A week after the establishment of the Council, the morning once again bore
witness to Arthur's routine. The air still carried the chill of night, dew
clung to the tips of grass surrounding the eastern training grounds of the
palace. In the distance came the sound of birds waking, and closer by, only the
hiss of Arthur's breath as he twisted his wrist, weighing the Valoria heirloom
sword in his palm. He honed his swordsmanship, breaking the silence with the
measured roar of each swing. Tiny sparks from the clash against wooden posts
glimmered briefly before vanishing, while his steps followed patterns deeply
carved into his muscles. After several sets, he sparred briefly against a
training dummy designed to spin and parry. His body moved like a line of flowing
ink—strike, shift, slash, inhale—before settling cross-legged to practice qi
cultivation through the Heavenly Valior Technique.
Yet that day felt different. As soon as he forced qi to flow through the
subtle pathways of his body, something rebelled. His body was struck as though
by a giant hammer; bones felt as if they were shattering, veins as if they were
burning, and heat surged from within. The tension rose from his core, spreading
to shoulders, arms, and thighs, making his fingers tremble uncontrollably.
Suddenly, thick black liquid oozed from his pores, nose, ears, and even eyes,
dripping to the ground with a stench so foul it nearly made him gag. The air
around him seemed to thicken, heavy to breathe. The pain was so intense it felt
as if invisible hands were tearing him apart from within. When one wave of
agony receded, another came sharper still, racing along his bones and crushing
his marrow. In his mind he clung to consciousness, counting the seconds with a
soldier's discipline to avoid surrendering to the torment.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, the pain faded. Relief washed over him
like cool water poured onto hot stone. His breath became light, his lungs
drawing in the purest air he had ever tasted; as though the damp earth and the
fragrance of leaves had been distilled into essence, clean and untainted. The
racing pulse calmed, and amidst the faint ringing in his ears, the world
appeared sharper. The tips of grass stood distinct, dew droplets reflected the
morning sky like tiny mirrors. Curious, Arthur summoned the Oculus. His eyes
widened; both his Strength and Agility attributes had exceeded one hundred
points. The numbers glowed steadily, without fluctuation or warning signs.
He recalled Remiel's words in the white room: "The limit of mankind is
one hundred." The voice echoed again in memory, cold and absolute. But now
he had clearly surpassed it, and yet no negative effects were detected by the
Oculus. No red warnings, no danger symbols, only data presented with clinical
precision. Doubt flickered briefly, as fleeting as a shadow passing over the
sun, but discipline steadied his thoughts.
Arthur tested several sword forms, trained his footwork, and pushed his
skills. He shifted grips, unleashed combinations that normally drained his
strength, yet his body responded faster and more precisely. Balance clung to
his soles; each twist of the waist yielded fuller power, and returning the
blade to its sheath felt as natural as drawing breath. His body moved swifter,
stronger, as though he had become the mightiest man alive. Yet the foul stench
of the black impurities still clung to him, thick and stubborn, disrupting his
focus. He ended training, invoked Step Gale, and rushed to the baths; his
footsteps nearly silent, only the whisper of wind following him down stone
corridors.
Warm water cleansed his body, carrying away the black filth down the drains.
Foam that began white turned gray then dark, swirling before vanishing into the
whirlpool. Standing before the mirror, Arthur froze. His skin was smooth like
that of a youth, without scars or calluses earned from years of sword practice.
The hard lines formed by toil had vanished, as though erased by a master's
hand. "Could this be… Bone Transformation? Just like those novels and manga I
used to read back on Earth?" he muttered. A satisfied smile spread across his
face, not just pride, but relief—his body now matched the will that had always
driven him.
That afternoon, Arthur visited the military training grounds of the Council
of Defense. The field bustled with figures in uniform moving in unison; fine
dust rose then settled as ranks shifted formation. Soldiers lined up neatly,
channeling qi according to the Heavenly Valior Technique manual. On one side,
instructors corrected stances and gazes; on another, archers honed the
steadiness of their breathing. Observing the faint pulses of qi around them,
Arthur could tell who had touched the foundation stage and who still faltered.
Suddenly, a voice called out. "Good morning, Your Majesty." Arthur turned.
Thomas, the ambitious merchant who had attended the Chain and Coin banquet,
stood respectfully. He wore a tidy cloak of fine fabric, a small ring on his
finger glinting. His posture straight, smile practiced—one who knew how to make
an impression.
Arthur gave a brief nod. "What brings you here?"
"I am seeking opportunities for investment, Your Majesty. For the prosperity of
Valoria."
"Very well," Arthur replied flatly, and walked past him.
As he crossed the spear line, Arthur noted the faint scent of oiled metal
and sweat; everything was in order. He turned to the Captain of the Council of
Defense. "How goes the training?"
"Almost all soldiers have reached the foundational qi stage according to your
book, Your Majesty," the captain answered eagerly.
"Good. Continue. War will come soon."
"Yes, Your Majesty!" they replied in unison.
After giving his orders, Arthur summoned his shadow guard. The air around
him rippled faintly, and from the shadows emerged a masked woman—Akira, one of
Ren and Reyna's most trusted. Her steps were soundless, her posture calm yet
coiled, like a bow at rest but still strung. "Keep watch on Thomas," Arthur
ordered. "The Oculus showed a red mark… 'Demonic Cult: Brainwashed.' If true,
he is a threat." Akira bowed and vanished instantly, leaving Arthur with a
gnawing unease.
Later that day, Arthur inspected the refrigerator factory. The building
thrummed softly with the rhythm of machines and workers' activity. Hammers
struck lightly, trolleys squeaked under crates, short exchanges ended with
nods. The hum of production filled the hall as workers moved in disciplined
flow: framing, insulation, coil fitting, pressure tests, leak checks, quality
control. The head of mass production greeted him with a wide smile. "Your
Majesty, in just one week these products have already yielded one hundred and
fifty thousand gold coins!"
Arthur nodded. One gold equals a hundred dollars… that's over fifteen
million. Remarkable. Quickly, his mind calculated logistics: raw
materials, warehouse capacity, distribution routes, workforce. He then asked
about the progress of the mana-ammunition crossbow project. The overseer
replied enthusiastically, "The prototype shows incredible results. As long as
the surrounding mana remains stable, it can fire mana bullets continuously
without pause." In the testing corner, a wooden target bore charred holes clustered
tightly, the lingering heat making the air ripple above.
Arthur gazed at the weapon with expectation. This will become the
foundation of Valoria's strength in the future. He envisioned special
units moving swiftly under a curtain of continuous fire, mana supply lines
intact, discipline keeping the energy field stable. In his mind, tactical maps
unfolded, movements traced, enemy gaps marked.
On his return to the palace, a middle-aged man with a hunched gait nearly
collided with him. His shabby clothes concealed his build; his back bent as if
under burden. At just a step away came the sharp clang of steel—a poison-coated
dagger thrust for Arthur's chest, drawn in a blur from beneath ragged cloth.
But Arthur's body, reforged through Bone Transformation, reacted faster than
thought. His honed instincts fused sight, step, and wrist. He drew his katana
still sheathed, parrying the strike with reflexive precision. The scabbard
smacked against the blade, deflecting it aside. In the same instant, Arthur
twisted his wrist and subdued the attacker; shoulder locked, wrist reversed,
knee swept. The dagger rang against stone, bouncing twice before stopping under
Arthur's boot.
It happened so fast. The bystanders scarcely realized, and when they turned,
they saw only Arthur pinning down the would-be assassin. Some merchants lifted
their heads, a coachman tugged his reins, and after a moment's confusion, the
bustle resumed, as if the city refused to remember what almost transpired.
Guards rushed forward. "Your Majesty!"
"Take him to the dungeon," Arthur commanded sternly. "Interrogate him. Find out
who sent him."
The damp air of Valoria's underground prison reeked of rusted iron and stale
sweat. Drops of water tapped the stone floor like an unyielding clock. Torches
flickered dimly, casting long shadows through the bars. Flames etched wavering
lines across the guards' faces. One guard stood at the far cell, where the
frail old man was bound to a wooden chair. His wrists were lashed with double
knots, leaving no chance for a sleight of hand escape.
The guard had grown used to criminals, yet unease gnawed at him this time.
The man was aged, hair white, but the aura he emitted made the guard's skin
crawl. His gaze was vacant, yet madness lurked in the clouded eyes—a fanaticism
beyond fear. At the corner of his mouth a streak of dried blood clung like a
mark of unbroken oath.
"Who sent you?" one guard demanded coldly, pressing the assassin's shoulder
to keep him bowed. Behind, two others stood ready, chains in hand should he
resist.
The old man laughed hoarsely, his rasp echoing off the stone. "You think… I
will talk?" He spat, blood-tinged saliva staining the floor. "Valoria… will
fall. We are everywhere." The words sounded more like prophecy than threat,
shrinking the room into a cage of unease.
The guard ground his teeth, lifting a whip from the wall, but before
striking, he caught his comrade's eyes. Doubt stayed his hand. Arthur's order
had been clear: "Find out who sent him." They needed answers, not a
corpse.
His voice steadier, the guard asked again. "Was it the Demonic Cult that
sent you?" The question rippled like a stone cast into water, impossible to
take back.
For the first time, the assassin's face shifted. A crooked grin spread, his
eyes glowing red. He began to chant in a strange tongue none of the guards
understood. The guttural sounds tore from his throat, discordant, breaking the
rhythm of dripping water. It was as if the very room rejected the prayer yet
echoed it back.
Suddenly, his body convulsed violently. Black veins crawled across his skin,
racing to engulf his face. Guards recoiled, swords drawn. "He—he's casting
something!" one shouted.
A short scream pierced the chamber. Then the assassin stiffened. From his
mouth and eyes oozed black blood, cold and thick as old oil. In moments he
slumped lifeless in the chair, leaving no answers behind. Torches shuddered
from the guards' sudden movement, shadows dancing madly before settling once
more.
Silence weighed heavy. The lead guard swallowed hard. "They would rather
die… than reveal anything." His tone flat, but a tremor betrayed him.
He stared at the corpse a long moment before turning to his comrade. "Report
this to His Majesty. The enemy we face… is far more dangerous than we
imagined." Boots echoed down the hall, each step the only sound against the
patient drip of water.
By the next morning, the report reached Arthur. The small hall where he
received it was washed with pale sunlight seeping through latticed windows;
dust floated lazily in the beams. He listened with a cold face, then paused in
silence. His hand clenched upon the wooden table, knuckles whitening, though
his breath remained steady. "The Demonic Cult… they grow bolder." Behind the
words, his mind was already arranging priorities: information filters,
counter-infiltration, safeguarding key figures.
He turned to Akira, kneeling by his side. "Inform the Intelligence Council.
I want the location of the Demonic Cult's stronghold uncovered at once. Use
every network. Dig them out, down to their roots." His voice did not rise, yet
each word fell deliberate, heavy as a seal pressed into fresh wax.
Akira bowed her head. "At once, Your Majesty." Rising without a sound, her
movements were efficient; in an instant only the sway of the curtains marked
her departure.
Arthur gazed out the palace window. In the courtyard, servants arranged
large pots and refreshed flower water. In the distance, the clock tower
reflected light. The morning breeze carried chill, yet beneath it he felt the
simmer of war drawing near. Closing the Oculus, he stored away the numbers that
had broken old limits, then twirled the sword in his hand—measuring anew. Its
weight was the same, yet the world had changed.