The knock on the door was sharp and precise, a rhythm born of military discipline. Arthur Belmont, who was currently staring at his younger reflection, turned from the mirror with a wry smile. He already knew who it was. The only person in this palace with the arrogance to demand his presence with such a knock.
He opened the door and found himself face-to-face with Vlad Draemont. His father's favorite lapdog. The man was a few years younger than him, but his cold, dead eyes already held the weight of a hardened soldier. He was Lovina's rising star, a prodigy with a skill for slaughter and a terrifying lack of morals. Arthur knew him from his previous life, not as a knight, but as a future general, one of the primary architects of the Holy War's most gruesome battles.
"This man," Arthur thought, a cold knot of contempt forming in his gut. "He would become my nemesis on the battlefield, the wielder of a weapon just as feared as my own."
Vlad was a man of few words and absolute loyalty to the crown, but not to the Belmonts themselves—his loyalty was to a twisted version of justice born from Lovinian propaganda. He was a hero in the public's eyes, a symbol of the Church of Light's power. Arthur remembered the whispers. Vlad had been a boy when he stumbled upon the Necrosword, a blade forged from hatred and despair, a dark twin to the fabled Excalibur. These two legendary blades, along with Gungnir—the spear the mysterious woman had given him just yesterday—were the three divine weapons of the world. Two of them were in the palace, and the third was in the chosen one's hands.
Vlad's face, though expressionless, held an icy disdain. "The King demands your presence in the throne room. Now."
Arthur simply nodded, a casual gesture that seemed to ignite a spark of anger in Vlad's dead eyes. He closed the door, threw on a simple tunic, and followed the younger man down the grand, marble hallways. The halls, adorned with portraits of every Belmont king, were a suffocating testament to the divine lineage Arthur so despised.
As they entered the throne room, the whispering began. Arthur could feel the glares from the assembled nobles and his own family. There was his half-sister, Princess Eleanor, her face a mask of barely contained fury. She had always hated him, the bastard son who received attention for all the wrong reasons. There were cousins, uncles, and sycophantic lords, all united in their disgust for him. They saw him not as a prince, but as a curse.
King Richard sat upon his throne, a grim figure whose face was etched with the stress of the kingdom. The air was thick with tension. The King wasted no time.
"The plague has spread," Richard's voice rumbled, heavy with authority. "The White Death has claimed two million souls across the Southern Provinces. The people are in a panic. They demand an answer for this calamity, a scapegoat for their suffering."
Arthur's inner monologue felt a cold, familiar dread. He remembered this moment with perfect clarity. This was it. This was the opening salvo of the war. The plague. The famine. The unrest. This was the moment King Richard blamed it all on him, on the Demon Prince and his cursed blood. The solution was simple in the King's twisted mind: send the cause of the curse far away, to placate the people. He would be shipped off to the Albion Royal Academy, a prestigious school across the sea, to be a pawn in his father's political games.
"And the people are correct to be concerned," Richard continued, his gaze falling on Arthur. "A blight has fallen upon us. A blight born of…illegitimacy. Therefore, to appease the gods and show our devotion to the Church, it is my decree that you will leave Lovina and enroll in the Albion Royal Academy…"
"...to prove that the Belmont bloodline is pure and that you are not, in fact, the living embodiment of the bastard's curse," Arthur finished, his voice calm and even.
The room fell silent. Richard's eyes narrowed, a muscle in his jaw twitching. The King of Lovina had just been preempted by his own son. "Don't be smart with me, boy!" Richard roared, his face a mask of fury.
"Father," Eleanor's voice cut in, sharp and venomous. "Why should he, a bastard, be allowed to attend the Royal Academy? I have served you faithfully for years, and yet you have never granted me such an honor!"
"Silence, Eleanor!" Richard bellowed. "You will both go. A single vessel, a display of unity to quell the public's fears. He will be on his way, and you will be with him. Now get out of my sight, both of you!"
Arthur felt a flicker of amusement. His sister's anger was a predictable and satisfying fire. He, on the other hand, was calm. The first time he'd heard this decree, he'd crashed out, filled with a sense of betrayal and a crushing feeling of being exiled. This time, it was a path. The Academy held the keys to his plans. He needed to be there.
He turned and strode from the throne room, the whispers of the nobles following him like a physical weight. As soon as he was out of sight of the guards, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He knew without looking it was Vlad.
"You have no right to speak to the King that way," Vlad growled, his hand tightening on Arthur's tunic. "You are a pathetic worm, a curse on this family. You think because you are going to the Academy you are better than anyone?"
Vlad reared back, his fist cocked, ready to strike. But Arthur didn't flinch. He simply looked him dead in the eye, his gaze unwavering, and spoke.
"I, Arthur Belmont, command you to subconsciously follow all my orders from now until the end of time."
A faint golden light, a glowing sigil, flickered in Arthur's right eye for a split second before vanishing. Vlad's face contorted in confusion, his body suddenly rigid. He swung his fist, a blow meant to break Arthur's jaw, but just as it was inches from his face, Arthur spoke again.
"Stop."
Vlad's body froze, his fist suspended in the air. He couldn't move, his muscles locked in place, his mind screaming at him to continue the punch. But he couldn't. It was as if his body wasn't his own.
"Now," Arthur said, his voice a cold whisper. "Punch yourself."
Vlad's fist, guided by an invisible force, retracted and swung back, smashing into his own face with a sickening thud. He collapsed, unconscious.
Arthur looked down at him, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. This was the power of a Mana Trait. It wasn't just magic; it was an innate, hereditary ability tied to one's bloodline. His was the rarest of them all, a gift from the immortal soul-bearer who had visited him just yesterday: Absolute Obedience.
It was a power that allowed him to bend the will of others with just a verbal command and eye contact. The rules were simple: a glowing sigil appears in the eye, and the victim obeys. There was a one-time use limit per person, a failsafe to prevent abuse. But Arthur had found a loophole, an exploit no one else had ever thought of. By using a command that wasn't a single action but a perpetual state—to "subconsciously follow all my orders from now until the end of time"—he had bypassed the one-time rule. He could now command Vlad to do anything, at any time, without needing to establish eye contact ever again.
Arthur bent down and gave Vlad a light kick. He had a royal lapdog now. A living weapon. The perfect tool for the long game he was about to play. And the best part? Vlad would never remember a single moment of this.