The Royal Hall of Aethelgard was a place designed to make you feel small. It was all high vaulted ceilings, white marble that shone like glass, and enough gold leaf to feed the slums for a decade. Tonight, it was louder than usual. The "Gala of Remembrance" was in full swing, and the smell of roasted pheasant and expensive wine was thick enough to choke on.
In the center of it all stood Prince Albert. He looked perfect. His hair was slicked back, his white-and-gold uniform didn't have a single crease, and he held a crystal flute of champagne like it was a scepter.
"To the fallen," Albert said, raising his glass. His voice carried across the room, boosted by a subtle wind-manipulation spell. "To Jayden Reed, the brave apprentice who gave his life so that we might secure the future of our kingdom. His sacrifice reminds us that even the most talentless among us can serve a purpose."
The nobles cheered. Some of them even wiped fake tears from their eyes. It was a beautiful performance.
I watched him from the edges of the room, standing near a tray of empty glasses. I was wearing the stiff, scratchy wool of a palace servant. My face was lowered, my hood gone, replaced by the generic look of a "nameless" worker. Thanks to Maria's intel, slipping into the servant's quarters had been easier than breaking into a bread shop.
Maria herself was across the room. She looked stunning in a deep emerald dress—the one she'd saved. She was playing her part perfectly, standing near the punch bowl with a look of "shame" on her face, making the other noblewomen feel comfortable enough to gossip around her. She was a sponge, soaking up every whispered secret about troop movements and tax records.
But I wasn't here for secrets tonight. I was here for a debt.
[System Note: Target Locked: Prince Albert.]
[Detection Risk: 0.1% (Dragon's Presence fully suppressed).]
I picked up a fresh bottle of vintage red wine and began weaving through the crowd. I moved with a slight limp, keeping my shoulders hunched to look smaller, weaker—exactly the way Albert remembered me.
The Prince was laughing at a joke made by a Duke when I "stumbled."
It was a clumsy, pathetic-looking move. I let my foot catch on the edge of a rug, and the bottle in my hand tilted perfectly. A dark, blood-red stream of wine splashed right across the front of Albert's pristine white tunic.
The laughter in the immediate circle died instantly. The silence spread like a cold front across the hall.
"You... you clumsy, mindless rat," Albert hissed. The "Golden Boy" mask didn't just slip; it shattered. His face twisted into something ugly and jagged.
"I'm so sorry, Your Highness," I mumbles, dropping to my knees. I kept my head down, staring at his polished boots—the same ones that had crushed my hand three months ago. "The floor... It was slippery. Please, let me clean it."
I reached out with a cloth, but Albert kicked my hand away.
"Don't touch me with your filth!" he roared. The wine was soaking into his chest, making him look like he'd been shot. For a man obsessed with his image, this was worse than a physical wound. "Do you have any idea what this silk costs? It's worth more than your entire family tree!.
The crowd watched, breathless. They expected a lashing or a trip to the dungeons. But Albert was embarrassed, and an embarrassed mage is a dangerous one.
"Actually," Albert said, his voice dropping to a low, lethal purr. "I think a simple apology isn't enough. We're here to celebrate a hero tonight. It's only fitting we purge the trash that pollutes his memory."
He raised his right hand. A circle of orange light sparked into existence around his palm. The temperature in the hall spiked. He wasn't just casting a light spell; he was summoning a High-Tier "Cremation Bolt." He was going to execute a servant in the middle of a ballroom just because his shirt got dirty.
"Die," Albert muttered.
The fire roared to life, a jagged spear of flame aimed directly at my head. The women in the front row screamed and turned away.
I didn't move. I didn't even flinch.
As the bolt reached my face, I reached up. It wasn't a fast move; it was a calm, steady one. I caught Albert's wrist with my right hand—the hand he thought he'd ruined.
The fire hit my palm and... vanished.
There was no explosion. No smoke. The flames simply puffed out like a candle in a gale, sucked into the "Void" that lived under my skin.
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush the lungs. Albert's eyes went wide. He tried to pull his hand back, but my grip was like a vise of cold iron. He pumped more mana into his arm, his veins bulging, but every spark of magic he produced was swallowed the moment it touched me.
"What... what are you?" Albert stammered, his face turning a sickly shade of grey.
I stood up slowly, finally letting my shoulders broaden. I didn't look like a servant anymore. I looked like the man who had walked out of the Abyssal Trenches.
I leaned in, pulling his face inches from mine. The smell of his expensive cologne was nauseating. I waited until I saw the exact moment recognition hit his eyes—the moment he realized the "dead hero" was standing in front of him, holding his life in one hand.
"The mud was colder than your fire, Albert," I whispered.
I said it just loud enough for him to hear, and just loud enough for the nobles in the front row to catch the words.
Albert's jaw dropped. "Jayden? No... that's impossible. You're dead. I saw the cave-in!"
"You saw what I wanted you to see," I said.
I didn't hit him. I didn't need to. The look of pure, unadulterated terror on his face was better than any punch. He started to shake, his knees buckling. He tried to scream for the guards, but his throat seemed to lock up.
[System Note: Fear Level: Maximum. Sovereign's Dominance established.]
Suddenly, a loud bang echoed from the back of the hall.
A thick, grey smoke began to pour from the ventilation grates—one of Jax's "slum-made" smoke bombs. Within seconds, the glittering Royal Hall was transformed into a foggy wasteland. The nobles panicked, knocking over chairs and screaming as they scrambled for the exits.
"Guards! Arrest him! Kill him!" Albert finally found his voice, shrieking into the grey mist.
But I was already gone. I moved through the smoke like I was part of it, my Dragon's Eye showing me the heat signatures of the guards as they blundered around blindly.
I made my way to the Prince's throne—the massive, gold-encrusted chair at the head of the room. With one fluid motion, I reached into the "Sovereign's Vault" ring and pulled out the piece of junk I'd been carrying.
Thwack.
I drove the rusted, broken remains of my father's original sword deep into the velvet cushion of the throne. It stood there, a jagged piece of trash in a sea of gold. It was a message.
By the time the mages cleared the smoke with wind spells, the "servant" was nowhere to be found.
Prince Albert stood in the center of the room, shivering and covered in wine, looking like a fool. His "Victory Gala" was a disaster. His "hero" was a ghost. And there, sitting on the seat where he planned to rule the kingdom, was a piece of rusted iron that looked exactly like a tombstone.
Maria was gone too, slipped out in the chaos.
I stood on the roof of a nearby cathedral, watching the palace guards swarm the grounds like angry ants. My black cloak snapped in the wind, and The Remorseful Fang hummed at my hip.
"Parties are over, Albert," I said to the wind. "Now, we start the real work."
Behind me, the shadows stirred. Jax and the others were waiting.
"Boss," Jax whispered. "They're locking down the city. Every gate is closed. How do we get back to the tannery?"
I looked at the high walls of Aethelgard. They looked like toothpicks from up here.
"We don't," I said. "We own the slums. Now, we're going to start taking the streets."