It happened a few days ago.
Randall paid a routine, unremarkable visit to Baron Clemen. While a vagabond dressed in the viscount's clothes was getting drunk in a tavern, the real viscount was cleaning blood off a scalpel and flipping through his notes on chimmerization. That day, he had an idea, to alchemically enhance certain organs of the test subjects to make it easier for demonic entities to possess them.
A regular, grueling day filled with alchemical fumes, agonized screams, and dripping blood. Randall was so tired that night, he didn't even bother summoning any maids. Just a quick shower long past midnight, and then straight to bed.
I woke in the middle of the night with a sense of danger. The bed was surrounded by shadowy figures with clearly hostile intentions. Assassins?
My loyal, jet-black blade obeyed my will. It split into fragments and pierced them all. But it was a trap. Their blood was altered somehow. The steel stuck, stopped obeying, and I, now weaponless, was quickly restrained.
Detaching a bound weapon that fast was supposed to be impossible. At least, Randall had never heard of anything like it.
I need to acquire samples later and…
...
I blink, and I'm back in the dining hall, staring at Count Condor's dissatisfied face.
Looks like the family castle helps me delve deeper into the predecessor's memories, but now's not the time to dwell on it. I'd already delayed my answer too long.
"It's… lost." I tried to put a note of regret in my voice. No idea if it worked, but worth a shot.
"Tch. I'm not the least bit surprised at your carelessness. Go to the ritual chamber at once and bind a new metal to yourself."
I'd gladly use that as an excuse to get away from Grandpa, but there was still one thing I had to take care of. Amidst all this mess, I'd completely forgotten about the kid I'd promised a reward, and promises must be kept.
"Fine. But I also need money."
The old man rolled his eyes.
"Again? Don't even think about it. The ingredients for the binding ritual alone will cost no less than twenty gold, and you dare ask for more?"
"This isn't for me. On behalf of our House, I promised a generous reward to a boy who risked his life to guide me through the patrols."
"Hmph. That's a subject's duty, to die for his lord. What reward could there possibly be?" The Count waved dismissively, brushing off my words.
"I gave my word. In the name of the House," I reminded him.
Of course, I'd made that part up just a minute ago, but my gut told me that if I so much as hinted the promise was personal, the old man would flatly refuse to reward the kid.
"Tch. Fine. I'll make him a page, an honor far above what that ragamuffin deserves. And… a couple of silver coins, so he can tidy himself up."
I wasn't yet sure about the value of money in this world, but something told me that wasn't a particularly generous sum.
"You value the heir's life rather modestly, grandfather," I quipped and instantly saw the Lord's face twist in anger.
"For you, you useless trash, I wouldn't pay a single copper! But you're still of my blood, so I have to open the purse. Hmph. Enough talk — get to it!"
"Of course…" I rose from my chair and tried to recall the way to the ritual chamber. To my surprise, it came to me easily — apparently, Randall had spent quite a bit of time there.
Ritual Hall.
The moment I stepped inside, a strange clarity settled over me. My thoughts flowed smoothly, without delay. My memory sharpened like a freshly honed blade.
One glance at the bookshelf, and I recalled every title by heart. The magical reagents and ingredients the servants carried in, I knew their properties, their uses, even their market value instantly.
But the withered, hunchbacked man bustling about, preparing to waste materials on a ritual he didn't understand — I could've done without remembering him.
Meister Ilon.
Disgustingly lazy. Shockingly incompetent. And the only reason he'd ever become our castle's Master of Rituals was the complete lack of alternatives.
That scrawny hunchback didn't just pilfer ingredients. He only worked when the Count himself ordered it. Even then, he'd vanish into town under the excuse of "restoring his overstrained astral body."
In reality, he was selling stolen reagents on the black market and spending the profits in brothels.
Randall openly despised and hated him. Not for stealing from the family — Randall barely cared about that. He never really saw himself as part of the House anyway.
No — the hatred stemmed from something else.
This cursed ritualist used to lock himself in the ritual chamber for hours, denying young Randall access to study the arcane arts in secret. And when Randall finally surpassed him in skill, contempt joined the hatred.
Even now, Meister Ilon was frantically flipping through the reference books, trying to find a schematic of magical lines for a basic binding ritual.
Idiot.
You performed this ritual six years ago, and still didn't memorize the diagram?
I clicked my tongue, involuntarily imitating my grandfather. The bloodblade binding ritual was fairly simple. Thanks to Randall's memories, I could correct any mistakes Ilon made — without him noticing.
But there was one issue.
This whole situation… was a golden opportunity.
A perfect chance to test the seal and find out what really happened in Baron Clemen's castle.
And for that, I'd need to examine it closely, maybe even analyze it. Which meant…
Even this imbecile would realize something was off if I started dissecting my own soul seal right in front of him.
So that meant…
"Get out."
"I—excuse me?" Startled, Ilon dropped his book on magical barriers. Why the hell did he even bring that? Idiot.
"I said get out. I'll perform the ritual myself."
"Young lord, surely you jest. This ritual requires extensive knowledge and experie..."
"Did you not hear me the first time? Get lost, or I'll have you introduced to the whip."
Muttering curses under his breath, the hunchback hurried out of the hall, not forgetting to snatch up a stack of books on his way out. Amazingly, he actually got lucky this time — one of the books really did contain the correct diagram for the bloodblade ritual.
Trying to mess things up out of spite? Whatever. I already had everything I needed in my head and more.
I dismissed the remaining servants and slid the steel bolt shut behind them.
Silence.
Scattered across the polished obsidian floor were all the components: smoky quartz, chunks of mana-charged granite, a monster's crystalline core, herbal stalks, and unstable glass spheres filled with powdered manticore hide. Right... those need to be set aside before they spoil.
I double-checked everything. No issues with ingredients, in fact, there were more than necessary. The only problem was the steel ingot. Not the quality — the steel was excellent. Better than what I'd used in the past, in fact.
The problem was how they'd stored it, slathered in thick grease. The servants had tried to wipe it down, but some residue remained, which could ruin the ritual.
I unbolted the door and shouted down the corridor for someone to bring me alcohol.
A teenager showed up with a bottle almost instantly. No one had ever delivered booze to me that fast!
I thanked the lad, locked myself in again, and meticulously wiped down the ingot.
"Perfect. Now we can begin," I muttered, wiping my hands on my trousers. No rags in sight, and even a single misplaced drop could have catastrophic consequences. If I was lucky, the only result would be the castle collapsing.
Chalk in hand, I set to work sketching the main lines. Technically, I could do without it, but it was safer this way. My hands moved with precision and speed, the complex lines flowing as easily as if I'd done this all my life.
...Which, come to think of it, I had.
I cracked the glass spheres and used their powder to connect all the ingredients. The ingot sat at the center of the formation.
I was working quickly. I needed to complete both rituals, but I didn't make a single mistake.
Honestly, it was hard to mess this ritual up. It had been primitive to begin with.
Way back when, some metal mage noticed that a blade soaked in their own blood responded far more readily to their magic, while resisting the magic of others.
From that moment on, metal mages and bloodblades were inseparable.
Even a relatively weak mage could reshape their bonded blade, an invaluable advantage in battle. Bloodmetal could pierce weak magical barriers and even cut through certain spells.
The benefits were too great to ignore.
And the best part? No side effects, other than the blade usually gaining a reddish tint.
Then again, not always. Some blades turned jet black. Others, pure white. Why this happened was a mystery that sparked endless debate.
Even more confusing, a blade's color could sometimes shift over the course of its wielder's life.
Still, that didn't stop metal mages from forming orders and cliques based on blade color, each convinced theirs was superior, and dueling each other to the death over it.
Thankfully, those feuds never got too big. Red shades were most common, while black and white blades were rare.
Randall, as a bearer of a black blade, had spent a lot of time studying it and came to an unfortunate conclusion: the rare color didn't grant any special power.
Worse, it made him a target.
There were always morons eager to test themselves against a "black" mage.
But I digress.
The ritual's sole purpose was to reduce the time and blood needed for binding, replacing the mage's own mana with external energy.
In short, simple.
The power lines were drawn. The ingredients were in place. Only one thing remained — draw blood and...
The steel ingot suddenly began to bleach, turning bright white.
Shit!
I double-checked the diagram in a heartbeat. No mistakes. The ritual was proceeding correctly.
The problem was me.
I couldn't complete the binding. Not like this. It would raise immediate suspicion.
Yes, a blade could change color, but never instantly. Color shifts were gradual.
If Grandpa saw a white blade, he'd assume possession or a body double and hand me over to the Inquisitors. If I was lucky. Worst case, he'd kill me on the spot.
I dove into the center of the circle and inverted the flows. The energy, which had been draining from the ingredients, was violently forced backward.
The blade's color darkened again, but the materials couldn't reabsorb the spent power.
The smoky quartz exploded first, shards flying like shrapnel. The air filled with wild, unstable mana.
If I didn't act immediately, the entire hall was going to blow sky-high.
Damn it! I had to begin the second ritual right now to absorb the excess energy.
I grabbed the crystalline core and drank the raw power inside. No time for diagrams. No time for calculations. I hated this.
I latched onto the seal and dragged it to the surface.
Power lines scorched across my skin. Blood welled from the cuts, only to be instantly cauterized by the force. A mark blazed on my chest, the cursed seal Baron Clemen had placed on me.
Step one, done.
Now, to study it.
I focused on the glowing magical threads.
...Yeah.
First of all, my initial gut feeling, the one I'd had back in Clemen's castle, was right.
The seal was flawed.
The line that was supposed to separate the implanted entity from the host was incomplete.
And it was leaking.
Second, the cultist who was supposed to inscribe that dividing line... botched it. Whether by mistake or on purpose, he drew it in completely the wrong place. I couldn't even tell what the result had been.
Third...
I saw it.
The seal had a built-in anchor. Not just any anchor, but one of my own design. Only inverted.
Instead of pointing to the upper planes, it targeted the lower ones. And that was already strange: this kind of anchor didn't have strict conditions. It wasn't a net designed to trap something specific, more like a hook... meant to attract something big. Very big. Potentially, a lord of the Abyss itself.
I strained my memory but couldn't recall the details. The cultists had wanted to summon Astarot, that much I was sure of. But the criteria for the summoning had only been spoken; there were no formal parameters baked into the ritual itself.
Suppose Samael had tricked them by passing me off as "Astarot." Fine.
But then... where did all the circle's magic go?
And I clearly remembered being thrown into the body, not pulled in like a hooked fish.
No matter how I analyzed the seal, the conclusion was the same:
A DEMON WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SUMMONED. And a powerful one.
Something so strong the cultists would never have been able to control it. Whatever creature was meant to merge with the viscount, it would've devoured everyone in that hall, reduced the castle to rubble, and scorched the surrounding lands.
That clearly wasn't in Baron Clemen Brute's best interest.
So the question was: who was skilled enough in demonology to invert one of my anchor designs and use it against me? Who managed to fool seasoned cultists into summoning not a servant... but destruction?
Hell if I know. But whoever it was, I'd better keep their existence in mind.
Now for Randall's memories.
Should I fix the faulty barrier and fully merge with them?
I could feel it clearly: Randall's soul was gone. Left nothing behind but a trail of memories, like a lizard shedding its tail.
Still, shattering the barrier between us could be extremely dangerous. The uncontrolled influx of memories might overwrite my mind entirely.
On the other hand, the current trickle wasn't reliable. Here, in a place of power, somewhere that meant a lot to Randall, I could access his memories like a library.
But once I left the castle, I'd start experiencing disruptions again. That wouldn't do.
I gathered my mana and partially collapsed the barrier.
That should fix the memory access issue, though it came with drawbacks.
Glitches like the one I'd had when Grandpa asked about the blade would become more frequent... maybe even longer.
And most likely, my dreams were going to get... colorful. At least until I absorbed all of Randall's memories.
I gave the seal one last look.
The control tags meant for subduing demons were completely useless, turned inside-out, no less.
But I wasn't a demon. They'd barely affect me.
All in all, the seal was more or less safe. And suddenly, the idea of visiting Clemen didn't seem so crazy.
I could easily play the obedient demon... and then stab that fat bastard in the gut.
Nothing more to do here.
I released the seal, and it vanished from my skin, sinking back into the Source.
The energy I'd burned through during all this was massive, but the air still crackled with lingering force.
I had to do something. Fortunately, there was a simple solution.
A trick used by metal mages, almost useless in daily life: metal summoning.
With nothing but raw magic, you could create a lump of steel from thin air.
Why was it useless?
First, the energy cost was enormous. Even talented mages, Summoners, rarely used it in combat.
Second, why waste mana when you could just carry real metal?
And third, the summoned metal was unstable and would eventually degrade and disappear from the world.
Totally impractical.
But right now? Perfect.
I conjured a growing chunk of iron from the void, and the magical turbulence began to subside.
Thump... thump... thump!
The steel door behind me buckled. Someone was ramming it hard.
Great. Just what I needed.
I focused on the ingot, fusing the summoned iron to its surface. Maybe they wouldn't notice a few extra hundred grams.
I kicked the leftover reagents across the floor, hastily smudging the ritual lines.
The less they understood what had happened here, the better.
In the process, I accidentally knocked over the bottle of alcohol, but managed to hit the ground just in time, draining the last of my reserve into the summoned metal.
The thick door crumpled inward like cheap foil, and a furious old man stormed into the hall.
"By the Abyss, what the hell did you do in here?! What kind of Merlin-damned idiot tries to conduct a ritual like this alone?!"
Behind him slithered the ever-obsequious hunchback, Meister Ilon. He took one look at the destruction and immediately chirped:
"I told you! This ritual requires deep knowledge and extensive..."
"Shut up," I muttered from the floor. Didn't even need to fake weakness... I'd emptied my reserves completely.
"Tch. Were you drinking?" Grandpa noticed the spilled bottle and the heavy stink of alcohol in the air.
"You're the most useless member of this family in a thousand years. I have no words. Servants! Drag this wretch to the infirmary, and tell the healer I want him fully functional by sundown. I don't care what it takes!"
Several burly men hoisted me up and started hauling me down the corridors. No stretchers, huh? Figures.
Still, it looked like no one suspected anything. Meister Ilon was an idiot. Even if I hadn't cleaned up, he probably wouldn't have figured out what really happened.
They dumped me onto a stiff wooden bench in a brightly lit room.
Across from me lay a familiar face: the executioner. His entire back was wrapped in blood-stained bandages.
The door creaked, and Ada entered the infirmary.
"The healer should arrive any minute. My lord, how are you feeling?"
"I'm fine. Just a bit weak." I nodded toward the executioner on the neighboring bench — my arms were still sluggish. "What happened to that guy?"
"Your grandfather sentenced him to twenty lashes... and carried them out personally."
"What? Why?" I asked in disbelief.
"For spilling noble blood. Normally, the penalty would be death, but Lord Condor was merciful. He gave him only ten lashes for each blow he struck you."
"That's insane. The old fossil has completely lost it. He's the one who ordered the executioner to whip me in the first place!"
Ada gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, but aloud, she only said:
"You shouldn't speak of the Lord like that... even you."
I was about to explain why she was wrong, but the creak of the door interrupted me.
A healer entered the infirmary. Gray-haired, but youthful-looking. Dressed in yellow robes.
Hey, where's the busty nurse? According to all genre laws, healers aren't supposed to be old men!
Oh well. I still had Ada. And nature hadn't exactly been stingy with her figure.
"Let's see. Viscount Condor." He took my hand and examined it. "Hmm. Mild magical exhaustion. Nothing requiring treatment. You'd be fully recovered by morning anyway. However..."
The healer turned to a cabinet and began rummaging through it, glass vials clinking.
"However, the Count instructed me to ensure you're fully restored by sundown. Yes... this should do."
He pulled out a dark bottle and uncorked it. The room instantly reeked of burnt straw.
No doubt about it. That was lyrroot extract. Cheap as dirt and absolutely vile. Sure, it would help restore energy, but it would also leave behind residue that temporarily lowered my mana reserve.
And worst of all, it had a nasty side effect: for several days, any kind of alcohol would taste revolting. Which, I was sure, was exactly why Grandpa ordered it for me.
Funny enough, this crap would be way more useful for the executioner. It greatly boosted regeneration in normal people.
"Yeah, no. I don't think that's the right choice for me. It's not very efficient, and it clogs the system. Better give it to that guy. He's bleeding out. You didn't even stitch his wounds? He could die like this."
"Hmph. Since when are you an expert in herbs, Viscount?" The healer cocked his head like a bird, clearly not in a hurry to follow my suggestion.
"None of your business. Give the extract to him. And for me... hmm... how about a sunstone tincture? Got any?"
"I'm impressed you've memorized a few herb names, Viscount. But I must remind you, I am not your servant. I am a member of the Healers' Guild and answer only to the Count. And the Count gave very specific orders: make sure you look like a warrior by sundown, not a drunk pig.
And before you start 'throwing your weight around' and making threats, I'll remind you that the Guild could easily revoke its support for your House entirely. And between us... I wouldn't miss this place."
He sounded like he was lecturing a classroom. Condescending bastard.
Still, I decided to try one last time, civilly.
"I'm heir to the House. Sooner or later, I'll be in charge. And I generously reward those who prove useful to me."
"I'm afraid that'll be never. Your House is a relic of the past, and it will be swept away. That's obvious to any noble."
Click.
Something snapped in my head.
Yellow wasn't the Guild's color.
It was his House color.
Rage gave me strength. I leapt from the bench and grabbed the smug bastard by the throat.
"Hrgh—khh—what—are—you—"
He choked, but I held tight. His pulse throbbed beneath my fingers. I could snap his neck. Right now. So easily.
"Listen carefully. I don't give a damn about the Guild or your pathetic noble House. I gave you a good offer. You refused. That was your choice."
"Yo—can't—threa—"
"You sure about that?"
I squeezed harder. Bones creaked. His face turned purple.
"Please—let—go..."
Terror filled his eyes.
I yanked the tincture from his hand and tossed him onto the bench like a sack of potatoes.
Just to be safe, I checked the bottle, then carefully rolled the executioner onto his back.
Three drops would be enough for a normal man.
I poured it into his mouth. The bandages soaked up fresh blood. Ideally, I should've stitched the wounds, but even so, his life was no longer in danger. He'd just have some impressive scars.
Now it was my turn.
I opened the cabinet and began rifling through vials, uncorking them to check by scent. There it was — the sunstone tincture. Not rare, and not cheap either: about half a gold coin per drop.
I took a small sip. No point being greedy. It had side effects too.
The healer sat quietly, rubbing the red imprint of my hand on his neck. His eyes radiated both hatred and fear.
"You gave me the extract. The executioner just got lucky. I spilled the tincture by accident. Got it?
Tell it like that, and I'll forget your little speech."
The healer gave a strained nod.
"Good. And by the way, the offer still stands. Let's go, Ada. Nothing more to do here."
"Go where?"
She still looked shaken.
"How about... the bedroom?"
She blushed and nodded. And I had the feeling it wasn't just because I was her master.