Chapter 20 (2 of 2) Magecraft, Wizardry and Mythos.
Infinityphoenix
Fantasizer
- Location
- Australia
"Once we discuss this with Count Ravimoux?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.
She shrugged innocently. "We can't exactly leave it now that we've realised things are getting this suspicious. I should go in person to have a conversation about this."
He stared at her and then sighed in exasperation. "Yet you went and gave me that list regardless."
She gave him a big smile. "If I hadn't, then my wonderful aide wouldn't have gone and discovered this new piece of information. Although even though you held that list away from you like it was toxic when I first handed it to you, I believe there's a bit of curiosity going on here," she said with a smirk.
He coughed. "Well I-I, um, is it not the responsibility of an aide to make sure their liege hasn't made an error?"
"I don't care if you look at what I've handed to you. In fact, it's necessary. I can't get my plans done if you don't corroborate your actions with my intentions," she said, crossing her arms. "But if I ask you to take action against those spies, you can't go running to me complaining that it's too risky or I might offend those Factions."
He hesitated. "Are you planning to?"
She rolled her eyes. "Not yet. They haven't been caught for so long, so it would be better to use them to leak false information to their forces. It would be suspicious to act on them now."
She gazed flatly at him as he let out a 'barely detectable' sigh of relief, forgetting how much detail she could know within her perception field. "Make sure to tell me if they try to stir anything up, however. If they try to use me for some plot, I want to know," she added.
"But would they really, at this junction? The Crown Prince has practically been decided already," he said, tapping his fingers against his arm.
She sighed. "Yes, but the almost Crown Prince would also love to get more forces on his side before he becomes Emperor so he doesn't have many difficulties after he lands the throne. He will be the second Emperor from the Radical faction in the Empire's history. Olden has already expressed their immense distaste for that and would try to reduce his power so the prince can't implement policies for Radical. Besides," she continued. "The 6 Eternal Duchies would love to interfere with us too. They've always been annoyed at the power the Commission holds without being a duchy."
"Not the 7th Duchy?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She paused and then shook her head. "Foreign Prince Stolas Eterial has no ambitions to become involved with the central politics of the Eternal Empire. He was instituted as an Archduke to facilitate inter-realm trade and reduce hostilities between the Empire and the Heavenly Realm, so he'd probably rather welcome us, as money is the one universal language among the realms."
She tapped on her chin. "I should go meet him during the Empire's banquet. His Duchy is the only one that hadn't been around to meet the Founder and Counts, being around 200 years old. Working with him should enable the Commission to balance its relationship with the Eternal Duchies."
"You need a valid reason to meet him. It is well known he doesn't appreciate being used for political ploys without benefit to his Duchy, and would return the favour tenfold. Likely personally. He is a very proficient Aether Warden," he said, grimacing.
She raised an eyebrow. "Seen something, have you?"
"You would never know the horrors of seeing someone who appears in his mid-20s locking a Grand Archmagus of Fire in a barrier, slowly squeezing him until his body is crushed and his organs spill out, just to make a point, while calmly smiling the whole time in front of the entire noble population of the Empire," he replied, shuddering as he remembered one particular event he had been to.
Lucy gained an odd expression when she heard that. "But he's not normally a violent person, is he? Did the Archmagus meet him on an unlucky day?"
"Oh no, the Archmagus well and truly deserved it," Vincent told her, shrugging. "He, being a xenophobic pig, had blatantly tried to attack a Sect Leader of one of the Five Heavenly Sects without reason. The Archduke killed him right then and there for it."
"Ah. Well, that's a justified reason to kill someone when you're responsible for inter-realm relations," she stated flatly. "But he's normally a passive and well-liked person among the Empire's nobles."
"Except among the other 6 Eternal Duchies," he added dryly.
"They don't count, because they have always hated each other. A new rival changes nothing," she said.
She leaned back and put her elbow on the armrest of the chair, placing her chin on her hand. "Anyway, how's the progress on the debut invitations going?"
"There have been no complaints about the rules for invitations, however, many have been wondering what order you will use to invite people. A single messenger will have to visit several clans, and as this is your first public event, you need to be careful not to offend the wrong people," he said.
She blinked. "Just do it in alphabetical order."
"Alphabetical order?" he replied, frowning slightly.
"Yes. Obviously, you visit the higher nobility first, but for those within the same noble tier, just visit the ones whose letter of Imperial Common comes first," she said, looking at her left hand distractedly.
"Well, I mean, sure that could work," he responded, holding his chin. "It's not how nobility would normally do it."
She gave him a dismissive wave. "Yes, I know they like to do it based on a multitude of complicated factors such as time as vassals, contribution to the Counties, bloodline connection, age, wealth, plane, etcetera, etcetera. But the order of delivering invitations doesn't influence the order of entering the Headquarters' ballroom and being announced. How many nobles would find an issue with it if I did it this way?"
"Not many. Partly because they wouldn't want to offend you, or 'me' through you," he replied. "But also because they like to ask the messenger what order the invitations were delivered in. Checking to see if it was in alphabetical order is something easily done, and there would be no room for complaints, besides some traditionalists arguing that 'youth have no respect for the old customs'. This should assuage the messengers' worries."
She nodded. The messengers would be the most worried because there was always a chance the nobility could choose to take their anger out on the messenger after the event. Not before it, because that would offend the host of the event, but it was still a relatively feasible possibility for it to happen afterwards through assassination or similar.
She clasped her hands together and stretched them out before her. "Any other updates, or things on the agenda?"
He put a hand into his suit's pocket, pulling out a small slip of paper. Unfolding it, he pushed up his glasses and peered at it. "My grandfather has told us the Emperor has allowed us to retrieve the Aurelian Commission Head's seal from the Empire's Vault, and the Imperial Courier will arrive with it within three days, so we can use it to issue invitations to the Commission's nobles."
The Evisenhardt Count, being the head of the County of the Commission with closest relations to the Imperial family, and also just the closest County to the Capital City in general, had taken up the task of going to the Emperor to officially appeal for the seal to be retrieved. It was also Lucy's method of indirectly telling the Emperor there was a new Commission Head. She was sure Count Evisenhardt had already revealed to the Emperor her fake status as a true puppet leader and probably discussed a few more key details like her soul age, but she was fine with that. Lying to the Emperor was treason, and she didn't want to be a criminal so soon.
She nodded, so Vincent continued. "The tailor will also be arriving tomorrow, and Count Ravimoux will be in Gilded Seat in a week. The invitations are already being written, and most just need the seal to complete it. I'll need you to write that letter to Efratel Vadel so we can insert it into the envelope before the invitations are delivered."
"Already done," she said, getting up from her armchair. She went over to the desk, and after withdrawing a key from her dimensional pouch, she unlocked a drawer on her desk. She pulled out a piece of folded parchment. Walking back over, she handed it to Vincent for him to read. He held his chin thoughtfully as he pondered over it.
"This seems well-written enough, if very typical of you. But what did you mean by putting 'looking forward to seeing you again' without signing your name?" he asked, raising his eyes to look at her.
She grinned like a cat. "It will throw him for a loop."
"You want to mess with him," he responded dryly.
With a wide smile on her face, she leaned against his armchair and shrugged. "It's not only to mess with him."
"So that is part of the reason."
"Nobody's seen the Faction Head's handwriting, so who would believe this was actually from the Commission Head? I know you plan to put the Evisenhardt seal on the envelope to give it validity, but you have to admit, this letter is very suspicious," she told him. "This sentence means the Faction Head or their aide knows who he is, and has met him in person. He'll be more likely to come to the private meeting with that in the letter."
He eyed her dubiously but sighed and put the letter into his pocket. "Whatever you say, my lord." Then he furrowed his brows. "It still feels weird to call you that."
"Faction Head is a gender-neutral position. Plus, when a female inherits a duchy, you don't call her Duchess, you call her Duke, and her husband Duke Consort. It's the same thing for all noble titles. You could call me lady if you wish."
For some inexplicable reason, he shuddered, making Lucille narrow her eyes at his reaction.
"I have never seen a person who 'Lady' does not fit more," he muttered.
"Then I suppose this wonderful subordinate of mine is going to be kept here until 11 pm helping me fill out forms," she stated dryly. "How kind of you for volunteering. I will make sure to reward you for your loyalty."
She left the frozen Vincent to start sorting out the documents he had brought in, ignoring the strangulated sounds of Vincent crying, "When have I ever volunteered?!"
Lucy actually couldn't care less about his opinions on her ability to be 'ladylike' or not, but she could admit it was very entertaining to pick on the man. It was something about the way he hadn't realised he kept getting himself into trouble by falling for her tricks.
On a dry dusty battleground, there were the sounds of strong wind whistling through the plains, accompanied by only heavy footsteps as the sun headed towards the horizon, approaching dusk. Scattered across the ground were blood-coated pieces of armour and discarded weapons, the signs of battle. Decaying bodies and carrion were seen across the area, and the occasional sound of crows was heard as the ravenous corvids devoured the flesh of those slain. Spears and broken swords were sticking into the ground at odd angles, but there was one particular point on the battlefield where the heaviest concentration of bodies could be found.
A lone individual walked away from this point. He was an intimidating figure. He was bulky and tall, with wide shoulders, and heavily built. He was outfitted in a mix of dark-grey metal and brown leather armour, leather straps wrapped around his arms. In one hand he carried a tall blood-red and black spear with several small points along its blade and had thick, untamed dark-red hair that cascaded far down his back. Two long braids fell past his ears on either side of his face. On any other day, the man could perhaps look attractive if somewhat cold, but drying blood was splattered across his clothes and face, leaving him drenched, his hair matted, and appearing terrifying and merciless, the scent of blood even overpowering the smell of the carnage around him. Deep amber eyes glowed with intensity as he trudged towards a single target in the distance.
As the man drew closer to his location, stepping over the piled bodies, one of the formed moved and revealed itself to be a heavily injured man, groaning weakly as he clung onto the red-haired man's leg for help. Without hesitation, the blood-stained warrior swung his spear and decapitated the injured person with a spurt of blood before they could make another move. The spray drenched the man's fist and arm, but he shook it to remove the worst of the crimson liquid and kept moving.
After some time, he had put the bodies and the battlefield behind him and stepped forward to stand in front of an encampment of tents close to a nearby forest. Roaring laughter and loud voices could be heard from within the encampment in the dusk of the evening, and the warm glow of a tall bonfire shone through the tents. Two men dressed in a mix of steel and leather armour were lazily chatting as one rested his hand on his longsword's pommel, and the other leaned atop the large greatsword implanted into the earth beneath his feet. The longsword user noticed the red-haired man and waved, smirking, while the other glanced at the red-headed spearman and then ignored him.
"If it isn't our mighty Sir Einar!" the longsword user remarked, the tone of his voice mocking rather than with any familiarity. "Have you returned from butchering the rest of the peasants, oh Dreaded Spear-fiend of Blood?"
The man leaning against the greatsword scoffed. "Of course he has. Anyone could smell that thick scent of blood from miles away."
Einar looked between the two of them, inexpressive and unresponsive to their comments. "…. are you going to let me through?" he asked in a low voice, his throat scratchy and dry from the dusty wind on the battleground.
The man with the greatsword scowled, straightening up to hoist the sword over his shoulder. He separated from the longsword user, who gave Einar a mocking bow as the taller man walked past them both. The greatsword user leaned in and spat on Einar's boot as he passed, making the red-haired man glance at him with amber eyes.
"Filthy dog of a filthy noble," the greatsword user growled.
Hearing that, Einar ignored him and continued walking forward into the encampment. As he headed towards the central area of the encampment where the fire was, the warriors he passed turned their heads to gaze at him with mild hostility, and several screwed up their noses as they smelt the stench of blood coming from him. When his gaze occasionally met the gazes of those in front of him, they flinched away quickly and turned their heads to get back to what they were doing, but he could feel their gazes on his back as he made it to the main cleared space of the camp.
The ones responsible for the raucous laughter from earlier were all sitting around the campfire, drinking tankards of alcohol, and raising their voices boisterously as they traded stories. One of them, with unruly brown hair and a scarred face, had two female warriors in each arm, and several other warriors joked and flattered him. He looked up from one of the women at his side and noticed Einar walking past them. He sneered.
"Had a fun time out there, 'Spear-fiend?" the man shouted, attracting the attention of the men surrounding him. They looked up and had various mocking expressions, snickering at, or ignoring the red-haired man.
Einar ignored him and them, walking over to a large rock that was a distance away from the campfire, and sat down. Reaching into a thick leather bag at his waist, he withdrew a cloth and began wiping down his red-black spear with it, removing the blood and other substances coating its surface.
The scarred man's expression darkened when he saw that the spearman had ignored him, but he didn't stop sneering. "Stay silent if you wish," he yelled. "We all know you just loved murdering those pitiful commoners. The way you felt your spear slice into the soft, unprotected flesh…" He mimed swiping across his neck. "It's no wonder you got that nickname Dread Spear, you bloodthirsty hellbeast."
The red-haired spearman continued ignoring him and the insults, studiously cleaning his spear. He turned it a bit to see if he missed anything, and the serrated blade end glinted red in the light of the campfire. Satisfied, he put away the cloth, leant the spear against the rock, and began peeling off the leather straps wrapped around his palms, the bloodstained material leaving grimy red tracks where it had been.
The scarred man scowled at him. "The General should be so proud."
Hearing that, Einar finally paused his motion, looked up, and gazed wordlessly at the man with his deep amber eyes. After a tense moment, he slowly blinked once, and then returned to unpeeling the leather straps in a clear dismissal of the man's words.
The man's expression turned ugly and he made a motion to stand up, but one of the men sitting just behind him patted his shoulder and whispered a few words into the man's ear, making him pause, and fall back with a strangely elated expression on his face. The man who had whispered glanced at Einar and spoke up with a much louder voice. "Don't waste your time on him, Graves. Nobody should. He's not one of us."
The scarred man smirked, before breaking out into a loud laugh, hugging the shoulders of the women beside him close to his sides. "That's right my friends! Who cares about a noble's fardyl dog? No, it was far more interesting to hear Enrick's tales of that night at Blue Waterlily Inn…"
The rowdy men went back to drinking their rum and other alcohol, swapping vulgar tales and cruel anecdotes about the battles of the past. Einar continued unravelling the leather straps he had around his forearms and shoulders, then started to untie his leather armour. He was just about to begin doing the same for his dark-grey steel armour when he paused as he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching. He looked up to see the figure of a mature-looking woman with long raven hair and piercing green eyes heading towards him. She was dressed in a long grey cloak with silver fastenings, and she walked with authority as she gazed at the camp with distaste. A few of the campfire's warriors noticed her and wolf-whistled, making the scarred man look up. He smirked, a greedy look in his eyes.
"Have you finally come to join us, your most eminent Highness?"
She gazed at the man for a moment but turned away and walked up to Einar. He gazed up at her. "Asla," was all he said.
Her expression didn't change as she gestured to the tall tent behind her. "The Vice-Master has received a letter from the General. He has requested your presence," she stated coolly, abruptly turning back around, and walking towards the tent, making the scarred man scowl at how she had ignored his question.
Einar frowned slightly at her odd behaviour, but got up from his rock, grabbing his spear and inserting it into the holder he had strapped to his back. He followed after her, his long, wild red hair moving in the wind of the night. The scarred man called after them. "Have you been too cold to your missus? Maybe chasing after younger women?" he snickered.
Einar just glanced at him, but Asla, who was easily in her late twenties to early thirties, whirled around and stared at the scared man. "You seem to think being the blood-related brother of the Vice-Master allows you to take certain liberties within this subdivision of the Warband, Graves. May I remind you that I hold the power to suggest to the General which mercenaries we should continue to employ, and which we should not."
Graves scowled but returned his attention to the conversation with his fellow mercenaries. But as Einar and Asla walked towards the Vice-Master's tent, the man's eyes tracked their forms. Asla swept aside the tent's curtain and Einar did the same after her, finding themselves standing before a stern-looking dark-haired and battle-scarred man in his 40s, standing up and reading a report. He didn't look up as they entered.
"I have brought Mercenary Einar as ordered," Asla announced, walking towards one side of the tent, and remaining there.
The battle-scarred man looked up and nodded to Asla, then turned to face Einar. He picked up a thick letter made of yellow parchment sealed by a red seal and held it out to the red-haired man. "Read this," he told him sternly.
Einar lowered his amber eyes from the Vice-Master to gaze at the letter, before stepping forward and reaching out to grab it with his large calloused hands. Opening it, his expression slowly darkened as he read it, and by the time he refolded the letter, he was frowning heavily. The Vice-Master ignored his expression, to gesture to the letter, speaking with an authoritative voice.
"As you can see, your position as the General of Blazing Iron's successor has been officially revoked. His second student will be given the Spear Mythos's signature mana-art, and will become a new Champion of the Spear Major Discipline at Glory Pantheon," he stated.
"As you know, your position here in the Indomitable Mercenary Warband was the result of a debt owed to the General by the Warband Master, and you were put under my command by the General's request. Now that your master has revoked your succession rights, and now has no relation with you as he has stated in his letter," he continued, distractedly rifling through the reports on his desk, "I will be transferring you to another subdivision. Asla will be remaining here, as she is no longer your supervisor. Please make preparations to leave by the third hour, tomorrow afternoon." The Vice-Master fell silent, ignoring Einar and Asla once more.
Einar didn't answer, gazing at the letter still held in his hands. Asla stepped forward, a slight frown on her face. "Einar?" she asked.
Einar raised his amber eyes to look at the Vice-Master. "Sir." The man didn't respond, so Einar asked again, "Vice-Master Fallwen."
The Vice-Master looked up with a slight frown on his face. "What is it, Mercenary Einar? I'm busy."
"I resign," he stated calmly. They blinked.
The Vice-Master and Asla both stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?" the Vice-Master repeated.
"I resign from the Indomitable Mercenary Warband," Einar said again. He reached a hand to his chest and ripped off a metal plaque he had attached there, the symbol of the Warband engraved on it. He placed it on the Vice-Master's desk and withdrew his hand, making his point clear.
The Vice-Master's expression darkened. "If you truly mean to resign, then you have to-"
"Pay ten times the price paid to me when I joined. I know," Einar interrupted. He reached into his leather pouch at his waist, withdrawing ten round crystalline objects. He placed them on the desk. "Ten crystalline tokens," he stated emotionlessly.
Asla frowned and stepped forward. "Einar, that is a significant amount. Think about this more. Now that you have no relation to the General, remaining within the warband is your best-"
She paused as the loud clang of metal was heard as Einar undid the fastenings of his dark metal shoulder guard, dropping it to the ground. He did it again with his vambraces, chestplate and shin guards, straightening up to gaze at the Vice-Master. "And I have returned all armour given to me by the Warband," he continued. He never once looked at Asla.
The Vice-Master gazed at the bloody, unclean armour with distaste. Then he raised his eyes to look at the spear on Einar's back. "The spear-"
"-Is a reward from the System itself for Einar's efforts in clearing the Southern Dearth Dungeon," Asla interrupted to stand in front of the red-haired man, gazing at the Vice-Master with narrowed eyes. "It has no relation to the warband."
Einar finally glanced at her, but his expression didn't change. He returned his gaze to the Vice-Master. "May I leave now, Indomitable Mercenary Warband's Vice-Master Fallwen?" he asked, emphasising the new lack of relation to each other.
Vice-Master Fallwen gazed solemnly at Einar for a while. Then he sighed and gave him a dismissive wave as he returned to his reports. "Yes, you may. As of now, you have officially left the warband. You may not return," he stated with finality.
Asla's eyes widened and she opened her mouth to say something to the Vice-Master, but stopped and looked over her shoulder when she heard rustling. Without hesitation, as soon as the Vice-Master had said his statement, Einar had turned around and swept aside the tent's cloth entrance flap, marching towards the campfire. Asla hastily followed after him as he retrieved the leather straps he had untied and unwound from his hands and walked towards his private tent, ignoring the mocking jeers and calls from the curious mercenaries.
He rolled up his bedroll, stuffed his belongings away into a large pack, and exited his tent, ignoring all of Asla's attempts to get him to talk. Not packing up the tent, as it was a belonging of the warband, he left the encampment and headed towards the forest. Only once he was at least out of sight of the encampment did he stop in place, letting Asla catch up to him, panting as she tried to catch her breath. She straightened up as Einar turned around to gaze at the woman.
"Why did you do that?" she demanded, gesturing to the encampment. "The fact that the Vice-Master didn't kick you out is a sign of your talent. He was moving you so you didn't have to deal with Graves," Asla said. "You're a valuable Rank-4 nearing 5, the Warband would want to keep you, and they do."
Einar gazed wordlessly at her for a while, before opening his mouth to speak. "Make no mistake, Asla," he stated, watching her solemnly. "I do not need your 'generosity'. I am aware it was you who asked for my transfer."
She stared at him, and then sighed, running a hand down her face. "Can't I have some goodwill towards the boy I knew for practically 10 years?" she pleaded.
Einar crossed his arms. "What little relationship we had was discarded when the General placed you as my supervisor so he could put all his attention on the little dragon-blooded boy that became the new successor," he said, his voice emotionless. "The word 'friends' has not applied to us for over 8 years. What are you trying to do here?"
She grimaced. "Look, I-" Then she paused, and sighed again, shaking her head. "Never mind. What are you going to do now? No Mercenary Guild will accept someone who has been effectively exiled from both the General's weapon clan and the Indomitable Mercenary Warband. You must have some plan."
He looked at her for a moment, before turning his eyes to the small dim glow of light in the distance between the trees. "Maybe if the General had ever seriously considered me as his successor then he and you would be able to find out."
She watched him with a complicated look on her face. "I know that the General never returned your desire for a father and son relationship, but that doesn't-"
She stopped when she noticed Einar's expression had finally changed. A sardonic smirk had spread across his face as he gazed at Asla with dark amusement. "I have never, not once, considered the General as my family. I knew what he was like from the moment he took a little dirty orphan off the streets of one of the 108 Minor Kingdoms. I was only ever a tool." Then his expression went cold, amber eyes glowing dimly. "That does not mean he has not broken his promise to me. He offered me his mana-art in return for my talent as a spearman." He shook his head in derision. "Too bad a mere blood-element manipulator doesn't match up to a dragon-blooded little noble of the Empire."
He turned back around and began making his way through the forest.
"Wait, Einar-" Asla began, stretching out a hand to pause him. He stopped but didn't turn around.
"If you have something to say, then say it now. I will make an effort to never meet again," he stated. Then he paused and let out a light chuckle. "Do you want to say sorry?" he asked mockingly, tilting back his head to look over his shoulder.
Asla bit her lip as she withdrew her hand. He gazed at her for a moment, and then laughed softly again, shaking his head with amusement. "I don't need a sorry," he said, his voice low and quiet once more. "After all, you won't feel the need to be sorry once all this is over."
And then he marched onwards, leaving Asla alone in the dark forest to ponder over what his words meant.
…
At a river in the forest, the red-haired man was shirtless as he doused himself with water using a bucket he had retrieved from his dimensional skill. The icy water of the night would've chilled any pre-System individual to the bone, but for him, he barely felt it. The blood matting his thick red hair was slowly washed away as he dumped bucket after bucket over his head. He frowned slightly when the reddish water began dripping down his face, so he placed the bucket on the riverside next to his belongings and headed deeper into the water to wet his entire body. He went under and then pushed his head up through the surface, the currents causing the cool water to flow over the multitude of scars he had collected over the years over his body. A particularly large cross-shaped scar on his back twinged as he dived again, feeling his tangled hair slowly become looser.
Hargrave Einar didn't care for the lingering emotions of the General's poison mage. The fact she had been placed as his supervisor 10 years ago and still remained one meant that she was well-trusted by the Spear Mythos, and had likely been very willing to report his every move. The 17-year-old boy who discovered this 8 years ago had felt betrayed, but Hargrave had no thoughts about it anymore. The fact she had tried to do something like this to assuage her twisted remnant sense of guilt and responsibility rubbed him wrongly, but as long as leaving him alone was what she interpreted as the best thing for him, he was fine to let her live. The General, however, he could not be left alive.
That man had broken his promise. Hargrave didn't expect everyone to follow his values when it came to oaths, but this time, the General needed to be held accountable. That was because the very person who had indoctrinated him with the importance of keeping to his promises was the General himself. It was obvious Hargrave was only a tool till the very end, and when he had outlived his purpose…
He expected there to be an assassination attempt in the coming few months had he remained a mercenary at the warband. The Spear Mythos of Blazing Iron would never let the shameful failed inheritor of his mana-art remain alive to desecrate the identity of his new precious dragon-blooded successor. He was sure Asla had vaguely understood this as well, but due to her distorted concept of their relationship, she had held hopes that the fact the General hadn't asked for Hargrave to return all the magic items and money he had been gifted as his 'successor' that maybe the General didn't have any intention to kill him.
He didn't care if the General issued a bounty for his death. Anyone who would come after him would die in due time. But he planned to be a hunter, and for that, he needed an identity that would let him survive until he got his revenge. Instead of Hargrave Einar, he could be…
Come to think of it, did either of them ever once refer to me as Hargrave?
Hargrave wasn't sure they even knew his first name. Orphans often didn't have a last name, but he did, so he introduced himself as Einar because it was customary to reveal your last name first when meeting a noble. So, if he had ever been adopted by the General to become his real heir… he probably would've been Einar Selwood. He scowled when his fingers caught on the tough matting of his dark-red hair, and waded back to the riverside. His long hairstyle was customary for the successor of the Selwood weapon clan, but he was no longer the successor.
Picking up his spear, he gathered his hair and cut into it. The thick knots, the strength of his Rank-4 hair and quantity of it meant that even his Epic-ranked spear couldn't slice through it in one deft movement, rather requiring him to slowly cut through it. When he was done, the haircut was uneven and messy, some sections falling past his shoulders while some only fell to his ears, but he didn't care. He cut short the two braids on either side of his face as well, one of them becoming longer than the other. Then after rinsing his hair with the bucket once more, he got out and dried himself with a towel, pulling on a new clean white shirt afterwards.
He sat along the riverside for a while after that, just thinking. He would just go by Hargrave, no last name. He had a magic item that could disguise his hair and eye colour for the time being, but his fighting style and weapon were too eye-catching.
Using the leather straps that had been around his limbs, he began wrapping them around his spear, Eolith, the material hiding the black and red designs. Then he opened up his Status, leaving the skill section aside.
[Status: ]
Name: Hargrave Einar (Lvl. 493)
Class: Blood-stained Spearmaster of Eolith – Ancient (Tier: XIV)
Age: 26y
Race: Human
HP: 82,928/98,200 {+3133.69/1m}
MP: 32,971/46,350 {+5380/1m}
Stats:
Free Stat Points: 3
STR: 2079 SPRT: 327
CON: 1964 MENT: 68
AGI: 1182 CHAR: 3
DEX: 849
INT: 927
WIS: 538
[Origin Skill: True Heart-Blood Subsummation | Type: Absorption/Realm
Desc: [Collapsed]
Subskills: [Collapsed]
Awakening: 89% ]
He frowned slightly as he looked at his Status. It reminded him all too much of the 'resources' the General gave him so he could be a passable heir. But not once did the General ever give him the elixir that would increase his fire affinity to the extent he could use the General's mana-art. He couldn't say anything of this Status was purely his own… except his spear and the Origin Skill. However, he had only ever used one subskill of his Origin Skill because of a promise he had made to his mother…
But if the General was going to break his promises, then Hargrave would have to break his too. He tapped on the Origin Skill which he hadn't checked for years.
[Origin Skill: True Heart-Blood Subsummation | Type: Absorption/Realm
Desc: Blood is the life-giving substance of almost all living creatures. It carries the breath, the power, and the spirit of the body. The magical beasts draw on their ancestral lineage to cast impossible spells, while the demons use their lineage to use the dark and malicious Demonic Script of their race. This User can go beyond mere blood manipulation, to manipulate their own source, race, and bloodline. They only have to try.
Subskills:
Awakening: 89% ]
Before his mother had passed away from an incurable disease in some slum, she had warned him of something. A myth carried down throughout her family of fallen nobility. If there was anybody born with red hair in their family, they should either be killed or never learn to use their abilities. That was because they carried the ability to absorb the bloodline and source of any other flesh and blood creature. They could change to become a magical beast, a demon, an elf, a dwarf, a soul beast of the Heavenly Realm, or anything that carries blood in their veins, but also use the abilities of those that did not by devouring their source. However, because of this, they could also become twisted abominations, with the characteristics of the undead, the demons, and other races manifesting when they exited their human form, distorted creatures of mindless terror.
But he didn't remember that last sentence of the skill description. He knew awakening an Origin Skill could change it sometimes, but this seemed like the System was pushing him to use the skill. He supposed it was because of another reward he had earned with his evolvable demonic spear, Eolith. Reaching into his dimensional skill with his will, his arm pushed through the hole that had appeared in space before him to retrieve a certain clear sphere. It was a very rare and desired reward, one he had never told anyone else about. But it was his way to defeat the General, who he knew he could never do with his current skills.
[Item – Type: System ]
Name: Reset Orb
Rarity: Legendary
Desc: To those who have taken the wrong path and misused their potential, the System offers them another chance.
Ability:
Reset – Begin again.
[ ]
He turned the clear orb, barely larger than a marble, within his hands. He would keep his Titles and Origin Skill awakening rate, but beyond that, he would essentially be like someone fresh out of the Tutorial. He would naturally Rank up when he reaches the required level. There was only one issue… it was his 4th Primary Skill. Scarlet-Stained Eolith, a skill made just for his signature weapon. It was what enabled him to get an Ancient rarity class, and he feared if he removed the skill, his spear would return to being just an Uncommon weapon. But it was evolvable, so he could always re-evolve it.
Taking a breath, he swallowed the orb, which disintegrated as it moved down his throat. Slowly, he felt his stats leach out of him, his ranks falling with every level lost, and the passive perception and body-boosting skills disappeared, leaving him feeling blind and weak. It was a humbling feeling. He clenched his fist, getting used to the new sensation of his primary skills being missing, a sensation akin to losing a limb you never knew you had. However, his soulbond with the spear remained, and he could tell it was still Epic ranked. He wouldn't be defenceless. Plus, there was a hidden side effect not mentioned in the description of the orb: all his scars were removed, and his body became like that of someone after the Tutorial.
He stood up, picking up his pack, and placing his disguised spear back into its holder on his back. Then, he marched off towards what he knew to be the direction of the nearest Ascendant city. Once he made it to the Obelisk, the General would be hard-pressed to find him.
He made a decision that from then onwards, he would only ever attack those who attacked him first. Nobody else needed to die when the General was the only target of his revenge.
As Hargrave had pondered over the best way to complete his revenge, he was reminded of the little 18-year-old dragon-blooded noble who had become the General's successor. Remembering his Source Absorption subskill, his eyes glowed with intensity. If it was the power of a dragon that the General wanted, then Hargrave would give him the power of a dragon. It would make him a heinous criminal, someone detested by all the realms, but it would give him the overwhelming power he desired to defeat the General so utterly that he would never dare face another man again.
Hargrave would become a dragon-slayer.
And then maybe, I could find out what I'm truly worth.
She shrugged innocently. "We can't exactly leave it now that we've realised things are getting this suspicious. I should go in person to have a conversation about this."
He stared at her and then sighed in exasperation. "Yet you went and gave me that list regardless."
She gave him a big smile. "If I hadn't, then my wonderful aide wouldn't have gone and discovered this new piece of information. Although even though you held that list away from you like it was toxic when I first handed it to you, I believe there's a bit of curiosity going on here," she said with a smirk.
He coughed. "Well I-I, um, is it not the responsibility of an aide to make sure their liege hasn't made an error?"
"I don't care if you look at what I've handed to you. In fact, it's necessary. I can't get my plans done if you don't corroborate your actions with my intentions," she said, crossing her arms. "But if I ask you to take action against those spies, you can't go running to me complaining that it's too risky or I might offend those Factions."
He hesitated. "Are you planning to?"
She rolled her eyes. "Not yet. They haven't been caught for so long, so it would be better to use them to leak false information to their forces. It would be suspicious to act on them now."
She gazed flatly at him as he let out a 'barely detectable' sigh of relief, forgetting how much detail she could know within her perception field. "Make sure to tell me if they try to stir anything up, however. If they try to use me for some plot, I want to know," she added.
"But would they really, at this junction? The Crown Prince has practically been decided already," he said, tapping his fingers against his arm.
She sighed. "Yes, but the almost Crown Prince would also love to get more forces on his side before he becomes Emperor so he doesn't have many difficulties after he lands the throne. He will be the second Emperor from the Radical faction in the Empire's history. Olden has already expressed their immense distaste for that and would try to reduce his power so the prince can't implement policies for Radical. Besides," she continued. "The 6 Eternal Duchies would love to interfere with us too. They've always been annoyed at the power the Commission holds without being a duchy."
"Not the 7th Duchy?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She paused and then shook her head. "Foreign Prince Stolas Eterial has no ambitions to become involved with the central politics of the Eternal Empire. He was instituted as an Archduke to facilitate inter-realm trade and reduce hostilities between the Empire and the Heavenly Realm, so he'd probably rather welcome us, as money is the one universal language among the realms."
She tapped on her chin. "I should go meet him during the Empire's banquet. His Duchy is the only one that hadn't been around to meet the Founder and Counts, being around 200 years old. Working with him should enable the Commission to balance its relationship with the Eternal Duchies."
"You need a valid reason to meet him. It is well known he doesn't appreciate being used for political ploys without benefit to his Duchy, and would return the favour tenfold. Likely personally. He is a very proficient Aether Warden," he said, grimacing.
She raised an eyebrow. "Seen something, have you?"
"You would never know the horrors of seeing someone who appears in his mid-20s locking a Grand Archmagus of Fire in a barrier, slowly squeezing him until his body is crushed and his organs spill out, just to make a point, while calmly smiling the whole time in front of the entire noble population of the Empire," he replied, shuddering as he remembered one particular event he had been to.
Lucy gained an odd expression when she heard that. "But he's not normally a violent person, is he? Did the Archmagus meet him on an unlucky day?"
"Oh no, the Archmagus well and truly deserved it," Vincent told her, shrugging. "He, being a xenophobic pig, had blatantly tried to attack a Sect Leader of one of the Five Heavenly Sects without reason. The Archduke killed him right then and there for it."
"Ah. Well, that's a justified reason to kill someone when you're responsible for inter-realm relations," she stated flatly. "But he's normally a passive and well-liked person among the Empire's nobles."
"Except among the other 6 Eternal Duchies," he added dryly.
"They don't count, because they have always hated each other. A new rival changes nothing," she said.
She leaned back and put her elbow on the armrest of the chair, placing her chin on her hand. "Anyway, how's the progress on the debut invitations going?"
"There have been no complaints about the rules for invitations, however, many have been wondering what order you will use to invite people. A single messenger will have to visit several clans, and as this is your first public event, you need to be careful not to offend the wrong people," he said.
She blinked. "Just do it in alphabetical order."
"Alphabetical order?" he replied, frowning slightly.
"Yes. Obviously, you visit the higher nobility first, but for those within the same noble tier, just visit the ones whose letter of Imperial Common comes first," she said, looking at her left hand distractedly.
"Well, I mean, sure that could work," he responded, holding his chin. "It's not how nobility would normally do it."
She gave him a dismissive wave. "Yes, I know they like to do it based on a multitude of complicated factors such as time as vassals, contribution to the Counties, bloodline connection, age, wealth, plane, etcetera, etcetera. But the order of delivering invitations doesn't influence the order of entering the Headquarters' ballroom and being announced. How many nobles would find an issue with it if I did it this way?"
"Not many. Partly because they wouldn't want to offend you, or 'me' through you," he replied. "But also because they like to ask the messenger what order the invitations were delivered in. Checking to see if it was in alphabetical order is something easily done, and there would be no room for complaints, besides some traditionalists arguing that 'youth have no respect for the old customs'. This should assuage the messengers' worries."
She nodded. The messengers would be the most worried because there was always a chance the nobility could choose to take their anger out on the messenger after the event. Not before it, because that would offend the host of the event, but it was still a relatively feasible possibility for it to happen afterwards through assassination or similar.
She clasped her hands together and stretched them out before her. "Any other updates, or things on the agenda?"
He put a hand into his suit's pocket, pulling out a small slip of paper. Unfolding it, he pushed up his glasses and peered at it. "My grandfather has told us the Emperor has allowed us to retrieve the Aurelian Commission Head's seal from the Empire's Vault, and the Imperial Courier will arrive with it within three days, so we can use it to issue invitations to the Commission's nobles."
The Evisenhardt Count, being the head of the County of the Commission with closest relations to the Imperial family, and also just the closest County to the Capital City in general, had taken up the task of going to the Emperor to officially appeal for the seal to be retrieved. It was also Lucy's method of indirectly telling the Emperor there was a new Commission Head. She was sure Count Evisenhardt had already revealed to the Emperor her fake status as a true puppet leader and probably discussed a few more key details like her soul age, but she was fine with that. Lying to the Emperor was treason, and she didn't want to be a criminal so soon.
She nodded, so Vincent continued. "The tailor will also be arriving tomorrow, and Count Ravimoux will be in Gilded Seat in a week. The invitations are already being written, and most just need the seal to complete it. I'll need you to write that letter to Efratel Vadel so we can insert it into the envelope before the invitations are delivered."
"Already done," she said, getting up from her armchair. She went over to the desk, and after withdrawing a key from her dimensional pouch, she unlocked a drawer on her desk. She pulled out a piece of folded parchment. Walking back over, she handed it to Vincent for him to read. He held his chin thoughtfully as he pondered over it.
"This seems well-written enough, if very typical of you. But what did you mean by putting 'looking forward to seeing you again' without signing your name?" he asked, raising his eyes to look at her.
She grinned like a cat. "It will throw him for a loop."
"You want to mess with him," he responded dryly.
With a wide smile on her face, she leaned against his armchair and shrugged. "It's not only to mess with him."
"So that is part of the reason."
"Nobody's seen the Faction Head's handwriting, so who would believe this was actually from the Commission Head? I know you plan to put the Evisenhardt seal on the envelope to give it validity, but you have to admit, this letter is very suspicious," she told him. "This sentence means the Faction Head or their aide knows who he is, and has met him in person. He'll be more likely to come to the private meeting with that in the letter."
He eyed her dubiously but sighed and put the letter into his pocket. "Whatever you say, my lord." Then he furrowed his brows. "It still feels weird to call you that."
"Faction Head is a gender-neutral position. Plus, when a female inherits a duchy, you don't call her Duchess, you call her Duke, and her husband Duke Consort. It's the same thing for all noble titles. You could call me lady if you wish."
For some inexplicable reason, he shuddered, making Lucille narrow her eyes at his reaction.
"I have never seen a person who 'Lady' does not fit more," he muttered.
"Then I suppose this wonderful subordinate of mine is going to be kept here until 11 pm helping me fill out forms," she stated dryly. "How kind of you for volunteering. I will make sure to reward you for your loyalty."
She left the frozen Vincent to start sorting out the documents he had brought in, ignoring the strangulated sounds of Vincent crying, "When have I ever volunteered?!"
Lucy actually couldn't care less about his opinions on her ability to be 'ladylike' or not, but she could admit it was very entertaining to pick on the man. It was something about the way he hadn't realised he kept getting himself into trouble by falling for her tricks.
On a dry dusty battleground, there were the sounds of strong wind whistling through the plains, accompanied by only heavy footsteps as the sun headed towards the horizon, approaching dusk. Scattered across the ground were blood-coated pieces of armour and discarded weapons, the signs of battle. Decaying bodies and carrion were seen across the area, and the occasional sound of crows was heard as the ravenous corvids devoured the flesh of those slain. Spears and broken swords were sticking into the ground at odd angles, but there was one particular point on the battlefield where the heaviest concentration of bodies could be found.
A lone individual walked away from this point. He was an intimidating figure. He was bulky and tall, with wide shoulders, and heavily built. He was outfitted in a mix of dark-grey metal and brown leather armour, leather straps wrapped around his arms. In one hand he carried a tall blood-red and black spear with several small points along its blade and had thick, untamed dark-red hair that cascaded far down his back. Two long braids fell past his ears on either side of his face. On any other day, the man could perhaps look attractive if somewhat cold, but drying blood was splattered across his clothes and face, leaving him drenched, his hair matted, and appearing terrifying and merciless, the scent of blood even overpowering the smell of the carnage around him. Deep amber eyes glowed with intensity as he trudged towards a single target in the distance.
As the man drew closer to his location, stepping over the piled bodies, one of the formed moved and revealed itself to be a heavily injured man, groaning weakly as he clung onto the red-haired man's leg for help. Without hesitation, the blood-stained warrior swung his spear and decapitated the injured person with a spurt of blood before they could make another move. The spray drenched the man's fist and arm, but he shook it to remove the worst of the crimson liquid and kept moving.
After some time, he had put the bodies and the battlefield behind him and stepped forward to stand in front of an encampment of tents close to a nearby forest. Roaring laughter and loud voices could be heard from within the encampment in the dusk of the evening, and the warm glow of a tall bonfire shone through the tents. Two men dressed in a mix of steel and leather armour were lazily chatting as one rested his hand on his longsword's pommel, and the other leaned atop the large greatsword implanted into the earth beneath his feet. The longsword user noticed the red-haired man and waved, smirking, while the other glanced at the red-headed spearman and then ignored him.
"If it isn't our mighty Sir Einar!" the longsword user remarked, the tone of his voice mocking rather than with any familiarity. "Have you returned from butchering the rest of the peasants, oh Dreaded Spear-fiend of Blood?"
The man leaning against the greatsword scoffed. "Of course he has. Anyone could smell that thick scent of blood from miles away."
Einar looked between the two of them, inexpressive and unresponsive to their comments. "…. are you going to let me through?" he asked in a low voice, his throat scratchy and dry from the dusty wind on the battleground.
The man with the greatsword scowled, straightening up to hoist the sword over his shoulder. He separated from the longsword user, who gave Einar a mocking bow as the taller man walked past them both. The greatsword user leaned in and spat on Einar's boot as he passed, making the red-haired man glance at him with amber eyes.
"Filthy dog of a filthy noble," the greatsword user growled.
Hearing that, Einar ignored him and continued walking forward into the encampment. As he headed towards the central area of the encampment where the fire was, the warriors he passed turned their heads to gaze at him with mild hostility, and several screwed up their noses as they smelt the stench of blood coming from him. When his gaze occasionally met the gazes of those in front of him, they flinched away quickly and turned their heads to get back to what they were doing, but he could feel their gazes on his back as he made it to the main cleared space of the camp.
The ones responsible for the raucous laughter from earlier were all sitting around the campfire, drinking tankards of alcohol, and raising their voices boisterously as they traded stories. One of them, with unruly brown hair and a scarred face, had two female warriors in each arm, and several other warriors joked and flattered him. He looked up from one of the women at his side and noticed Einar walking past them. He sneered.
"Had a fun time out there, 'Spear-fiend?" the man shouted, attracting the attention of the men surrounding him. They looked up and had various mocking expressions, snickering at, or ignoring the red-haired man.
Einar ignored him and them, walking over to a large rock that was a distance away from the campfire, and sat down. Reaching into a thick leather bag at his waist, he withdrew a cloth and began wiping down his red-black spear with it, removing the blood and other substances coating its surface.
The scarred man's expression darkened when he saw that the spearman had ignored him, but he didn't stop sneering. "Stay silent if you wish," he yelled. "We all know you just loved murdering those pitiful commoners. The way you felt your spear slice into the soft, unprotected flesh…" He mimed swiping across his neck. "It's no wonder you got that nickname Dread Spear, you bloodthirsty hellbeast."
The red-haired spearman continued ignoring him and the insults, studiously cleaning his spear. He turned it a bit to see if he missed anything, and the serrated blade end glinted red in the light of the campfire. Satisfied, he put away the cloth, leant the spear against the rock, and began peeling off the leather straps wrapped around his palms, the bloodstained material leaving grimy red tracks where it had been.
The scarred man scowled at him. "The General should be so proud."
Hearing that, Einar finally paused his motion, looked up, and gazed wordlessly at the man with his deep amber eyes. After a tense moment, he slowly blinked once, and then returned to unpeeling the leather straps in a clear dismissal of the man's words.
The man's expression turned ugly and he made a motion to stand up, but one of the men sitting just behind him patted his shoulder and whispered a few words into the man's ear, making him pause, and fall back with a strangely elated expression on his face. The man who had whispered glanced at Einar and spoke up with a much louder voice. "Don't waste your time on him, Graves. Nobody should. He's not one of us."
The scarred man smirked, before breaking out into a loud laugh, hugging the shoulders of the women beside him close to his sides. "That's right my friends! Who cares about a noble's fardyl dog? No, it was far more interesting to hear Enrick's tales of that night at Blue Waterlily Inn…"
The rowdy men went back to drinking their rum and other alcohol, swapping vulgar tales and cruel anecdotes about the battles of the past. Einar continued unravelling the leather straps he had around his forearms and shoulders, then started to untie his leather armour. He was just about to begin doing the same for his dark-grey steel armour when he paused as he heard the sounds of footsteps approaching. He looked up to see the figure of a mature-looking woman with long raven hair and piercing green eyes heading towards him. She was dressed in a long grey cloak with silver fastenings, and she walked with authority as she gazed at the camp with distaste. A few of the campfire's warriors noticed her and wolf-whistled, making the scarred man look up. He smirked, a greedy look in his eyes.
"Have you finally come to join us, your most eminent Highness?"
She gazed at the man for a moment but turned away and walked up to Einar. He gazed up at her. "Asla," was all he said.
Her expression didn't change as she gestured to the tall tent behind her. "The Vice-Master has received a letter from the General. He has requested your presence," she stated coolly, abruptly turning back around, and walking towards the tent, making the scarred man scowl at how she had ignored his question.
Einar frowned slightly at her odd behaviour, but got up from his rock, grabbing his spear and inserting it into the holder he had strapped to his back. He followed after her, his long, wild red hair moving in the wind of the night. The scarred man called after them. "Have you been too cold to your missus? Maybe chasing after younger women?" he snickered.
Einar just glanced at him, but Asla, who was easily in her late twenties to early thirties, whirled around and stared at the scared man. "You seem to think being the blood-related brother of the Vice-Master allows you to take certain liberties within this subdivision of the Warband, Graves. May I remind you that I hold the power to suggest to the General which mercenaries we should continue to employ, and which we should not."
Graves scowled but returned his attention to the conversation with his fellow mercenaries. But as Einar and Asla walked towards the Vice-Master's tent, the man's eyes tracked their forms. Asla swept aside the tent's curtain and Einar did the same after her, finding themselves standing before a stern-looking dark-haired and battle-scarred man in his 40s, standing up and reading a report. He didn't look up as they entered.
"I have brought Mercenary Einar as ordered," Asla announced, walking towards one side of the tent, and remaining there.
The battle-scarred man looked up and nodded to Asla, then turned to face Einar. He picked up a thick letter made of yellow parchment sealed by a red seal and held it out to the red-haired man. "Read this," he told him sternly.
Einar lowered his amber eyes from the Vice-Master to gaze at the letter, before stepping forward and reaching out to grab it with his large calloused hands. Opening it, his expression slowly darkened as he read it, and by the time he refolded the letter, he was frowning heavily. The Vice-Master ignored his expression, to gesture to the letter, speaking with an authoritative voice.
"As you can see, your position as the General of Blazing Iron's successor has been officially revoked. His second student will be given the Spear Mythos's signature mana-art, and will become a new Champion of the Spear Major Discipline at Glory Pantheon," he stated.
"As you know, your position here in the Indomitable Mercenary Warband was the result of a debt owed to the General by the Warband Master, and you were put under my command by the General's request. Now that your master has revoked your succession rights, and now has no relation with you as he has stated in his letter," he continued, distractedly rifling through the reports on his desk, "I will be transferring you to another subdivision. Asla will be remaining here, as she is no longer your supervisor. Please make preparations to leave by the third hour, tomorrow afternoon." The Vice-Master fell silent, ignoring Einar and Asla once more.
Einar didn't answer, gazing at the letter still held in his hands. Asla stepped forward, a slight frown on her face. "Einar?" she asked.
Einar raised his amber eyes to look at the Vice-Master. "Sir." The man didn't respond, so Einar asked again, "Vice-Master Fallwen."
The Vice-Master looked up with a slight frown on his face. "What is it, Mercenary Einar? I'm busy."
"I resign," he stated calmly. They blinked.
The Vice-Master and Asla both stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?" the Vice-Master repeated.
"I resign from the Indomitable Mercenary Warband," Einar said again. He reached a hand to his chest and ripped off a metal plaque he had attached there, the symbol of the Warband engraved on it. He placed it on the Vice-Master's desk and withdrew his hand, making his point clear.
The Vice-Master's expression darkened. "If you truly mean to resign, then you have to-"
"Pay ten times the price paid to me when I joined. I know," Einar interrupted. He reached into his leather pouch at his waist, withdrawing ten round crystalline objects. He placed them on the desk. "Ten crystalline tokens," he stated emotionlessly.
Asla frowned and stepped forward. "Einar, that is a significant amount. Think about this more. Now that you have no relation to the General, remaining within the warband is your best-"
She paused as the loud clang of metal was heard as Einar undid the fastenings of his dark metal shoulder guard, dropping it to the ground. He did it again with his vambraces, chestplate and shin guards, straightening up to gaze at the Vice-Master. "And I have returned all armour given to me by the Warband," he continued. He never once looked at Asla.
The Vice-Master gazed at the bloody, unclean armour with distaste. Then he raised his eyes to look at the spear on Einar's back. "The spear-"
"-Is a reward from the System itself for Einar's efforts in clearing the Southern Dearth Dungeon," Asla interrupted to stand in front of the red-haired man, gazing at the Vice-Master with narrowed eyes. "It has no relation to the warband."
Einar finally glanced at her, but his expression didn't change. He returned his gaze to the Vice-Master. "May I leave now, Indomitable Mercenary Warband's Vice-Master Fallwen?" he asked, emphasising the new lack of relation to each other.
Vice-Master Fallwen gazed solemnly at Einar for a while. Then he sighed and gave him a dismissive wave as he returned to his reports. "Yes, you may. As of now, you have officially left the warband. You may not return," he stated with finality.
Asla's eyes widened and she opened her mouth to say something to the Vice-Master, but stopped and looked over her shoulder when she heard rustling. Without hesitation, as soon as the Vice-Master had said his statement, Einar had turned around and swept aside the tent's cloth entrance flap, marching towards the campfire. Asla hastily followed after him as he retrieved the leather straps he had untied and unwound from his hands and walked towards his private tent, ignoring the mocking jeers and calls from the curious mercenaries.
He rolled up his bedroll, stuffed his belongings away into a large pack, and exited his tent, ignoring all of Asla's attempts to get him to talk. Not packing up the tent, as it was a belonging of the warband, he left the encampment and headed towards the forest. Only once he was at least out of sight of the encampment did he stop in place, letting Asla catch up to him, panting as she tried to catch her breath. She straightened up as Einar turned around to gaze at the woman.
"Why did you do that?" she demanded, gesturing to the encampment. "The fact that the Vice-Master didn't kick you out is a sign of your talent. He was moving you so you didn't have to deal with Graves," Asla said. "You're a valuable Rank-4 nearing 5, the Warband would want to keep you, and they do."
Einar gazed wordlessly at her for a while, before opening his mouth to speak. "Make no mistake, Asla," he stated, watching her solemnly. "I do not need your 'generosity'. I am aware it was you who asked for my transfer."
She stared at him, and then sighed, running a hand down her face. "Can't I have some goodwill towards the boy I knew for practically 10 years?" she pleaded.
Einar crossed his arms. "What little relationship we had was discarded when the General placed you as my supervisor so he could put all his attention on the little dragon-blooded boy that became the new successor," he said, his voice emotionless. "The word 'friends' has not applied to us for over 8 years. What are you trying to do here?"
She grimaced. "Look, I-" Then she paused, and sighed again, shaking her head. "Never mind. What are you going to do now? No Mercenary Guild will accept someone who has been effectively exiled from both the General's weapon clan and the Indomitable Mercenary Warband. You must have some plan."
He looked at her for a moment, before turning his eyes to the small dim glow of light in the distance between the trees. "Maybe if the General had ever seriously considered me as his successor then he and you would be able to find out."
She watched him with a complicated look on her face. "I know that the General never returned your desire for a father and son relationship, but that doesn't-"
She stopped when she noticed Einar's expression had finally changed. A sardonic smirk had spread across his face as he gazed at Asla with dark amusement. "I have never, not once, considered the General as my family. I knew what he was like from the moment he took a little dirty orphan off the streets of one of the 108 Minor Kingdoms. I was only ever a tool." Then his expression went cold, amber eyes glowing dimly. "That does not mean he has not broken his promise to me. He offered me his mana-art in return for my talent as a spearman." He shook his head in derision. "Too bad a mere blood-element manipulator doesn't match up to a dragon-blooded little noble of the Empire."
He turned back around and began making his way through the forest.
"Wait, Einar-" Asla began, stretching out a hand to pause him. He stopped but didn't turn around.
"If you have something to say, then say it now. I will make an effort to never meet again," he stated. Then he paused and let out a light chuckle. "Do you want to say sorry?" he asked mockingly, tilting back his head to look over his shoulder.
Asla bit her lip as she withdrew her hand. He gazed at her for a moment, and then laughed softly again, shaking his head with amusement. "I don't need a sorry," he said, his voice low and quiet once more. "After all, you won't feel the need to be sorry once all this is over."
And then he marched onwards, leaving Asla alone in the dark forest to ponder over what his words meant.
…
At a river in the forest, the red-haired man was shirtless as he doused himself with water using a bucket he had retrieved from his dimensional skill. The icy water of the night would've chilled any pre-System individual to the bone, but for him, he barely felt it. The blood matting his thick red hair was slowly washed away as he dumped bucket after bucket over his head. He frowned slightly when the reddish water began dripping down his face, so he placed the bucket on the riverside next to his belongings and headed deeper into the water to wet his entire body. He went under and then pushed his head up through the surface, the currents causing the cool water to flow over the multitude of scars he had collected over the years over his body. A particularly large cross-shaped scar on his back twinged as he dived again, feeling his tangled hair slowly become looser.
Hargrave Einar didn't care for the lingering emotions of the General's poison mage. The fact she had been placed as his supervisor 10 years ago and still remained one meant that she was well-trusted by the Spear Mythos, and had likely been very willing to report his every move. The 17-year-old boy who discovered this 8 years ago had felt betrayed, but Hargrave had no thoughts about it anymore. The fact she had tried to do something like this to assuage her twisted remnant sense of guilt and responsibility rubbed him wrongly, but as long as leaving him alone was what she interpreted as the best thing for him, he was fine to let her live. The General, however, he could not be left alive.
That man had broken his promise. Hargrave didn't expect everyone to follow his values when it came to oaths, but this time, the General needed to be held accountable. That was because the very person who had indoctrinated him with the importance of keeping to his promises was the General himself. It was obvious Hargrave was only a tool till the very end, and when he had outlived his purpose…
He expected there to be an assassination attempt in the coming few months had he remained a mercenary at the warband. The Spear Mythos of Blazing Iron would never let the shameful failed inheritor of his mana-art remain alive to desecrate the identity of his new precious dragon-blooded successor. He was sure Asla had vaguely understood this as well, but due to her distorted concept of their relationship, she had held hopes that the fact the General hadn't asked for Hargrave to return all the magic items and money he had been gifted as his 'successor' that maybe the General didn't have any intention to kill him.
He didn't care if the General issued a bounty for his death. Anyone who would come after him would die in due time. But he planned to be a hunter, and for that, he needed an identity that would let him survive until he got his revenge. Instead of Hargrave Einar, he could be…
Come to think of it, did either of them ever once refer to me as Hargrave?
Hargrave wasn't sure they even knew his first name. Orphans often didn't have a last name, but he did, so he introduced himself as Einar because it was customary to reveal your last name first when meeting a noble. So, if he had ever been adopted by the General to become his real heir… he probably would've been Einar Selwood. He scowled when his fingers caught on the tough matting of his dark-red hair, and waded back to the riverside. His long hairstyle was customary for the successor of the Selwood weapon clan, but he was no longer the successor.
Picking up his spear, he gathered his hair and cut into it. The thick knots, the strength of his Rank-4 hair and quantity of it meant that even his Epic-ranked spear couldn't slice through it in one deft movement, rather requiring him to slowly cut through it. When he was done, the haircut was uneven and messy, some sections falling past his shoulders while some only fell to his ears, but he didn't care. He cut short the two braids on either side of his face as well, one of them becoming longer than the other. Then after rinsing his hair with the bucket once more, he got out and dried himself with a towel, pulling on a new clean white shirt afterwards.
He sat along the riverside for a while after that, just thinking. He would just go by Hargrave, no last name. He had a magic item that could disguise his hair and eye colour for the time being, but his fighting style and weapon were too eye-catching.
Using the leather straps that had been around his limbs, he began wrapping them around his spear, Eolith, the material hiding the black and red designs. Then he opened up his Status, leaving the skill section aside.
[Status: ]
Name: Hargrave Einar (Lvl. 493)
Class: Blood-stained Spearmaster of Eolith – Ancient (Tier: XIV)
Age: 26y
Race: Human
HP: 82,928/98,200 {+3133.69/1m}
MP: 32,971/46,350 {+5380/1m}
Stats:
Free Stat Points: 3
STR: 2079 SPRT: 327
CON: 1964 MENT: 68
AGI: 1182 CHAR: 3
DEX: 849
INT: 927
WIS: 538
[Origin Skill: True Heart-Blood Subsummation | Type: Absorption/Realm
Desc: [Collapsed]
Subskills: [Collapsed]
Awakening: 89% ]
He frowned slightly as he looked at his Status. It reminded him all too much of the 'resources' the General gave him so he could be a passable heir. But not once did the General ever give him the elixir that would increase his fire affinity to the extent he could use the General's mana-art. He couldn't say anything of this Status was purely his own… except his spear and the Origin Skill. However, he had only ever used one subskill of his Origin Skill because of a promise he had made to his mother…
But if the General was going to break his promises, then Hargrave would have to break his too. He tapped on the Origin Skill which he hadn't checked for years.
[Origin Skill: True Heart-Blood Subsummation | Type: Absorption/Realm
Desc: Blood is the life-giving substance of almost all living creatures. It carries the breath, the power, and the spirit of the body. The magical beasts draw on their ancestral lineage to cast impossible spells, while the demons use their lineage to use the dark and malicious Demonic Script of their race. This User can go beyond mere blood manipulation, to manipulate their own source, race, and bloodline. They only have to try.
Subskills:
- Sanguine Controller
- Source Absorption
- Bloodline Adept
Awakening: 89% ]
Before his mother had passed away from an incurable disease in some slum, she had warned him of something. A myth carried down throughout her family of fallen nobility. If there was anybody born with red hair in their family, they should either be killed or never learn to use their abilities. That was because they carried the ability to absorb the bloodline and source of any other flesh and blood creature. They could change to become a magical beast, a demon, an elf, a dwarf, a soul beast of the Heavenly Realm, or anything that carries blood in their veins, but also use the abilities of those that did not by devouring their source. However, because of this, they could also become twisted abominations, with the characteristics of the undead, the demons, and other races manifesting when they exited their human form, distorted creatures of mindless terror.
But he didn't remember that last sentence of the skill description. He knew awakening an Origin Skill could change it sometimes, but this seemed like the System was pushing him to use the skill. He supposed it was because of another reward he had earned with his evolvable demonic spear, Eolith. Reaching into his dimensional skill with his will, his arm pushed through the hole that had appeared in space before him to retrieve a certain clear sphere. It was a very rare and desired reward, one he had never told anyone else about. But it was his way to defeat the General, who he knew he could never do with his current skills.
[Item – Type: System ]
Name: Reset Orb
Rarity: Legendary
Desc: To those who have taken the wrong path and misused their potential, the System offers them another chance.
Ability:
Reset – Begin again.
- Returns User to Lvl 1, removing all primary, secondary, and tertiary skills, Classes, and Aspects. User will not have to re-complete stages to Rank up.
[ ]
He turned the clear orb, barely larger than a marble, within his hands. He would keep his Titles and Origin Skill awakening rate, but beyond that, he would essentially be like someone fresh out of the Tutorial. He would naturally Rank up when he reaches the required level. There was only one issue… it was his 4th Primary Skill. Scarlet-Stained Eolith, a skill made just for his signature weapon. It was what enabled him to get an Ancient rarity class, and he feared if he removed the skill, his spear would return to being just an Uncommon weapon. But it was evolvable, so he could always re-evolve it.
Taking a breath, he swallowed the orb, which disintegrated as it moved down his throat. Slowly, he felt his stats leach out of him, his ranks falling with every level lost, and the passive perception and body-boosting skills disappeared, leaving him feeling blind and weak. It was a humbling feeling. He clenched his fist, getting used to the new sensation of his primary skills being missing, a sensation akin to losing a limb you never knew you had. However, his soulbond with the spear remained, and he could tell it was still Epic ranked. He wouldn't be defenceless. Plus, there was a hidden side effect not mentioned in the description of the orb: all his scars were removed, and his body became like that of someone after the Tutorial.
He stood up, picking up his pack, and placing his disguised spear back into its holder on his back. Then, he marched off towards what he knew to be the direction of the nearest Ascendant city. Once he made it to the Obelisk, the General would be hard-pressed to find him.
He made a decision that from then onwards, he would only ever attack those who attacked him first. Nobody else needed to die when the General was the only target of his revenge.
As Hargrave had pondered over the best way to complete his revenge, he was reminded of the little 18-year-old dragon-blooded noble who had become the General's successor. Remembering his Source Absorption subskill, his eyes glowed with intensity. If it was the power of a dragon that the General wanted, then Hargrave would give him the power of a dragon. It would make him a heinous criminal, someone detested by all the realms, but it would give him the overwhelming power he desired to defeat the General so utterly that he would never dare face another man again.
Hargrave would become a dragon-slayer.
And then maybe, I could find out what I'm truly worth.
Because I'm going away for the weekend, I'll release this early. Also, I drew Hargrave:
