Ace stopped mid-swing, the blade pointed downward. His chest rose and fell in slow rhythm as he gazed at the steel's reflection.
Then, a memory surfaced — unbidden, but vivid.
A potion— Gloom draught
Its contents swirled like liquid moonlight.
In the novel, the hero found this potion randomly in a cave near a small village with a half-torn letter — claiming it granted eternal, peerless beauty and youth.
Without even thinking he shared this potion with his female companions — claiming it granted them eternal, peerless beauty and won't let them age.
He offered it with great generosity. Without consideration.
They expressed their gratitude with smiles. Thankful. Some even shed tears.
For an entire year, each individual trained as if they were heroes. Developed as if they were the selected ones. Their magical abilities honed. Their physical forms remained impervious to the effects of time or exhaustion.
They stood in competition with knights. Even with prodigies.
However… the cost was soon to be revealed.
The true nature of the potion wasn't simple enhancement. Its alchemical function was a forced conversion.
It accelerated the user's growth by tapping into the latent miasma hidden within the body — a byproduct of decay, darkness, and life force.
The problem?
Living humans had extremely limited miasma. Most of them expended it unknowingly through illness, stress, or aging. Once depleted, the body would begin to wither, unable to maintain its form — collapsing in on itself like a dying star.
The potion was only truly compatible with undead beings, who naturally generated or absorbed miasma like breath, but why would an undead drink a potion when their bodies can't use it's effectiveness.
SO the potion was useless and dangerous too.
That was why, after a year, the hero's companions began falling ill.
One by one, beautiful and brilliant, they began to rot from within.
But the luck of hero being ridicules, they all survived as the hero found some ancient healing spell that was also learned by one of his female companions.
Ace looked up and saw Harlen, the old butler, standing with a scroll in hand and a tight expression.
"My lord," Harlen said, bowing. "A letter from the capital has arrived. He bore the crest of the Empire."
Ace raised a brow and took the scroll, breaking the wax seal.
His eyes scanned it quickly.
Then slowly folded it back up.
"A summons," he murmured. "Not a verdict."
Harlen watched him closely. "Shall I prepare the diplomatic escort?"
Ace gave a slow, measured nod. "Yes. And bring me ink and parchment."
The old butler raised a brow, surprised. "A letter, my lord?"
"Yes," Ace replied coolly. "To my father."
Harlen hesitated for a moment — just enough for it to be noticed — but then gave a low bow and returned moments later with a fine writing set laid in silver-trimmed wood.
Ace dipped the quill and began writing in calm, elegant strokes.
No words were spoken.
Harlen stood silently, watching his young lord's expression remain unreadable.
When the letter was sealed with a press of molten black wax — the crest of House Thornevale marked cleanly in silver — Ace handed it over.
"Deliver this to my father," he said. "As fast as you can."
Harlen accepted the letter with both hands, eyes flicking once to the seal. "As you command, my lord."
As the butler left, Ace also returned to his room.
The journey to Solis Regnum would take days — more if they weren't traveling directly.
Which… they weren't.
By noon, the estate was bustling with preparations. Carriages were readied. Armored guards packed gear. A cloak of movement wrapped the manor like a storm preparing to roll out.
Ace stood near the northern gate, giving quiet orders to Harlen and inspecting the final formation.
Then he turned as Lucy approached — escorted by a maid, her steps light and unsure but filled with hope.
She had changed.
Not in appearance — she still wore the same style of conservative, slightly outdated but the dress was lavish unlike her previous one.
The main change was in her eyes.
There was a spark now.
Not confidence exactly, but potential.
"You asked for me, Brother?" she said, trying to sound formal.
"I did," Ace replied.
He looked her over.
"You'll accompany me to the capital."
She blinked, surprised. "R-really?"
"I want you to see the might of Thornevales. How we command. How we carry our name." He paused. "You'll observe. Learn. Speak little. But you'll remember everything."
Lucy looked down at her shoes, overwhelmed — but nodded quickly. "Yes, Brother. I'll do my best."
A small smile played on her lips.
Ace turned back to the butler.
"We're not going straight to Solis Regnum," he said. "We'll take the lower road. There's a village just off the southern bend."
Harlen waited.
Ace's gaze sharpened.
"Ashenvale."
Harlen raised a brow again — but this time, he didn't ask.
Ashenvale. A quiet, aging village tucked near the forests bordering the outer territories. Barely marked on imperial maps. Known for little… save for an abandoned chapel half-swallowed by vines.
And in the novel… it was near the site where the Siren's draught was rumored to have first surfaced.
The butler bowed deeply. "I will arrange the route accordingly, my lord."
Next morning,
The rising sun bathed the Thornevale estate in molten gold.
The banners above the gate fluttered in the wind — black and silver, the hawk piercing a sun — as Ace Thornevale began his journey to the imperial capital.
His escort was nothing short of excessive.
An entire company of knights marched beside and ahead of the convoy. Each clad in dark plate engraved with runes. Their formation was tight, disciplined, and cold like a marching fortress.
Two carriages rolled along the stone path.
One, of obsidian-black wood with platinum trim, carried Ace himself — his personal crest affixed beside the door. The second, simpler but still noble, carried Lucy, whose face peeked occasionally from behind velvet curtains with quiet awe.
The ground thundered under the hooves of the mounted cavalry, while foot knights marched behind, flanked by supply wagons.
Most impressively, the escort included ten Master-ranked warriors and ten Sages, their robes.
Even the wild beasts of the southern highlands — wyverns, dire wolves, and horned shadow boars — sensed the weight of mana in the air and fled long before the convoy passed.
The group crossed emerald valleys, glistening rivers, and plain fields, all beneath an endless blue sky. The journey, while long, was without incident.
Nothing dared to interfere.
Inside his carriage, Ace leaned against the padded seat, gazing at the scenery through half-lidded eyes. His mind drifted — not on beauty, but power.
Master-ranked warriors, he mused.
Two of them are in my escort. In the novel, it took the hero over 100 chapters before he could defeat one.
He allowed himself a slight smirk.
Then he closed his eyes and recalled the rank system as described in the novel.
Third-Rate Warrior – Novices. Trained but basic. Capable of defeating common bandits or beasts, but easily overwhelmed.
Second-Rate Warrior – City guards, mercenaries, low-ranking knights. Competent fighters, but not yet exceptional.
First-Rate Warrior – Elites among soldiers and noble guards. Fast, skilled, often aura-capable.
Master – Known throughout provinces. Possess battle aura and immense experience. Each swing of their blade carries lethal intent.
Grandmaster – Commanders of armies. Their aura manifests physically. Capable of shattering walls, cutting spells, and surviving near-mortal wounds.
Mythic Blade – A level where aura transcends steel. They become walking calamities. Often only one per generation.
Warlord – Near-legendary. Can change the course of a war alone. Said to rival dragonkind. Their strikes bend terrain and ripple mana itself.
As for mages-
Third-Rate Mage – Barely able to cast basic elemental spells. Apprentices.
Second-Rate Mage – Trained magicians. Capable of combat support and intermediate-level spells.
First-Rate Mage – Capable of battlefield support, defensive wards, and high-tier offensive magic.
Sage – Scholars of the arcane. Reality responds to their will. Can summon storms, reshape stone, or burn fields.
Grand Sage – Arcane tacticians who can rewrite battles. Known across the empire. Can dispel curses and craft magical artifacts.
Archsage – Rumored to commune with spirits of knowledge. Cast spells that mimic divine phenomena.
Voidweaver – A forbidden tier. Magic bends around them. Space, and causality itself begin to unravel in their presence. Imperial records classify them as potential world-ending threats.
Three Days Later – Outskirts of Ashenvale
The village of Ashenvale was nestled deep within the folds of a valley, surrounded by dense woods and soft, rolling hills. The buildings were modest — old timber, moss-covered stone walls, and sagging thatched roofs. The people kept their heads low and their voices lower.
The moment Ace Thornevale's convoy rolled into the main path, silence fell over the village like a smothering veil.
They were not accustomed to nobility — and certainly not to nobility that marched with knights and sages at their side.
The local inn, was the only lodging available.
Unfortunately, it was barely fit for minor barons, much less heirs to one of the greatest noble houses in the empire.
Only two rooms were available — and even those were worn, smelled faintly of mildew, and had straw mattresses better suited for livestock.
Ace and Lucy both stepped inside their rooms in quiet disapproval. Lucy's face said what she dared not speak. Ace, meanwhile, only narrowed his eyes.
He said nothing, but his servants — understood.
Within an hour, both rooms had been completely refitted.
Fine velvet bedding was unfurled from the travel trunks. Polished furniture assembled on the spot. Even warming glyphs were activated along the stone walls.
The commoners peeked through shuttered windows, stunned by the transformation.
As night fell, torches were lit. The rest of the knights camped outside the village, surrounding the perimeter like a black-and-silver ring of steel.
Late that night
The moon was a cold silver disk in the sky, half-veiled by drifting mist.
Ace stood at the edge of the forest, cloaked in shadow. His black attire was simple but elegant, built for movement — no cape, no emblem, no ornament.
Two Master-ranked warriors waited silently at his side, both clad in dark leather armor without insignias.
"This is it," Ace said.
With silence, they entered the woods.
No light was needed. The warriors could sense movement through vibration. Ace's mana perception, though limited compared to master ranked warriors, was sharp enough to feel the air thicken as they drew near.
After an hour of quiet traversal through the old forest paths, they reached it.
A cave mouth, almost hidden behind a curtain of moss and tree roots. Black, deep, and ancient. The stone surrounding it was cracked with age.
Even the air seemed colder here.
They stepped inside.
Inside the Cave
It wasn't large. A narrow passage led into a wider chamber no bigger than a village hall. But the air was thick — not with rot, but stale magic. Old. Hungry.
And at the center of the chamber, half-buried in dust and time, was a skeleton.
It rested against the cave wall, as if it had simply sat there and never gotten back up.