"Arhh—"
The groan tore from Klein's throat as though his very soul clawed its way back into his body.
Blinding light speared into his eyes—merciless as a blade—forcing him to squint, to blink, until shapes bled into being. The brilliance after an eternity of darkness was torture, stabbing his skull with each pulse of pain.
His breath rasped shallow and ragged.
Where… am I?
The question echoed hollow through his mind as his head throbbed. Memories slammed into him like hammer blows—the streets, a strange shimmering panel streaked with words, and then… darkness.
Did I die?
The thought chilled him, but the world around him swiftly shattered the notion.
Gone were the high vaults of the Valemont estate, its marble columns and silken drapes. Instead, a modest room stretched before him, unflinching in its poverty.
A wooden ceiling overhead, beams rough-hewn and weary with age.
A straw mattress beneath him, scratchy and merciless, gnawing aches into his spine.
A stool. A bucket of water, dull and motionless.
That was all. A cell masquerading as a room.
The air smelled faintly of crushed herbs and the warmth of freshly baked bread, grounding him in a reality too vivid for death's embrace. No golden gates, no eternal flames—only wood and straw.
If this was the afterlife, it was laughably mundane.
So… someone brought me here. But who?
Marcus? The thought came and fled like a shadow.
Before he could chase it further, the world split.
A shimmer, sharp as a knife, carved through his vision.
Symbols—luminous, alien—spilled into existence, golden script folding and unfolding like rivers of living light. They aligned into words, deliberate and cruelly beautiful, floating in the air before him.
Klein's breath hitched. His pulse thundered.
He recoiled, nearly striking the headboard, muscles taut with dread. His fists clenched as though to shield him from whatever sorcery this was.
"What sorcery is this?!" His voice cracked the silence, raw and accusing.
The glowing script pulsed once—then bled into meaning.
> [Sin System activation complete.]
[Initializing… System Interface bound to Subject: Klein Valemont.]
It knew his name.
It knows me.
The blood drained from his face. His lips trembled as he whispered, "Witchcraft…?"
It had to be. The dark arts whispered of in dusty tomes: curses that gnawed at minds, hexes that hollowed men into puppets. Had he been marked by such evil?
His heart thundered. His throat burned.
Then—
> [Correction: This is not sorcery, nor witchcraft. This is a System. An order beyond magic, designed to guide, record, and elevate its host, which, regrettably, is you.]
The voice slid into his skull, a blade of soundless clarity.
Klein froze. Fear curdled into fury. His nose flared, breath hissing.
"Regrettably? You dare look down on me?!" His roar shook the tiny chamber, fury burning hotter than fear. "How dare you, wretched trick of sorcery!"
He was no stranger to disdain—whispers behind curtains, scorn in the halls of Valemont. But those had been human mouths, human sneers.
To be mocked by a voice born of sorcery—or worse—was an insult beyond endurance.
Yet realization slithered in like a serpent.
The voice had not come from the air. It had rung inside him.
His eyes widened, emerald irises blazing with sudden recognition.
Telepathy.
The thought hollowed his chest. He remembered the Valemont library, dusty tomes of ancients whose mastery of magic let them project thought beyond flesh, to command minds with mere will. Such feats were myth, far beyond even his father—the Duke himself.
And yet this voice… this System… spoke within him as casually as breathing.
A flicker of awe pierced his fury.
If this being held power beyond kings and saints—
If it promised to guide him, to elevate him—
Then perhaps… his vow was not folly.
The vow carved into his soul with every drop of humiliation.
To bring the Valemont family to ruin.
And now, with this unseen power whispering in his veins, the impossible gleamed faintly—like the first shard of dawn tearing through night.
> [Seems you're not as dumb as you look. But you're also not completely right. The sound in your skull isn't telepathy. It's our link.]
Klein's brows knitted. The insult slid off him like rain against stone, but the word clung.
"Link?"
> [Yes. As I said, this System is no conjuration of witchcraft or cheap sorcery. I am an order—a construct above magic. To guide a host toward ultimate power, I must bind with them. Sadly… you are my host, and I am bound permanently to you. Alas, I can only accept what fate dealt me, even if it's trash like you. What misery.]
The sigh that followed slithered like smoke through his mind.
But Klein did not flare this time. His breath caught instead—two words carved themselves into his marrow.
Ultimate power.
The phrase tolled like a great bell. Power to crush mountains, silence kings, tear the heavens open.
His lips curled into a wolfish smile; his eyes glittered like flint catching flame.
"So," he murmured, voice slow, sharp, "if you're bound to me… that makes you my servant. No—my slave. Hehe."
The silence that followed was brittle. Then—
> [You—! Who are you calling a slave?!]
The crackle of rage reverberated through his skull.
But Klein had stopped listening.
The latch of the door clicked.
Light spilled in as wood creaked open. A figure stepped through—graceful, deliberate, carrying sunlight with her.
Her hair—golden, lustrous—cascaded over her shoulders, shimmering as though the sun itself had taken root in each strand. Eyes the color of a calm sea widened when they found him.
"Elora…" Klein breathed, disbelief and recognition tangling in his chest.
She froze—then rushed forward, urgency betraying her composure.
"My Lord! You're awake!"
Klein's brows knotted. My Lord? The words stung oddly in his ears. She had always called him Young Master. Always. Since childhood.
Confusion darkened his face.
"What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be back at the estate? And what's with this 'my Lord' nonsense?"
Elora's gaze faltered. Her lashes lowered, shadowing her eyes.
"Because…" Her tone was hushed, weighed with unspoken grief. "I requested to follow you. After you were banished."
Klein froze. His lips parted, confusion swirling like a storm.
"You… what?"
---
Earlier. The Duke's study.
The air hung heavy with burning cedar. Shadows from the crackling hearth clawed across towering shelves. Behind a desk of blackwood sat Duke Valemont, his presence as suffocating as a storm at sea.
Before him stood Elora.
She wore her maid's attire—simple, neat—but the fire in her eyes stripped away any hint of servitude. Her back was straight, her chin lifted, her expression carved from tempered steel.
The Duke's frown cut deeper than any blade. His voice rumbled dark, dangerous.
"What did you just say?"
"I said," Elora's tone was steady, unwavering, "that I wish to share my master's fate."
The words struck like thunder.
A chill rolled from the Duke, his aura swelling with suffocating weight. The floorboards groaned. The air itself seemed to constrict, chains tightening around her throat.
Any lesser servant would have collapsed. But Elora stood unmoving, her will a shield.
"You dare?" The Duke's voice was ice forged into steel. "Do you understand the consequences of such audacity?"
"Yes." Her reply was clear, each syllable a stone flung against the storm. "And I am prepared to bear them."
The silence that followed was a blade's edge, broken only by the fire's crackle.
The Duke leaned forward, shadows clinging to his face, his fingers drumming on polished wood.
"Why?" His gaze bore into her like a spear. "Why throw away your station, your security, your very life—for him? That trash son of mine, that stain upon Valemont's name. What worth does he hold, that you would walk into disgrace at his side?"