"Huff..."
Blake set down the documents in his hand and rubbed his temples, a wave of exhaustion washing over him.
He'd known things would be tricky ever since he'd taken over this body and absorbed the boy's memories—but he hadn't expected them to be this dire.
Spread out before him was a detailed report on Duskwood Village, and the contents were enough to make even a seasoned schemer like him frown.
The root of the problem lay with this so-called fief. The nobles who'd granted it to young Felix weren't fools, after all. They'd considered the possibility that the boy might know he was walking into a death trap—and decide to burn everything to the ground in a final act of spite before kicking the bucket. If that happened, the nobles would be left holding the bag, stuck with the mess of rebuilding and stabilizing the region. To prevent that, they'd given Felix a **Lord's Fief**—a carefully crafted trap in legal form.
On this continent, there were two types of fiefdoms. The first was a **Royal Fief**, granted directly by the crown to those who'd rendered extraordinary service to the kingdom or shared blood ties with the royal family. These fiefs were vast, resource-rich, and more than enough to sustain the status and honor of their lords. The second type was a Lord's Fief—a token of reward bestowed by holders of Royal Fiefs upon their vassals. Unlike Royal Fiefs, Lord's Fiefs had no clearly defined borders, and they were nearly impossible to develop. The nobles who granted them only handed over jurisdiction over a handful of specified towns and fortresses, nothing more.
Take Blake's current fief, for example. The nobles had technically given him the entire Duskwood Ridge—but in reality, he only had the right to collect taxes from Duskwood Village itself. The other villages and hamlets scattered along the ridge's outer edges, though technically within his domain, were beyond his reach.
And Duskwood Village was a backwater, cut off from the rest of the world. The townsfolk had lived here for generations, surviving on subsistence farming and hunting wild beasts in the forest—hardly a recipe for wealth. The village's monthly tax revenue amounted to a mere hundred gold coins.
A hundred gold coins was a fortune to commoners, but to a noble, it was barely enough to cover the cost of polishing their armor. It was clear the nobles had restricted Blake's authority to Duskwood Village specifically to curb his growth. They weren't worried about a dead man, but they *were* worried about a desperate one lashing out in his final days. With a population of less than a hundred and no economic clout to speak of, Blake couldn't raise an army even if he wanted to. He was free to flail around all he liked—they couldn't have cared less.
The only silver lining was that, out of some twisted sense of pity for a dying man, the nobles had "generously" waived his tax obligations for a full year. That meant Duskwood Castle wouldn't have to send a single coin to those leeches for twelve months. It was the only good news Blake had received since waking up in this body. Without that reprieve, he would've been stuck splitting a paltry hundred gold coins with the nobles every month—and even with his godlike powers, he would've packed his bags and run for the hills.
Duskwood Castle was no small fortress. In Blake's day, it had stood guard on the kingdom's border, nestled against the treacherous Duskwood Ridge—a strategic stronghold, easy to defend and nearly impossible to breach. The ridge was a labyrinth of steep cliffs and dense forests, and the castle sat on the only flat, accessible ground for miles around. It had been inextricably linked to the village below, with the castle protecting the townsfolk from invaders and the village supplying the castle with food and provisions. Add in the crystal-clear spring that flowed down from the mountains, and this place had been an unassailable fortress.
In Blake's era, a coalition army had laid siege to this castle for six long months. Despite outnumbering the defenders ten to one, the coalition had been forced to retreat in defeat, leaving behind nearly ten thousand dead. Legend had it that the forest's lush vegetation was nourished by the blood of those fallen soldiers.
But now, the castle had lost all its military value. The kingdom's borders had expanded by a third since Blake's time, rendering this once-vital fortress obsolete. And the castle's remote location made it impossible to transform into a commercial hub or a transportation center. So this once-glorious stronghold had fallen into ruin, and the village below had faded into obscurity—a place with no purpose, no future.
They were like soldiers discarded after the war, their reason for existence snuffed out the moment the fighting ended.
Blake shook his head, brushing aside these gloomy thoughts. He refocused his attention on the documents—there was too much to do to waste time wallowing in nostalgia. The wandering spirits could handle the cleaning and maintenance of the castle, but they were useless when it came to governance. And Blake had no intention of spending the rest of his days cooped up in this cursed fortress alone. He had plans—grand plans—and to carry them out, he would need resources.
This wasn't the first time Blake had built something from nothing. In his original world, he'd risen from rags to power, carving out an empire of his own. If fate hadn't played its cruel trick, he would've ruled that world for eternity. Then he'd been transported to this strange, magical realm—and even here, he'd followed his desires, climbing his way to become one of the most powerful beings on the continent. What's more, he'd anticipated that something like this might happen someday and laid the groundwork for his return.
But even so, his current situation was worse than starting from scratch.
No matter how powerful he was, Blake only had two hands and ten fingers. He couldn't do everything himself. He needed capable people—loyal, skilled subordinates—to help him manage his domain. But given his current circumstances, that seemed like a pipe dream.
"For now, I'll have to rely on myself."
Blake sighed in resignation and closed the documents. A cold gust of wind swept through the room, lifting the papers off the desk and sending them swirling through the air before they landed neatly on a nearby bookshelf. The castle hadn't been inhabited for nearly thirty years, but the previous owners had been too afraid of bringing the "demon's curse" back with them to take any of the furniture. That was a stroke of luck for Blake—he wouldn't have to waste time or resources replacing it. And with the wandering spirits patrolling the halls, even the most stubborn insects dared not set foot inside. The furniture was dusty, but otherwise intact—serviceable, at least for now.
A faint, ethereal giggle drifted through the cold air, echoing through the castle's dark, cavernous halls. To anyone else, it would've been a bone-chilling sound, enough to make them flee in terror. But to Blake, it was just the spirits playing their harmless little pranks. He didn't bother stopping them.
He'd been about to head to bed, to rest and rethink his strategy—but a soft whisper in his soul made him pause mid-step.
Blake could sense it clearly: the gentle, flowing current of spirit energy that usually surrounded him had suddenly turned turbulent and anxious. He focused his mind, listening to the spirits' urgent reports—and his eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"Is that so?"
Blake murmured to himself, a flicker of curiosity lighting up his eyes.
The torch in his hand cast a warm, flickering glow, chasing away the darkness and cold of the underground passage. Blake gripped the torch tightly, his boots crunching on the frost-covered stone steps as he descended deeper into the earth. His expression was grim, his right hand resting on the hilt of his new sword at his waist. Even without the full power of the **Knight of the Apocalypse** at his disposal, he could feel the danger lurking in the shadows—the thick, cloying stench of death and malice hanging in the air.
There was a wraith down here.
Ordinarily, the wandering spirits would've continued cleaning the castle for their master, just like they had the night before. But when they'd reached this section of the fortress, they'd been forced to stop. A presence far more powerful and cold than their own had claimed this place as its domain, blocking their path. Helpless, the spirits had no choice but to report the intrusion to Blake and leave it to him to handle.
This was a most unusual turn of events, to say the least.
These wandering spirits were no ordinary ghosts. They'd been born during the Age of Luminous Moons, a millennium ago when magic had been at its peak. They possessed formidable power in their own right, amplified by the soul-binding magic that had kept them trapped in this world for centuries. Their strength paled in comparison to a seasoned mage's, but in the spirit realm, they were nearly unbeatable. This castle had been a battlefield in its day; countless soldiers had died here, their spirits lingering as vengeful wraiths. But those wraiths had all been hunted down and devoured by the wandering spirits, consumed as sustenance. For a wraith to exist that the spirits couldn't defeat—it was a mystery, and one that piqued Blake's interest.
Now, standing in the pitch-black passage, Blake finally understood why his spirits had been unable to proceed.
The air was thick with the wraith's signature aura—a toxic blend of terror of death and obsession with life. But more than that, it was saturated with a unique type of magical energy: **Ethereal Power**. This energy only reacted to non-corporeal, spiritual beings. For the wandering spirits, who had no physical bodies, this place was a death trap. One step inside, and they would've been torn apart instantly.
But why was there so much Ethereal Power concentrated here?
Blake frowned and pressed on. Normally, only mages emitted magical auras after death. Could it be that a mage had died in his castle? If so, why hadn't the wandering spirits noticed it before?
The narrow corridor grew darker and more oppressive with every step, the torchlight dimming to a faint glimmer. Blake rounded a corner, and the soul-deep sense of murderous intent hit him like a physical blow. He didn't need to search for the source—it was right in front of him.
It was a well shaft.
It must've been hidden behind a wall in the castle's old dungeon, Blake thought. Over time, the wall had collapsed, creating a crack that allowed the wraith's aura to seep out. The well had long since run dry, its bottom exposed—a pit of bare stone and dirt. Blake jumped down into the shaft, landing lightly on the dusty ground. He turned, raising his torch—and his target came into view immediately.
It was a corpse.
Or rather, what was left of one.
Time had reduced the body to little more than a tattered husk, its bones mostly buried beneath a layer of yellowed dust. Blake moved the torch closer, illuminating the remains—and then his gaze drifted upward, to the walls of the shaft.
In the flickering firelight, he saw them: dozens of deep, ragged scratch marks, etched into the stone.
The well had been built with the finest quality stone—stone chosen for its ability to withstand immense pressure and resist water seepage. Not even a sword could leave a mark on its surface. And even if it could, the damp, moss-covered walls would've made climbing impossible. Yet here, on this impenetrable stone, were the unmistakable signs of someone clawing at the walls in a desperate, futile bid for freedom. The depth of the scratches spoke volumes about the sheer, unyielding will to live that had driven this person in their final moments.
But fate hadn't cared about their struggle. It had given them no mercy, no reprieve.
Such was the way of the world. Some people fought tooth and nail their entire lives, only to fall short of their goals. Even death couldn't save them from their failure.
Blake knelt down, reaching out to brush the dust off the skeletal remains. The wraith hadn't shown itself yet—but Blake had a plan to lure it out of hiding.
The moment he knelt, a blast of frigid, violent energy erupted from behind him, snuffing out the already guttering torch in an instant.