Elijah
Royal Dungeon
First Terrain
Lower level
Kingdom of Ashtarium
The days that followed were quiet—unnervingly so. After giving my orders, my guards moved like shadows through the palace, keeping a close watch on every member of the surviving dungeon groups. Despite the tension that lingered in the air, no further attempts were made on my life. But the stillness didn't feel like peace. It felt like the eye of a storm.
Captain M'rael's daily reports arrived punctually—neatly bound scrolls, written in his precise, almost mechanical hand. I would read them over breakfast each morning, the cool light of the spire filtering through the glass walls of my chamber as steam curled from my untouched tea. Most of the updates said the same thing: no changes. No movement. No signs of suspicion.
The remnants of the Helsing Guard were recovering—barely. According to M'rael, the few that remained spent most of their days in silence, either resting in the medical halls or meditating in isolation, trying to suppress the trauma that came from seeing their unit all but annihilated. The confident swagger that marked them as elite was gone, replaced by vacant stares and slow movements.
The Bathory Dominion hadn't fared much better. Half their number had been lost to the Shedim's assault, and those who remained were haunted—broken in the way warriors rarely showed. I had passed one of them in the hall the day before, and he hadn't even looked up. He just kept walking, like his soul had been left behind on the battlefield.
And then there was Elra.
The sole survivor of the Ysera Compact. M'rael's reports said she hadn't left her chambers once since returning. The door remained sealed with Fey runes, and not even the palace staff dared disturb her. Meals were left untouched outside her door, and the mana lamps within her corridor burned day and night, casting a cold green glow across the stone walls.
I'd walked past it once—curious, maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see her.The air near her quarters was stale, still—like even time had chosen to leave her alone.
A silence too thick to be grief. Too sharp to be mourning. It was guilt. The kind of guilt that couldn't be spoken, only suffered. Nothing had happened, and yet everything was happening—beneath the surface, in quiet corners and behind closed doors. I knew better than to trust the quiet. Assassins didn't strike when you expected them. They waited. Patient. Watching.
Which meant the game hadn't ended. It had just begun.
The door still crackled with residual energy, the Fey runes burned out and hissing smoke along the edges. Whatever shielding spell Elra had placed wasn't just a lock—it was a barrier ward, meant to keep even seasoned spellcasters at bay.
Steph stepped forward, her hand glowing faintly with runic light as she pressed her palm against the wood.
"Still hot," she muttered. "But it's destabilized. I can break it."
I nodded. "Do it."
She drew her blade in a smooth motion, and the moment the runes on her forearm flared green, the door groaned in protest. Steph plunged her sword between the seams and traced a line downward, disrupting the magical weave embedded in the frame.
With a sharp crack, the remaining resistance shattered.
The door flung open with a rush of stale air and pressure—not from heat or force, but from intense, concentrated mana—the kind that only came from Forging Flames.
Inside, the chamber had been completely transformed.
Gone were the furnishings and tapestries of a noble Fey's quarters. The space had become a forge, plain and simple. An anvil sat in the center, glowing red-hot with lingering heat. Cracked stones littered the floor around it, scorched with soot and lined with magic circles etched deep into the tile.
And there, at the center of it all, stood Elra.
Her back was to us, shoulders heaving, skin slick with sweat. Her once-braided hair hung loose, strands stuck to her freckled face. The intense green of her dwarven runes pulsed across her arms and chest like molten veins, fading now as the forging process reached its end.
She turned.
Her eyes widened at the sight of us—but only for a second.
Then she held up what she had been working on.
The weapon she cradled wasn't large, but it radiated power so potent I took a step back on instinct. The mana in the air bent around it, like gravity. The very space trembled as though it recognized the weapon's authority.
It was a polearm—a spear of obsidian-black shaft with a jagged, curved blade fashioned from crystallized Shedim bone. Along its surface, glowing ember-gold runes flowed like liquid fire, etched directly into the bone's structure. The weapon hummed, not with mechanical vibration—but with sentience.
I'd seen Sacred weapons before. But this? This wasn't just Sacred-grade. It was high-tier, bordering on legendary.
"By the gods," Steph whispered beside me. "She forged it… from the Shedim's remains."
Elra's voice came out hoarse, rough from days without speaking.
"It spoke to me when I touched the bone," she said. "It… showed me how to shape it."
I stepped forward, cautiously. "What do you mean? It showed you?"
She nodded slowly. "The Shedim was more than a beast. There was… memory in its remains. Echoes. Rage. Purpose. I just—channeled it."
My eyes narrowed on the weapon again. "What do you call it?"
She hesitated… then said quietly, almost reverently:
"Ashpiercer."
"I've enchanted it with the properties of the six elements," Elra said, her voice steadier now, though exhaustion clung to her words. "But its strongest affinity is fire. That was the Shedim's core—its wrath, its essence."
She turned to face me fully, and in her eyes was a storm of emotion—grief, pride, guilt, and something almost like hope.
"It seems you've succeeded in ascending to the Master stage, my Prince," she continued. "I… I couldn't protect my teammates. I was their leader, and I failed them. I couldn't avenge them, either…"
Her fingers curled tighter around the weapon for a moment—then she offered it to me, bowing her head slightly.
"…but you brought down the monster that took them. You did what I could not. And so…" She took a slow breath. "I bequeath this item to you, Prince Elijah. Let it serve you where I could not."
I stared at her.
I had expected many things, but not this.
The weapon still pulsed faintly in her hands—Ashpiercer, forged from Shedim bone and elemental rage. It radiated Sacred-tier energy with terrifying potential. And now she was giving it to me.
Just like that.
My hand hovered over it for a moment, uncertain. From its length and balance, it was clearly a spear, and judging by the slight forward-weight in its design, crafted with someone like me in mind.
After all, the Ashtarmel lineage was known for its ancient spear techniques.
But… I wasn't a spearman. I preferred the blade. I always had.
Still, I didn't refuse it. Her gift was too meaningful—her gesture too sincere.
I reached out and took it.
And the moment I did—
Something shifted.
A pulse rippled outward from my body, barely perceptible to anyone else, but deep within me, I felt my Ability Factor awaken—not through effort, but through instinct.
[Fantasia – Paradox Echo]
The world around me glitched, like reality had blinked for half a second. The colors dulled and warped. For the briefest of moments, the chamber faded—only my presence and the weapon remained in sharp focus.
And then, in a quiet, seamless metamorphosis…
The spear was no longer a spear.
Its length condensed. The balance shifted. The jagged, crystallized blade reshaped—not from metalworking, but from will.
It became a sword.
Still forged from the same sacred materials. Still carved with elemental runes. Still radiating the same fire-scorched power and elemental resonance. But it was now a weapon that fit me.
Not what the world expected of me.
What I imagined. What I needed. What I believed.
The enchantments hadn't faded. The core memory of the Shedim still thrummed within it. The name—Ashpiercer—remained etched into the soul of the blade.
Elra blinked, her brow furrowing as she stared at the weapon now resting in my hand.
"Wait… wasn't it—?"
But the confusion in her expression faded just as quickly as it had appeared. A strange calm settled over her face, and the dimness in her eyes vanished—replaced by certainty. Her mind, her memories, were already rewriting themselves, molding to the new reality shaped by my will.
To her, the spear had never existed.
There had only ever been the sword.
Just like everyone believed I had always been born a boy, they would now believe the weapon had always been forged as a blade. That was the nature of True Fantasia—when I imagined something as real and inevitable, reality bent to make it so.
But then I turned.
Steph was staring at me.
Not confused. Not dazed. Not rewritten.
Her gaze was sharp—aware.
She remembered.
"My Divine Protection shields me from outside interference," she spoke into my mind, her mental voice clear and steady.
Of course. Her Divine Protection of the Dragon God—ancient, primal—gave her immunity to most magical alterations, including mental tampering or reality shifts. One of the many reasons the Benandanti were feared throughout the realms.
I swallowed hard, not entirely sure how I felt about her seeing through it. She knew exactly what I had done. And she hadn't stopped me.
I turned back to Elra, studying the tired but resolute lines on her face. Sweat still clung to her freckled skin, and the forge's fading glow reflected in her eyes like dying embers.
I felt a flicker of gratitude—sharp, unexpected.
"Thank you, Captain Elra," I said, bowing my head slightly. "For your generosity. If there is anything I can do for you—anything within my power—I will see it done. You have my word."
Elra waved a hand, brushing away the sentiment like smoke. "Nonsense, my Prince," she said. "I'm only repaying a debt... for the sake of my honor."
Honor, huh?
The word echoed in my mind.
I'd offered the Shedim's remains to the others not out of selflessness, but strategy. A calculated move to gain favor, to make them—even slightly—beholden to me. I hadn't expected this outcome.
I hadn't expected something so... real.
"Well," I said, straightening. "We'll leave you to your rest."
I summoned the sword into my space ring with a flick of mana, the weapon vanishing in a soft pulse of light.
Elra nodded, clearly drained. "Thank you, Prince Elijah. I am indeed... overdue for rest."
Steph and I exited the chamber, the scent of soot and arcane metal fading behind us. The corridor outside felt cool and quiet in contrast, the marble underfoot, which gleamed with the polished perfection only found in the Inner Sanctum of the Palace.
I walked in silence for a moment, letting my mind circle what had just happened.
Father's mission—his order for me to grow stronger, to rise, to become something worthy of Ashtarium's crown—seemed to be going remarkably well.
Except for the part where someone was actively trying to kill me.
We turned a corner—
And nearly collided with Victor Van Helsing.
He stood casually, one shoulder leaning against the wall outside the residential quarters reserved for me and the royal guard. His arms were crossed, but the way he straightened when he saw us made it clear he'd been waiting.
"Your Highness. Steph," he greeted, offering a charming smile as he stepped forward. "A pleasure, as always."
Steph didn't return the smile.
I offered a nod, keeping my tone neutral. "Victor."
"May I say congratulations on your breakthrough?" he said, eyes gleaming just a little too much. "Master realm... quite the achievement. Few ever reach it."
"Thanks," I said. "Was there something you needed?"
He made a small gesture, casual but rehearsed. "I've been thinking. I received a portion of the Shedim's remains… but I did nothing to deserve it. You and Steph were the ones who brought that thing down."
I raised a brow, watching him carefully.
"To show my appreciation," he went on, "and to properly celebrate your ascension, I'd like to invite you both to dine with me. There's a place nearby—the Opal Beef Stall. It's well known among Ascendants."
"Opal beef...?" I asked, unfamiliar.
"It's a high-grade mana beast steakhouse," Steph said quietly beside me. "Popular with cultivators. Expensive."
Victor smiled. "Best fire-cured meat in the region."
I paused—just long enough to appear thoughtful.
"Well," I said slowly, "I don't see why not."
After all, this was exactly what I needed. Another step in pushing my plan forward. If the assassin was still watching… I was going to give them the perfect reason to show their face.
****
The Opal Beef Stall sat on the edge of the Inner Sanctum's high-tier merchant district—a crescent-shaped terrace overlooking one of the palace's cascading energy fountains. The restaurant wasn't some grand banquet hall but an elegant, open-air pavilion carved from obsidian stone and moon-glass. Golden fire-crystals floated in the air, softly illuminating the tables with a perpetual amber glow.
As we arrived, a pair of attendants bowed deeply and led us to a reserved table at the far edge, isolated enough for privacy, but open enough to give a full view of anyone approaching.
Exactly what I needed. The other members of the allied group were there, at least the ones who were still alive. Dwayne Hoffman seemed to be in conversation with someone from the Helsing group, and when I arrived, all their attention was turned to me.
Victor was already waiting when we arrived, seated in a high-backed obsidian chair at the far end of the open-air terrace. Not a single strand of his hair was out of place, and his tailored coat looked freshly pressed, untouched by the humid night air that clung to the skin like a second layer. A polished wine goblet rested in his hand—untouched, for now.
He rose the moment he saw us, wearing the smile of a man who had never known what it meant to be uncertain of himself.
"Your Highness," he said with a shallow bow, all elegance and practiced charm. "Thank you for accepting my offer."
He motioned gracefully to the empty seats. "I've taken the liberty of ordering the house specialty—Charred Mana Beef with Molten Crystal Glaze. I hope that suits your tastes."
Several others at the table—members of the surviving Bathory Dominion and Helsing factions—stood with him, bowing their heads politely in my direction. There was respect in their gestures, but also a subtle stiffness. Caution. No one in this room had forgotten how close death had been in that dungeon.
"It's fine," I said coolly, taking my seat as Steph settled in beside me, silent as ever but alert. My guards took position around the restaurant, unobtrusive but vigilant—their eyes scanning every corner, every movement.
I let the silence hang for a beat, then spoke.
"I see Elra isn't here."
"She declined," said Dwayne, sipping from his glass without looking up. "Still shaken from the dungeon, I think. Odd, really. You'd expect a Master stage Fey to have more... resilience."
"She lost her entire crew," Victor said smoothly. "Maybe we should ease up. Anyone who's faced loss knows how deep it cuts—Master or not."
I gave a small nod but said nothing at first, fingers idly tracing the rim of my goblet. The Elra I'd seen just a day ago wasn't broken. She wasn't drowning in grief. She had locked herself in her chambers and forged a Sacred-tier weapon from the bones of the Shedim. That didn't speak of weakness. That spoke of purpose.
Yes, she'd mourned. Yes, she'd bled. But she was moving forward—tempering her pain into something real. Something dangerous. And from what I could tell, she was grateful to me for enabling that. Which meant she was more of an ally than anyone at this table likely realized.
Still, I didn't correct Dwayne. No sense in tipping the balance. Let them underestimate her. Let them think she was broken. The fewer enemies Elra had, the better.
As the meal was served—plates sizzling, aromas rich and laced with mana spice—I kept my gaze casually drifting across the restaurant. Scanning. Watching. Not just the staff and diners, but the shadows between the pillars, the glint of mirrored lenses in the upper terrace, the faint irregularities in the way mana currents moved.
Victor lifted his goblet at me. "To your breakthrough," he said. "Master stage at your age? That's legendary. Your father must be proud."
I nodded, letting the words pass without much reaction.
"Though I admit," he continued, glancing at Steph, "I almost envy you. You're surrounded by powerful allies. Some... more impressive than others."
His gaze lingered too long.
I forced a smile. "Yes. I've been fortunate to have loyal people by my side." How I wish to cut his head off if he kept looking at Steph. But I controlled myself, enjoying the meal which was as delicious as Steph said it to be.
Not only was the meal delicious, but it was saturated with mana-rich essence—each bite subtly feeding the furnace within me. I could feel it, the gentle pulse of energy threading into my mana core, expanding it further. I'd already reached the baseline of a Master-stage cultivator, but there was still room to grow—room that the meal, the mana, and perhaps even the night itself seemed intent on filling.
As the plates emptied and the glow of satisfaction settled over the table, the conversation drifted into next steps.
"We'll be heading back to the surface," said Dwayne, wiping his mouth with a cloth and leaning back. His tone was casual, but his posture was already shifting—coiled, like a man preparing to move again.
Dwayne's team was one of many attached to the Bathory Dominion, a militarized division under the Bathory Corporation—the conglomerate responsible for much of Ashtarium's industrial and technological might. Their research had shaped cities, war machines, and cultivation-enhancing tech alike.
"The top brass won't be thrilled that we never reached the middle floors," he continued. "But they'll be satisfied we came back with something to show for it. That's thanks to you, Your Highness."
I dipped my head in acknowledgment. "It was nothing. You all did your part too."
Victor's voice cut in, smooth as ever. "What about you, Prince Elijah? Still planning to stay?"
I looked up from my plate. "No. I'll be returning to the surface as well. The objective that brought me here… it's been achieved. Now I have duties waiting above."
"Hmph," Victor said with a slight grin, swirling his wine. "I suppose I'm the only one diving back into the deep."
"It would seem so," Dwayne said, nodding. "You still chasing advancement?"
Victor exhaled. "It's been fifty years since I entered the Master stage. I've plateaued long enough. Time I crossed the threshold."
They drifted into talk of second raids and preparation strategies, but I didn't pay much attention. My thoughts were elsewhere—in the forge lab, where Elra had offered me a weapon... a spear that had become a sword. My sword. She didn't even remember the change.
But Steph did.
She wasn't affected by the rewrite.
She claimed it was her Divine Protection, something that shielded her from external interference. That made sense… and yet it made everything more complicated.
After the meal, I made my farewells. My guards moved into formation around us, and Steph and I returned to our residential quarters. We boarded a crawler vehicle, its crystalline engine humming softly as it rolled through the carved subterranean streets of the lower district, gliding past stone archways and bio-luminescent lamps glowing like distant stars.
Inside the vehicle, it was quiet. Ray drove up front, with Nettle beside him. Captain M'rael was elsewhere, keeping eyes on the other groups, just as I'd ordered.
Steph and I sat in the back.
After a moment of silence, I turned toward her. The low ambient light of the crawler flickered faintly across her face.
"So…" I said quietly. "You can see the real me, can't you?"
She didn't respond right away. Her gaze was fixed on the tinted window, watching the city pass by like drifting memories.
But then she turned, slowly, and met my eyes with a calm smile—gentle, unbothered, and yet knowing.
"I always could," she said. "Not all the time. Your Ability Factor is… powerful. Too powerful, honestly. It takes a lot of concentration to pierce the veil it casts. So I usually don't."
She leaned her head against the seat.
"I prefer the face you show the world."
The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable. It was weighty, filled with the unspoken, the half-glimpsed truths suspended between us. And in that quiet moment, I realized…
She'd been watching longer than I knew.