage—its polished black wood engraved with faint silver runes, the kind only clergy could obtain.
Before climbing into the carriage, Leo paused and glanced at Arthur. His expression was serious, though his tone remained casual. "Were you able to take it?"
Arthur gave a short nod. "Yes." He reached into his cloak and handed over a small leather pouch, worn but tightly sealed.
Briva's eyes narrowed as she leaned closer. "What is it?"
Leo tucked the pouch away quickly, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Just something to break… if things get truly dire. And maybe—" his eyes flicked to Arthur for a brief second, "—a test."
Arthur's gaze hardened, his voice low and warning. "I told you not to make jokes about that. It's dangerous." He stepped up into the carriage, his boots thudding against the wooden step.
Leo chuckled lightly, lifting his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. No jokes."
Behind them, Briva and Elna exchanged a glance. Neither spoke, but they both shrugged.
Inside, the motion was smooth, the winter air kept at bay by a faint warmth spell.
Elna sat beside him, her head resting lightly on his shoulder, eyes closed in quiet sleep. A faint trace of her perfume—something floral and warm—mingled with the scent of the old leather seats. Across from them, Arthur and Briva carried on a casual conversation about nothing in particular, their voices a steady background hum.
Leo used the moment's stillness to slip into his domain. The transition was instant: one blink and the carriage was gone, replaced by the vast hall of his inner realm. He sat on the high throne, its white marble cold beneath his hands. Before him, a web of glowing lines twisted into an intricate circle. It was an advanced magic circle, almost identical to the one his master, Alexia, had shown him in her training room. He recreated it carefully, wanting to study every detail, in the absolute quiet of his domain
Slowly, he pulled apart its layers, isolating each runic pattern, tracing every curve and mark. Until now, his understanding was only partial—a framework without depth. But he knew that to master this circle was to reach for higher ranks, power beyond his current grasp.
His domain had grown stronger lately. He could feel it—its boundaries stretched further, its presence sharper in his mind. More curious still, the flow of time here was different. It always had been, but now, with effort, he could slow it even further. Here, almost anything could be willed into being, the realm itself answering to his thoughts.
After hours of work, he dismissed the glowing spell with a flick of his wrist. The light faded, replaced by empty air. He stood, taking his sword, and held it in both hands before him. Closing his eyes, he shifted his focus to another kind of training.
Minutes passed before the bells began to toll—deep, resonant chimes that rolled through the air like waves. At the sound, something inside him stirred. His black hair bled into white, his eyes burned crimson, and his teeth lengthened into sharp fangs. White fur began to creep over the backs of his hands and down his forearms, a similar change starting at his ankles.
The rush of strength was intoxicating. But then came the anger—sharp, consuming, like a flood threatening to break its dam. His thoughts grew clouded, instincts pressing him toward violence. He resisted, holding the fury at bay for as long as he could before finally letting the transformation fade. This form, which he decided to call awakening, could only be maintained here in his domain, and even then, he had yet to fully control it.
He tried again. And again. Each attempt ended the same way—power and rage wrestling for dominance.
At last, he felt the faint pull of an outside voice. He released the sword, letting it vanish back to its place, in the middle of the hall. His eyes opened to the real world.
"Leo…" Arthur's voice reached him. Elna was awake now, her gaze searching his face.
"Sorry," Leo murmured, running a hand through his hair. "I was working on my domain."
Arthur nodded toward the window. "We rest here tonight."
Leo turned his head. Outside, the carriage was rolling into a small village. The streets were narrow, the houses squat and weathered from years of wind and snow. Smoke curled from chimneys, and lanterns flickered to life in the encroaching dusk.
…
After settling into a modest inn—the kind with creaking floorboards, the smell of woodsmoke in the air, and a single flickering lantern lighting the front hall—Leo and Elna decided to take a walk.
The village was small, so small that within minutes they reached its edge. The cobbled road gave way to packed dirt, one side lined with low fields and the other swallowed by the shadow of a dense forest. The air smelled faintly of pine and damp earth, the quiet broken only by the occasional hoot of an owl in the distance.
They talked as they walked, their voices low and easy, trading light jokes that made Elna's laughter ring softly in the stillness. But after a while, Leo's tone shifted.
"Elna," he said, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "There are… a lot of secrets in my life. Things I want to tell you. But if I told you everything right now, it could put you in danger." His gaze turned more serious. "For now, I just want you to know this—the Creator is on the good side. And I want you to trust him."
Elna already knew of the Creator; it was impossible not to, after all this time with Leo. She smiled faintly. "I trust you. And if you trust him, then I do too."
Leo's lips curved into a small smile. "Thank you."
They leaned closer to each other, their breath mingling in the cool night air. But before their lips met, Leo stopped. His eyes sharpened, faint light flaring in them as his vision spell activated. He turned toward the tree line.
"Elna," he said quietly.
"I know," she replied, her own eyes glowing faintly.
They stood still for a heartbeat, watching the forest. Then, in less than a second, Leo vanished.
Deep between the trees, two werewolves crouched in the shadows, their yellow eyes fixed on the road. One didn't even have time to register Leo's arrival before his head was severed in a single, clean strike, thudding to the forest floor.
The second wolf snarled, leaping at Leo with claws outstretched. Midair, his body jerked downward—slammed into the dirt by a crushing force. Leo's Gravity Trap. Shadows shifted nearby, and Elna stepped into view. Dark chains whipped from her hands, coiling tightly around the struggling creature and locking it in place.
Leo approached, the glow in his eyes dimming slightly. "Who are you?"
The wolf only let out a guttural, mindless groan.
"Should we kill it?" Elna asked, her voice cold.
"He looks mindless."
Placing one hand on the wolf's head, Leo closed his eyes. His consciousness slipped into the beast's mind. He expected to find fragments of the man behind the fur—faces, places, memories. Instead, he emerged in an empty expanse beneath a clear sky lit by two red moons.
The two red moons hung above him, silent and watchful. Then, slowly, they began to shift—drifting closer together, tilting in unison, until he realized again with a chill that they were not moons at all. They were the same eyes he saw before.
The space between them darkened, lines spreading outward like cracks in the night, and a face began to take shape in the sky. The mouth curled into a grin he knew too well, vast enough to swallow the horizon.
His limbs locked. His body refused to respond, and a thin bead of sweat traced down his temple as the colossal, moon-eyed visage leaned closer, suffocating the very air around him.
But Leo bared his teeth. "Illusion is my expertise," he muttered. With a surge of will, he cloaked himself in his own illusion, breaking the paralysis. "And in a place with no boundaries…" The ground began to tremble. "…I'm the most powerful version of myself."
From the empty soil, two colossal bells rose. Their toll shook the air, the sound rolling like thunder. His body began to change—hair turning white, eyes blazing red, fangs lengthening. This time, he didn't resist the transformation. He welcomed it.
He faced the looming visage with a sharp smile. "If you want to come for me… you'll face the consequences."
His howl tore through the air, a sound that made the red moons shiver. The sky cracked like glass, shards of light raining down, and in an instant he was free.
Leo's eyes snapped open in the real world. Elna was in front of him, her expression tight with worry.
"Your eyes… they were red just now."
"That's my domain's response," he said, voice low. Then he glanced down.
The wolf was dead.
"How long was I out?"
"About ten minutes. What happened?"
Leo's expression hardened. "These wolves were sent by the Beast God. We need to tell Arthur and Briva."
Elna nodded once, and without another word they started to walk back toward the inn.