Morning light came through the trees as Elias stood over the unconscious Sir Andreas Drakemoor. Three days had passed since their encounter at the fallen fortress, and the knight's breathing had finally stabilized. The poison had done its work perfectly—weakening him just enough to be manageable without proving fatal.
"Elena," Elias called softly to his companion, who was sharpening her daggers against a nearby stone. "It's time."
She approached with practiced silence, watching as Elias withdrew a small crystal vial from his robes. The liquid inside was dark as midnight, seeming to absorb the dappled sunlight rather than reflect it.
He knelt beside Andreas, tilting the knight's head back. "This will bind his will to mine. Not permanently, but long enough to serve our purposes."
A single drop of the dark liquid touched Andreas's lips. The effect was immediate—his eyes snapped open, though they held an unnatural vacancy, like windows to an empty room.
[Skill Absolute Dominion is in effect. ]
[Controlled unit : 1]
[ -> Name : Andreas Drakemoor ]
[Status : Weakened Swordmaster ]
[Time remaining : 59:55]
[Loyalty : 0]
"Sir Andreas Drakemoor," Elias said, his voice carrying an undertone of power. "You will obey my commands without question. You will feel no pain, no fear, no doubt. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Andreas replied in a monotone voice, sitting up with mechanical precision.
"Good." Elias stood, dusting off his knees. "Your first task is to serve as my instructor in swordplay. You will teach me everything you know, hold nothing back, and push me to my limits." He paused, studying the knight's blank expression. "And if you ever feel your consciousness returning, if the fog in your mind begins to clear, you will immediately drink another drop from this vial." He pressed the crystal container into Andreas's palm.
Elena shifted uncomfortably. "Are you certain this is wise? Controlling a Swordmaster—"
"Is necessary," Elias finished. "I need to reclaim my strength, and quickly. The political situation won't wait for me to train at a leisurely pace." He turned to her, his expression serious. "Speaking of which, I have a task for you as well. I need intelligence on the current state of the kingdom and the war. Travel to the major cities, listen to the tavern talk, gather information from merchants and soldiers. Learn everything you can about my half-siblings and their movements."
Elena nodded, understanding her role. "How long do you need?"
"Several months, at least. Meet us at the crossroads near Meterra when you're done. We'll be heading southwest from there."
Elena nodded, understanding her role, but as she prepared to leave, she found herself studying the figure that called itself Elias. The transformation she had witnessed over these past few days troubled her deeply. This wasn't the clumsy exile she had once served—the desperate young man who had shown her kindness when the world offered only cruelty.
(What happened to you that night?) she wondered, watching him give commands to the controlled knight with cold efficiency. The real Elias had been dying, the poison having reached his heart, his breathing shallow and erratic. She had seen death enough times to recognize its approach.
Yet here he stood, wielding blood magic and strategic brilliance that defied explanation.
(You died that day,) she realized with a chill that had nothing to do with the morning air. (The real Elias died from that poison, and something else came back wearing his face.)
A ghost. A specter of vengeance clothed in familiar flesh. It would explain the impossible knowledge, the ruthless efficiency, the way he spoke of conquest as if he had personal experience with it.
She should have been terrified. Any sane person would flee from such an unholy resurrection. But as she watched him move with newfound purpose, Elena felt only a grim satisfaction settling in her chest.
(Good,) she thought fiercely. (Let the dead walk. Let them drag the living down to answer for their sins.)
She thought of Lady Allison, Elias's mother, beautiful and kind. She thought of her own siblings taken as "insurance" by the First prince to ensure she executes her mission.
The kingdom that had allowed such horrors to flourish deserved whatever vengeance this ghostly prince would unleash upon it. And if Elena's soul was damned for following a specter down the path of destruction, so be it.
(I don't care what you are,) she whispered under her breath as she turned to leave. (Dead or alive, prince or phantom—I'll follow you to the end. For the boy who showed me mercy. For my friend who entrusted me her son. For Harry and Sera, who suffer i don't know where.)
With that silent vow, Elena melted back into the forest shadows, leaving Elias alone with his new instructor.
[Synchronisation rate with unit 'Elena Milford increased by 3]
The weeks that followed blurred together in a haze of steel and sweat. Andreas proved to be as formidable a teacher as he had been an opponent, his magically suppressed personality eliminating any tendency toward mercy or restraint. From dawn until dusk, the forest clearing rang with the clash of practice swords.
"Your stance is too rigid," Andreas corrected in his emotionless voice, adjusting Elias's posture with mechanical precision. "The Royal Sword Style of Umbrasia flows like water—adaptable, fluid, always seeking the path of least resistance."
Elias gritted his teeth as he repeated the forms, his muscles screaming in protest. This body was young and untrained, nothing like the weapon he had once wielded with imperial authority. But muscle memory ran deeper than flesh, and slowly, painfully, his former skills began to resurface.
"Again," Andreas commanded as Elias stumbled through a complex sequence. "The Royal Style emphasizes defense and counterattack. You wait for your opponent to overextend, then strike with surgical precision."
But Elias wasn't content with just one style. During their evening sessions, he began to incorporate techniques from his previous life—the Imperial Storm Swordstyle that was once the greatest of his world.
"What is that form?" Andreas asked one evening, his blank eyes tracking Elias's movements with professional interest.
"Something I learned from… a friend," Elias replied carefully. Where the Royal Style was water, the Imperial Storm Swordstyle was a gust of wind—aggressive, overwhelming, and fast designed to end fights before they truly began. The two approaches couldn't have been more different, yet Elias found himself weaving them together into something new.
Months passed. Elias's endurance improved dramatically, his reflexes sharpened, and his understanding of both sword styles deepened. By the time autumn painted the forest in shades of gold and crimson, he had achieved something he thought impossible—the rank of First-Class Warrior.
He stood in the clearing one morning, practice sword held loosely at his side, no longer breathing heavily after their sparring session. Andreas waited motionlessly nearby, ready to continue at a moment's notice.
The sound of approaching footsteps made them both turn. Elena emerged from the treeline, travel-worn but alert, her green hair now cropped shorter for practicality.
"You look different," she observed, studying Elias with calculating eyes.
"Months of dedicated training tend to have that effect," Elias replied dryly. "What news do you bring?"
Elena settled against a fallen log, pulling out a leather journal filled with notes.
"The situation is complex...
The first Prince Amenios Noctis Blackheart and The First Princess Liora Nyx Blackheart have combined their forces— his Obsidius Knights and her Crimson Moon order, along with the main Umbrasian army under Supreme Commander Duke Vasco Ashendale. They're currently engaged with the Aurianites forces in the Glowing Steppes, west of the occupied Eisenwall fortress."
Elias nodded, his mind already working through the implications. "A stalemate, then. What of the others?"
"Princess Celeste fled her arranged marriage to the Pryden Kingdom. She's taken refuge in the Mage Tower in Aurianis. Apparently, she has considerable magical talent—enough to earn sanctuary among the archmages."
"Aurianis?" Elias asked. "What the hell is this dumb princess doing ? She's in the heart of enemy territory."
"The Mage Tower isn't technically part of Aurianis," Elena interrupted, raising a hand to calm him. "Yes, it's located within their kingdom, but it operates as an independent entity. Think of it as a nation unto itself—one that happens to be surrounded by Aurianites lands."
Elias began pacing, his strategic mind immediately grasping the implications. "Independent or not, she's trapped. The moment this war ends, regardless of who wins—"
"She'll be bargaining chip or a corpse," Elena finished grimly. "The Tower's independence is respected because of their power. They have a 9th Circle Sorcerer leading them—someone capable of leveling mountains with a thought. Even kingdoms think twice before crossing such beings."
"And Tristan?"
"The third prince has been busy. He's secured the backing of both the Adventurer's Guild and the Merchant's Guild, giving him effective control over the southwestern territories. He's formed a mercenary company called the Fangs of Tharos."
"Clever," Elias mused. "Economic power often proves more durable than military might. And Lucian?"
"Still in the capital, playing the role of Grand Strategist. He's incompetent in combat, but his social skills have earned him the support of the aristocratic faction and the royal court. His position is surprisingly stable."
Elias absorbed this information, his strategic mind already calculating possibilities. "Alliances will form soon. All the remaining princes and princesses have strong backers and aren't weak either, assassination won't work anymore. The natural poles of power are Amenios and Liora—they're already working together against the external threat. They are probably trying to win over Tristan or Lucian. Celeste is basically out of the game temporarily."
"Which means Tristan is our best option for establishing contact." Elias made his decision with the decisive clarity that had once ruled an empire. "We head southwest, toward his territory. We'll pass through Meterra on the way—a good place to gather more recent intelligence."
He turned to Andreas, who had remained motionless throughout the entire conversation. "You will continue as my bodyguard and training partner. Make sure to cover your head and face at all time. Your cover story is that you're a disgraced knight seeking redemption through service to a minor noble. Can you maintain that deception?"
"I understand," Andreas replied in his flat, emotionless tone.
The next morning, they broke camp and began their journey southwest, toward the territories controlled by Prince Tristan and an uncertain future. Behind them, the forest that had served as Elias's training ground settled back into peaceful silence, giving no sign of the transformation that had taken place within its shadowed depths.