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“We’ve arrived.”

The knight at the front spoke.

Inquisitor Godwin scanned the domain spread out before him. The buildings were worn, the roads unkempt, and the lord’s castle looked like a ruin. It was the picture of a failing land.

“To think I’d end up in a place like this,” Godwin muttered with displeasure.

“So it seems,” one of the knights agreed.

The knights of the Inquisition were counted among the elite of the Theos Church. They rarely had business in such backwaters.

“I hear Griffith doesn’t even have knights anymore,” Godwin remarked.

“No knights?”

“They disbanded the order—couldn’t afford to keep it.”

“So Priest Thomas fell to a beggar like that?”

“Yes.”

The knights shook their heads. The story was simple. The lord’s son had stirred up the townsfolk into a riot against the temple. A temple knight was killed, and Priest Thomas had been dragged off to the castle.

In name, a lord was the highest authority in his land. But in practice, no noble dared lay hands on a priest of the Theos faith. The Church was the state religion of the Holy Empire.

This was unprecedented, and so the Church had sent Godwin with a detachment of elite knights to see for themselves.

“How mad is this ‘Black Mage Lord,’ really?” one knight asked.

“You’ll know when you meet him.”

“They say he even sent a letter to the Inquisition.”

“I read it. He claimed his land’s priest had committed blasphemy, fraud, and insulted nobility. He asked us to come judge him.”

At that, the knights laughed.

“No matter how mad he is, he still fears us. He’s looking for a way out.”

“He must also know escape won’t be easy. Enough chatter—move out.”

“Yes, Inquisitor.”

Godwin led the men into the town.

“It’s the Inquisitor!”

“Hide! Quickly!”

At the sight of his insignia, villagers scattered, slipping into their homes until the streets were empty.

As expected.

In a small land like this, an Inquisitor of the Theos faith was as feared as the Angel of Death. Once marked, not even a lord or king could save you. If necessary, the Inquisition could invent charges and execute you.

“We’ll check the temple first,” Godwin said.

But when they arrived, the temple was intact—no signs of destruction.

He summoned an apprentice priest.

“Was it all repaired?”

“No, Inquisitor. Nothing was damaged to begin with.”

“Yet they said there was a riot.”

“There were protests outside, but they dispersed. Young Lord Edward controlled the townsfolk.”

…A clever one.

The temple was sacred ground. If rioters had forced their way in, they could all have been executed. But if they only protested and withdrew, there was no justification for punishment.

Godwin had assumed Edward was either a fool or insane. Now he felt uneasy.

“How did Priest Thomas get captured, then?”

“He tried to flee through the secret tunnel. He ran straight into Lord Edward.”

“Secret tunnel?”

“Yes, a passage dug to escape over the hill in emergencies.”

The apprentice pointed toward the hill behind the temple.

“I thought the villagers only protested?”

“They did. But Priest Thomas panicked…”

Godwin sighed.

Edward had understood the rules. He kept the people under control, knowing they must not breach the temple. Thomas would have been safe if he stayed. If he was afraid, he could have simply sent a messenger.

Instead, overcome by fear, he fled—and was caught.

So he knew. Edward knew Thomas’s nature. He even knew the secret tunnel.

Godwin recalled how Thomas had once boasted that Edward was a fool to be toyed with. But in truth, it was Thomas who had fallen into Edward’s hands.

What had seemed like a trivial mission might turn out troublesome after all.

“To the castle,” Godwin ordered.

They arrived at the Griffith castle.

“Welcome to Griffith.”

An elderly butler greeted them politely.

“Where is the baron?”

“Out traveling, sir.”

“What?”

“Lord Edward is acting in his stead. Please, this way.”

The knights exchanged confused looks but followed.

Though shabby outside, the interior was clean and well kept. The decorations were modest but orderly. Yet there were no guards in sight. That unsettled Godwin.

They were shown into the main hall.

“Welcome.”

Edward greeted them with a bright smile.

Godwin blinked. He had been told the boy was dying, yet Edward looked nothing like an invalid.

Tall, strikingly handsome, his violet eyes shone with life. His walk carried the vigor of youth and the dignity of noble blood.

A true heir of an old house, Godwin thought.

“I am Inquisitor Godwin,” he introduced.

“Welcome. We have a drawing room prepared, but it may not fit everyone—”

“No need. We didn’t come for courtesy. We came to question you. Where is Priest Thomas?”

The butler paled, but Edward remained calm.

“Even so, wouldn’t the drawing room be more comfortable for you, Inquisitor?”

“No.”

“As you wish. Frederick.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bring the papers from the drawing room.”

“At once.”

While the butler left, Edward walked leisurely to the lord’s seat at the end of the hall and sat.

“Shall we seize him now?” a knight asked.

Godwin shook his head. Securing Priest Thomas came first.

Soon, Frederick returned with a heavy bundle of documents and handed them to Edward. Edward flipped through them, pulled some out, and tossed them at Godwin.

The papers scattered across the floor. The knights frowned.

“What is the meaning of this?” Godwin demanded.

“For years, your Church has illegally siphoned this land’s wealth. Those papers are the proof.”

Godwin bent and picked one up. He recognized the format and seals at once—they were genuine Church records.

Damn that fool Thomas.

Such documents were meant to be locked in the temple vault, and destroyed in emergencies. They must never see the light of day.

“Intruding into the temple is blasphemy,” Godwin pressed.

“I intruded nowhere. Kindly Priest Thomas brought them out himself.”

Godwin clenched his jaw.

If he was going to run, he should have fled with nothing. Why carry this?

If Thomas were here, Godwin would have throttled him.

Edward’s voice rang through the hall.

“These papers prove your Church knew about the mana water here. Instead of paying fairly, you chose fraud. Tell me—does Theos call this justice?”

Godwin had no answer. He hadn’t come to argue.

“This man is a heretic obsessed with black magic,” he declared instead. “Seize him!”

The knights drew their swords in unison.

“What is this madness? Has the world ever seen such injustice?” 

The butler suddenly stepped in.

Godwin narrowed his eyes. The old man’s bearing was sharper than expected.

“Frederick.”

Edward smiled as he spoke.

“I appreciate it, but this isn’t your place.”

“My lord!”

“Go on.”

Frederick reluctantly stepped aside.

“Tell me, Inquisitor,” Edward asked, “do those papers look genuine to you?”

Godwin signaled the knights to hold. He picked up the documents again and studied them closely.

A copy?

At first glance, they were identical to official Church records. But on closer inspection, the ink tone was slightly different.

“Where is the original?”

“A courier has it. By tomorrow, it will reach my mother’s family, House Lancer.”

The Count of Lancer was a great lord of the east—one of Aerok’s most powerful figures.

“And?”

“I asked them to deliver it to Her Majesty the Queen of Aerok if anything happens to me.”

The accusation that the Theos Church had systematically defrauded Aerok’s people and stolen their wealth would certainly cause a stir if it became public. But that was all.

“Pfft.”

The knights burst into laughter.

“Is this supposed to be a threat?”

A child was still a child. The Theos Church and the Holy Empire never saw Aerok as an equal partner. To them, Aerok was a subject, not a peer. Negotiations existed only to make governance more efficient. When necessary, they could always be crushed by force.

“You don’t seem to understand. We could erase this kingdom from the map whenever we wish.”

The Empire had simply never needed to. The Queen of Aerok served faithfully as their puppet.

“I see how the Church regards this kingdom.”

Edward still hadn’t lost his composure. Even when bluffing should have become impossible, he remained calm.

“I also wonder what High Priest Lef thinks of you, Inquisitor.”

Lef was the senior priest in charge of all Aerok’s dioceses—a man even Inquisitors treated as untouchable.

“What do you mean?”

“Did you think those were the only papers in my possession?”

Something about Edward’s unwavering calm unsettled Godwin. Anxiety crept in.

“Why do you think Priest Thomas carried Church documents when he tried to flee? The rule is to burn them or keep them locked away, isn’t it?”

“…What are you suggesting?”

“In truth, he didn’t mean to bring them. He was gathering the records most important to him, and the Church papers came along by accident.”

The uneasy feeling grew stronger.

“Now tell me, Inquisitor—what kind of records would a low-ranking priest, desperate to save his own position, consider vital? Naturally, the originals of those records are also with my courier. If anything happens to me, my uncle will make sure they reach High Priest Lef.”

Godwin’s face went pale. Edward’s words could not be allowed to spread further.

“For the last time,” Edward said, smiling faintly, “shall we move this to the drawing room?”

“Stand down,” Godwin ordered.

“Inquisitor?”

The knights looked confused, but Godwin did not take back his words.

“Stay here. I’ll go ahead.”

“A wise choice.”

Edward grinned and personally led Godwin into the drawing room.

Click.

The door shut behind them. Edward crossed the room and sat with his legs crossed on the sofa.

“Please, take a seat.”

Godwin lowered himself onto the sofa opposite.

“Five kilograms of mithril ore in 2520. Five dryad roots in 2518. Two bottles of salamander fire-wine in the same year. And that winter, a pair of high-grade sapphires…”

Edward recited, one by one, every bribe Godwin had taken from Priest Thomas.

“You’ve eaten well, haven’t you? You must be full.”

“Enough!” Godwin snapped.

The mana water stolen from Griffith was the Church’s doing. But the embezzlement—selling some of it to the locals—had been Thomas’s own scheme.

As Inquisitor, Godwin had the duty to audit low priests. Instead, he had taken bribes to look the other way.

Thomas, in his panic, had fled with the incriminating records. Likely he intended to use them to buy Godwin’s help.

One thing was certain: if those records ever reached the higher clergy, Godwin would not survive. The Church was lenient when its members exploited outsiders. But when its own assets were stolen, there was no mercy.

“What do you want?”

Godwin could not punish Edward. To do so would mean his own ruin.

Edward was no child. He was sharp, bold, and unafraid even before an Inquisitor.

“Priest Thomas’s excommunication.”

“What will you do with him?”

“Why do you need to know?”

Edward’s tone was openly arrogant. Godwin had no reply.

“You’ll also compensate my family and my people for their losses.”

“How much?”

“Five hundred thousand gold.”

“T-That’s—”

“In one payment.”

“Impossible!”

“Inquisitor.”

Edward leaned forward, his cold gaze locking with Godwin’s.

“I’m not negotiating.”

Godwin shivered before he even realized it.

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“Th–the door… huff…!”

Thomas staggered into the temple, gasping for breath as if he might collapse at any moment. He hated exercise and loved greasy food. His appetite was enormous—enough to eat for two—and that morning he had stuffed himself far beyond reason. Before the food could even settle, he had sprinted at full speed.

“Urgh—ugh!”

The moment he stepped into the temple grounds, Thomas vomited up his breakfast. An apprentice priest sweeping the courtyard frowned in disgust.

Thomas, having soiled the ground, wobbled to his feet. “What are you standing around for?!” he barked at the apprentice, who stared at him in confusion.

“Close the door, you idiot!”

Smack!

Thomas slapped him across the face. The stunned apprentice, holding his cheek, ran to the gate.

“Priest!”

Just then, soldiers of the temple forced their way through the closing door.

“Why are you here?! You should be holding those scoundrels back!” Thomas shouted.

“There are nearly fifty of them, and only four of us! And Sir Edward is with them! Please, spare us!” the soldiers cried, trembling with fear.

Thomas wanted to curse them, but worry came first. “Where are they now?”

“…They’re heading this way.”

“Damn it! Apprentice! Come here!”

He called the young man back. “You remember the place I told you about before?”

The apprentice nodded.

“Go to the stable, get two horses, and wait there.”

The temple owned horses, but to keep the grounds clean, they were kept in the village stable. There were none on hand to ride immediately.

“Yes, Priest.”

“Go, now!”

Once the apprentice left, Thomas ran straight to his office.

How had it come to this? The townsfolk hadn’t originally planned to drink holy water. They could barely afford to eat—buying it was out of the question. To get them to open their wallets, something drastic was needed.

Edward had been perfect for that. Aside from his health problems, he cared about nothing. He didn’t mind if the territory collapsed or if people gossiped about him. In short, he was useless.

So Thomas had used him as a scapegoat—telling the people they needed to drink holy water to escape the influence of Edward’s black magic. The plan had worked perfectly. The townsfolk bought the water even if it meant going into debt, and Thomas’s purse swelled.

He hadn’t worried about the aftermath. Edward’s relationship with his father was already ruined, and the baron himself was in despair over his failure to solve the drought. They were in no position to object, even if the people cursed them both.

Even if they did complain, Thomas had no reason to fear. The Griffiths might be an old family, but they were a small house in a backwater of a minor kingdom. The Theos Order, backed by the Holy Empire, had no need to bow to them. Worst case, he could accuse Edward of heresy and have him burned.

But now… things had changed.

If he didn’t get out soon, he would die. The law and God were far away—but the sword was close. And this sword was unlike anything Thomas had ever faced.

Sir Dorian, the temple knight, had been killed—by that brat. Dorian was well-known in the Order for his skill. He’d been sent to this remote parish because of his personality, but he’d been considered a promising knight among the lower ranks, and the strongest in the Griffith parish.

Edward, who had never properly learned swordsmanship, shouldn’t have stood a chance. Was it in the blood? The baron had once been a renowned swordsman in the kingdom, and Edward’s half-brother William was a monster of a fighter. Edward had never trained because of his illness, but perhaps he did have talent—and perhaps, by chance, it had surfaced.

Still… just days ago, Edward had been on the verge of death, found in a cave near the Demon King’s castle. Waking up at all had seemed a miracle. Yet as soon as he recovered, he had uncovered the truth about the well water and killed Dorian with a single blow.

It was unthinkable.

It had to be black magic. That was the only explanation that fit. He needed an inquisitor. Killing a temple knight was grounds for a religious trial—and Edward had actually studied black magic before. Accusing him would be easy.

“Where’s that fraud of a priest?!”

“Give me back my money, you swindler!”

Shouts rose from outside the temple. A chill ran down Thomas’s spine, his body turning cold. It wasn’t the townsfolk he feared—he could talk them down.

What truly terrified him was Edward—the look in his eyes after killing Dorian, as he turned that gaze on Thomas. Just remembering it sent a shiver through him.

There was no time.

He opened the hidden safe in the office wall. Inside were jewels and documents, all of which he stuffed into a bag. Then he ran toward the temple’s underground.

—

[“What’s that?”

Dorian pointed to a passage hidden deep beneath the temple. He’d found it while inspecting the grounds after his reassignment.

“As you can see, it’s a secret tunnel,” Thomas had replied with a sly smile.

“A servant of the god of justice has no need for such a rat hole. That’s for lowly thieves,” Dorian said.

“A brave knight like yourself can say that, Sir Dorian. But in this land, there are savage folk like the locals here. We must know how to protect ourselves from them.”

Dorian didn’t answer. He already knew why Priest Thomas had such a thing built. Thomas had a notorious reputation for sticky fingers. In the last parish he’d served—and the one before that—he had swindled the residents until it led to open revolt. His reassignment here had been punishment for exactly that.

Still, Dorian didn’t hold it against him. Few priests were above such acts. But he considered Thomas’s worries unnecessary. Anyone who dared defy the Order could simply have their skull smashed in; there was no need for a rat hole like this.]

These were the temple knight’s memories now floating in Edward’s mind.

What’s going on?

The Black Soul was the Griffith family’s secret technique. It put an enormous strain on the user’s soul, so it couldn’t be used often. But now, it had activated on its own and absorbed the knight’s soul—without any side effects.

There was no mental overload, no rush of thoughts threatening to overtake him, no headaches. In fact, the strength taken from the knight seemed to have stabilized his body, which had been on the verge of collapsing.

Strange.

Surviving the absorption of both the Demon King’s and the death squad’s souls had been a miracle in itself. Now it seemed he could use the Black Soul freely. If he could take the power of those he killed, the usual backlash might be reduced—and the amplified strength could be used in battle.

At least this is to my advantage.

Thanks to the knight’s soul, he now knew exactly what the priest had been up to.

“Lord Edward?”

Logan’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. The townspeople, kneeling on the ground, looked like soldiers awaiting their commander’s orders, eyes fixed on Edward.

“I’m going to the temple,” Edward said.

“We’ll go with you,” Logan replied firmly.

“We’ll join as well,” another called. “That fraud needs to be destroyed!”

Edward shook his head. “I appreciate it, but I’m not going there to fight.”

“…?”

“Our enemy isn’t the Theos Order—it’s the priest. He may represent the Order here in our territory, but his crimes aren’t the will of the Order itself.”

He spoke with calm calculation. The Theos Order was as powerful as the Holy Empire itself, its influence stretching across the continent. The dying Griffith family couldn’t hope to take them head-on. The only option was to avoid direct conflict and force compensation.

The knight’s memories had given Edward the means.

“I killed that knight because he threatened you all. I’ll demand the priest explain himself according to law and tradition. But you must not destroy any temple property or harm anyone belonging to it. Understood?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then let’s go. The kingdom’s law and God’s justice are on our side.”

Edward led the townsfolk toward the temple.

When he’d been there yesterday, there were no signs of horses on the grounds. Thomas, with his bulk, wasn’t about to flee on foot—he had to still be inside.

“Give me back my money, you swindler!”

“Fraudulent priest, get out here!”

The crowd surrounded the temple, shouting, but they didn’t break down the doors or climb the walls. They could have, but they were following Edward’s orders to the letter.

“Do you think he’ll come out?” Logan asked, his frustration obvious. He clearly wanted to storm the place, but doing so would hand the Order the perfect excuse to use force. That had to be avoided.

“He’ll come,” Edward said confidently. His plan was to make the priest come out of his own accord—and bring with him whatever valuables were essential to resolving this mess. If Thomas stayed barricaded inside, it would be a problem; the crowd’s fervor would fade with time.

But Edward doubted that would happen. From what he’d seen in the plaza, the priest was a coward to the core. Once he imagined the townsfolk breaking in to kill him, he’d panic.

And Edward knew he had an escape route. Anyone who had been through what Thomas had would make sure of it. A man with a way out couldn’t resist the urge to use it.

“Logan.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“There’s a hidden passage through that hill. He might try to flee that way. I’m going to check it.”

“A hidden passage?” Logan looked taken aback.

“If anyone tries to break the siege or enter the temple, stop them.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

Edward slipped away toward the rear of the temple.

—

Almost there.

Thomas shoved aside the brush covering the exit. He almost wanted to give his past self a thumbs-up for arranging this. He’d hired outsiders to construct it, so no one in the village knew it existed. Truly, it was a masterstroke of caution.

Just a little farther and he’d reach the rendezvous point with the apprentice. From there, they would ride to the neighboring city. The Inquisition was there, and an inquisitor would take care of everything.

“A young punk playing with black magic… disgraceful,” he muttered, now that fear had ebbed, replaced by anger. “I’ll have him burned at the stake.”

“Who are you going to burn?”

“Waaagh!”

Thomas screamed and fell backward. Edward emerged from the trees.

“L–Lord Edward…”

“Who are you going to burn?”

“N-no one. Just a slip of the tongue.”

“And where are you rushing off to? Your flock is desperately looking for you.”

“I… well…”

Edward began to slowly circle him, the weight of his gaze making Thomas’s chest tighten.

“If you harm me, the Theos Order won’t forgive you!” Thomas blurted, summoning his last shred of courage.

“It’s quiet here,” Edward said, glancing around with a cold stare. Thomas understood exactly what that meant. God and the law were far away—but the sword was very close.

“Please, my lord! Spare me! I was wrong! I’ve committed terrible sins!”

He crawled forward and flattened himself at Edward’s feet.

Thunk.

“Huh?”

Something damp pressed down on the back of his head.

“L–Lord—”

Edward’s boot, caked in mud, ground into his skull.

“Urgh!”

Edward pressed down harder, forcing his face into the dirt. Thomas couldn’t breathe.

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Edward slipped quietly into the square and knelt by the well. The lock securing the lid didn’t stand a chance against the picks he had made from bent forks, combined with the lockpicking skill he had inherited from the great thief Arsène.

He drew water from the well and took it back to his study, where he used the alchemy equipment to analyze it. The results were exactly as he suspected—pure mana water, completely free of toxins. When he dropped Starwind into it, it glowed just like the so-called holy water from the temple.

With that preparation done, he returned to the well to show the villagers the truth.

“Th–that…?”

In front of the crowd, Edward took a sip of the glowing liquid. Nothing happened.

“This won’t harm you,” he said. “Who wants to try? Finish the glass and I’ll give you ten gold.”

Ten gold was a fortune for a poor farmer, yet no one stepped forward. The well water had long been feared as cursed.

“I’ll try,” a man said at last.

It was Logan—the same man who had earlier come at Edward, only to have a sword at his throat. His large frame and rough face made him stand out from the other farmers. He looked less defiant now, more conflicted.

“What’s your name?”

“Logan.”

“Good. Logan.”

Edward handed him the glass with a small smile. Logan’s hands shook as he took it.

“It’s the same as the holy water you’ve drunk before. I’ve tested it myself—there’s no danger.”

Logan drank, emptying the glass until only the Starwind remained at the bottom.

“This is…” He hesitated. The crowd waited.

“It’s holy water.”

The villagers murmured in confusion.

“What?”

“How?”

“So all you need is Starwind in the well water?”

“But the priest said it needed a blessing from the gods.”

“Then what have we been drinking?”

No one had an answer.

Edward stepped back up onto the well and looked around. The square fell silent.

“This water is mana water,” he said.

“Mana water?”

“What’s that?”

“It’s what knights and mages drink to restore their mana,” Edward explained. “You have a little mana in your bodies too. This water boosts it. That’s why you feel clear-headed and full of energy afterward.”

“Then what about the holy water from the temple?” Logan asked.

“It’s the same. Just this well water with a weed tossed in—fake holy water.”

“So we’ve been drinking fakes all this time?”

“Yes. Since you don’t use magic, all you got was a temporary good feeling.”

Logan ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He had clearly paid dearly for the stuff.

“Come to think of it,” one villager said, “I once found some bits floating in my holy water.”

“Bits?”

“Yeah. Some plant matter.”

“That would’ve been Starwind,” another muttered.

“I should have realized…”

“And I paid so much for it.”

“Scam artist.”

“That priest is a fraud!”

The mood was turning ugly when…

“Lord Edward! What is the meaning of this?!”

Thomas appeared, leading temple guards. Four soldiers carried spears, and one knight in full plate armor stood beside them—a towering figure over two meters tall.

“I should be the one asking questions here,” Edward said calmly.

“What are you talking about?” Thomas replied.

“This water isn’t contaminated. You know that. That’s why you only gave me a small sip yesterday, isn’t it?”

“I… don’t know what you mean.”

“When someone with mana reflux drinks mana water, there’s a high risk of triggering it. That’s why you held back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Close that lid at once!” Thomas snapped.

“Why? So you can keep selling it? You didn’t purify this water for the church—you sold it to merchants and scammed the villagers.”

“Nonsense! Do you have proof?”

“I’ll show you.”

Edward dropped a piece of Starwind into the well water, and it glowed instantly.

“All it takes is a weed from the hill behind us. Simple, isn’t it?”

“That’s a fake,” Thomas shot back. “Without my blessing, it’s as deadly as poison.”

“Logan, how do you feel?” Edward asked.

“Exactly the same as when I drank the temple’s holy water,” Logan said.

Edward turned back to Thomas. “Aren’t you ashamed? You claim to serve a god of justice, yet you take advantage of people’s ignorance to steal from them.”

“The Black Mage Lord has fallen to the demons!” Thomas shouted. “His words are the whispers of evil! Remember who brought this drought upon us!”

The villagers, long accustomed to relying on the temple through years of drought, wavered under his influence.

“Perfect,” Edward said, facing the crowd again. “Let’s settle this here and now.”

He seized the moment. “We all know the drought began ten years ago. Does anyone remember when my health began to fail?”

Frederick stepped forward at his cue. “It was after the drought began, sir.”

“That’s right,” Edward said. “I spent years looking for a cure. Not one priest or potion worked. I turned to black magic out of desperation. Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”

The villagers stayed silent.

“Logan?” Edward pressed.

“The priest said the drought was because you turned to black magic,” Logan admitted.

And the villagers believed him. They needed an explanation for their desperate situation, and they needed someone to blame.

“The drought began long before I ever studied black magic,” Edward said. “So how can you claim black magic is the cause?”

The villagers lowered their heads. Like people forced to face an unpleasant truth, none of them looked pleased.

“You—” Thomas started, but Edward’s sharp voice cut through his words.

“Silence!”

The priest flinched and shut his mouth.

“You’ve insulted the name of Griffith. In Griffith territory, no less.”

“Blasphemy!”

“Blasphemy?” Edward’s eyes narrowed. “You’re the one who’s mocked the divine. Do you think Theos will forgive a man who lines his pockets with a fraud like this?”

“Arrest him!” Thomas barked, his voice rising as he pulled his last card.

Logan had once been among the most devout in the village. In this harsh reality, faith had been the only way to keep going. He believed that if he offered enough tribute, he might one day reach paradise after death.

The holy water, which cleared his head and lifted his spirits, had seemed like proof of that paradise. He’d even gone into debt to buy it.

But now, the “holy water” he trusted was nothing more than well water mixed with a weed.

The sacrifices he had made for it came rushing back to him, and rage followed.

“You swindler!” Logan shouted. “Give me back my money!”

“All of it!” someone else yelled.

“Fraud! Charlatan!”

The villagers’ mood flipped in an instant. The respect they had once felt was now betrayal, and that betrayal turned to anger. They surged toward Thomas.

“Stop them! Do whatever it takes!” the priest ordered his guards.

There were only five, but they were trained soldiers in full gear.

The temple knight stepped forward first. His towering figure, over two meters tall and clad head to toe in plate armor, made the crowd hesitate. He raised his heavy mace.

Logan froze as the weapon came down toward his head.

A metallic clang rang out.

Edward stood between them, having blocked the blow. Logan stared at him in shock. One moment Edward had been standing on the well, and the next he was here.

“M–my lord…”

“They’re not your match,” Edward told him. “Stand back.”

Logan stepped away awkwardly.

“Kill the heretic!” Thomas screamed, his voice cracking with rage.

The knight moved again, thrusting his shield toward Edward. But Edward stepped back a fraction faster.

“How dare you raise your hand against the people of Griffith?” Edward’s voice was cold as he closed in.

The next moment happened too fast for Logan to follow. There was a flash, and Edward’s sword pierced the knight’s visor, slipping through the eye slit and deep into his head.

The armored body fell with a heavy crash. The square went silent. No one had believed Edward could defeat a temple knight.

It had taken only a single exchange after blocking the first blow. The knight had the advantage in size, armor, and training—while Edward had never even completed knightly instruction. What had just happened seemed impossible.

Thomas was the most shocked of all. “Stop them!” he shouted, pushing the soldiers forward before turning to run toward the temple.

Edward’s gaze swept over the remaining guards. Pale-faced, they backed away with their spears raised. Once they were far enough, they turned and fled.

Edward spat on the ground. Blood followed.

Logan recognized the sign—mana reflux. He’d heard that when someone with the condition exerted themselves too hard, it could trigger a dangerous reaction. That was why such people were rarely trained with weapons.

Edward had risked his life to protect him.

My lord…

Logan remembered all the insults, the nickname “Black Mage Lord,” the resentment he had nursed. Edward had never truly wronged him—he had studied black magic only to search for a cure. That same knowledge had just exposed the priest’s fraud.

Shame, regret, and gratitude welled up at once.

“I’m sorry, my lord!” Logan dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the ground.

“We’ve committed a grave sin! Please forgive us!”

One by one, the villagers followed his example until all were prostrated.

Edward had succeeded in changing their minds. But instead of satisfaction, he felt uneasy.

What… is this?

The image of the knight’s death flashed in his mind. His body, driven to the edge by the strain of the fight, was already recovering.

He hadn’t even used the Black Soul—yet somehow, he had absorbed the knight’s spirit.

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“The well has been tainted by demons!”

Priest Thomas’s voice rang through the temple, bouncing off the high stone walls. Murmurs rippled through the gathered villagers.

“And what, pray tell, do you intend to do with that accursed water?” he demanded.

Edward folded his arms, meeting the priest’s glare with infuriating calm. “I thought it might be useful to irrigate the fields. According to my calculations, it’s the nearest source to the farmland.”

He left the real reason unsaid.

“Lies!” Thomas thundered. “You’re plotting some foul experiment again, aren’t you?”

It was clear enough—he meant to block any attempt to access the well.

“After everything that’s happened, you still haven’t learned? It’s disgraceful!”

Edward’s patience, already worn thin, began to fray.

And then—

“That’s right!” someone shouted.

“Enough is enough!”

“It’s because of you, my lord, that the estate’s in such ruin!”

“Your black magic has brought the wrath of Theos upon us!”

The priest’s scolding seemed to embolden them. The crowd, already simmering, began to boil over.

Their accusations were enough to get them flogged under normal circumstances, but fear had given way to fury, and they had nothing left to lose.

What utter nonsense… Edward thought. Black magic had nothing to do with the drought. But in this backwater, the farmers had never had proper schooling. Their thinking was… simple.

That wretched priest’s been stirring them up.

The drought had dragged on for over a decade, driving people half-mad. All it took was someone offering a neat explanation for them to latch onto it. And what better scapegoat than the lord’s son with a taste for forbidden magic?

Edward gave a wry smile. Now he understood the hostility he’d felt on his way here. To these people, it was obvious: the gods punished bad rulers with disaster. A comforting little superstition for the ignorant.

“Repent!” someone cried.

“Take responsibility!”

“This is all your fault!”

Edward had come with nothing but a sword at his hip, no guards in sight. The crowd teetered on the edge of becoming a mob—and Thomas wasn’t lifting a finger to stop them. His expression was stern, but his lips curled ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry,” Edward said.

Silence dropped over the temple like a stone into a pond. Not one soul had expected the young lord to apologize.

“I’ve failed to understand your hardship,” he continued, his voice firm. “I truly am sorry.”

The sincerity—or at least the convincing performance of it—left the simple farmers floundering.

“From this day on, I mean to change. Priest Thomas—”

“Yes?” The priest’s brow twitched.

“I wish to drink the holy water.”

“H–holy water?” Thomas stammered, taken off guard.

As I thought.

Whatever it was, Edward suspected its base was mana water—and it didn’t take a genius to guess where they’d drawn it from. Thomas knew full well that Edward suffered from mana reflux. A single swallow of mana-rich water could trigger it—and if that happened here, the priest would find himself in a very awkward position.

“I want to cleanse my body of the evil energy it has accumulated,” Edward said. “Surely Theos’s holy water can do that?”

The villagers began murmuring again, and Edward turned toward them.

“I swear never to touch black magic again. I’ll burn every last book. But first, I’ll purify this corrupted body with the priest’s holy water.”

“That’s what we want!” someone called.

“Hear, hear!”

The shouts gathered strength.

“Priest Thomas,” Edward said, fixing him with a look.

“Yes?”

“Please give me the holy water.”

“You… you cannot,” Thomas said at last.

“Why not?”

“Your body is already tainted with evil energy. The holy water would be too much for you to endure.”

A passable excuse—but still exactly the opening Edward had planned for.

“If I don’t cleanse this body, the drought will never end. I’m willing to give my life for the people who suffer because of me.”

That silenced more than the priest. The villagers, too, looked uneasy. The thought of their lord’s son dying for them had an unsettling weight to it.

“I won’t live long anyway, not with my health,” Edward pressed. “Let me at least use what’s left to help. Every healthy man ought to live properly, shouldn’t he?”

Thomas’s eyes darted like trapped insects, his mind scrambling for an escape.

“No,” he said sharply.

“There’s no need to go that far,” a villager chimed in, and others echoed him. They had lashed out in anger, but now the idea of Edward dying for them struck too close to home.

“No,” Edward said, his tone unyielding. “I’ll drink it and end this drought. Priest—please.”

Thomas hesitated. Then, as if struck by inspiration, he said, “What if… you drank just a little? Too much at once might harm you.”

Edward understood the ploy—just enough to avoid triggering the reflux.

“Yes! That’s a sensible idea!”

“Look after your health, my lord!”

“Think of the estate!”

The villagers rallied to the suggestion.

“Very well,” Edward said at last, smiling in a way that made Thomas look suddenly nervous.

—

Edward had tasted holy water in his previous life—real holy water, blessed by the gods themselves, the kind that could snatch a dying man back from the brink of death.

The so-called holy water given by the Griffith priest, however, was nothing more than ordinary mana water.

Thomas had offered him only a token sip, citing “possible side effects,” but Edward’s tongue, well acquainted with mana water from endless campaigns in his past life, was not so easily fooled.

The only difference is the glow, he mused.

Indeed, the strange thing about the priest’s “holy water” was its light. That faint radiance was enough to make the villagers believe in its sanctity.

Paulo would know why…

Paulo, the Alchemist King, had been a member of the Death Squad—an unmatched master of herbs and reagents. More than a few comrades owed their lives to his concoctions.

And with the memory of Paulo’s expertise came the answer Edward had been reaching for: the name of a plant that glowed when it came into contact with mana-rich liquid.

The villagers called it Starwind.

Leaving the temple, Edward made straight for the village herbalist, a gruff man named Grix.

“Starwind?” the man echoed.

“Yes. Is it found around here?”

“It’s everywhere. Nasty little weed. What do you need it for?”

“A handful will do. I’ll pay.”

“No need. I wouldn’t take money for something so useless. Wait here.”

Moments later, Grix returned with a bundle of what looked like common weeds.

“This is Starwind?”

“See for yourself—the seeds look like tiny stars. When the wind blows, they float off everywhere, and once they stick to your clothes, good luck getting them off.”

“Appreciate it. And… forget we spoke today.”

Edward took the plant and headed back to the castle, seeking out Frederick.

“Forks, sir? Shall I set the table?”

“No, just the forks. Two will do.”

“…What for?”

“I’ll explain later. Don’t tell me you’ve sold them all?”

“Of course not.”

Frederick handed them over, still suspicious.

Edward used the pommel of his sword to snap off the tines until only one remained on each fork, creating two crude lockpicks.

Arsène would have been proud, he thought.

Arsène, the Great Thief, had been the only criminal among the Death Squad—distrusted for his past, yet unmatched in skill. His talents in infiltration and lockpicking had saved countless lives; it was thanks to him that they’d stolen the blueprints from the Demon King’s fortress, preventing a massacre.

Edward had inherited every ounce of his dexterity. With these makeshift picks, there wasn’t a lock in the keep he couldn’t open.

His eyes fell on a pile of alchemical equipment in the corner of the study—gear the old Edward had likely bought in an attempt to brew cures. Combined with Paulo’s knowledge, it would be more than enough to analyze the contents of the “holy water.”

—

Meanwhile, in the village, a man named Logan was fuming. A native of Griffith lands, he had been one of the first to call Edward the Black Mage Lord.

It hadn’t always been so. The villagers had once loved the young heir. They had prayed for him when word spread that he was gravely ill. Even when he grew irritable and withdrawn, they pitied him, believing his illness to be the cause.

But then came the experiments—the locked doors, the strange smells, the obsession with dangerous magic.

When a drought that had already lasted years began to ruin harvest after harvest, Logan’s bitterness festered. The final blow came when bandits kidnapped his younger brother, and the lord’s son showed no interest in the plight of his people.

Priest Thomas had given Logan the words he needed: that divine punishment fell upon the land because of someone’s wickedness. He never named Edward, but everyone knew.

And the holy water Thomas dispensed brought Logan a sense of cleansing and elation strong enough to make him sell possessions for another sip.

So when a cry went up—”The Black Mage Lord has opened the Demon’s Well!”—Logan ran to the square with the rest, heart pounding.

There was Edward, sitting casually on the well’s edge. The heavy lid, once locked tight, now lay open.

“That’s the Demon’s Well!”

“What are you doing?!”

“This will bring disaster!”

“You drank holy water and still haven’t repented?!”

The crowd roared.

“Is everyone here?” Edward asked mildly, standing and tossing a bucket into the depths.

“You’re about to see something.”

He hauled the bucket up and poured its contents into a large glass vessel. The liquid inside was as black as oil.

“It’s the water of demons!”

“We’re all going to die!”

“Fetch the priest!”

Logan stepped forward, sleeves rolled up. This had gone far enough.

But before he could reach him, a sword was at his throat. Blood trickled down before he even saw Edward move.

The square fell silent.

Edward had never been known for swordsmanship—his frail body had kept him from training. Yet in that moment, Logan’s instincts screamed that the slightest movement would cost him his head.

“I know you all hate me,” Edward said evenly. “And you can kill me if you like… but first, watch.”

Logan stumbled back, and Edward reached into his pocket, pulling out the Starwind and a single gold coin.

“Anyone know this plant? A gold piece for the right answer.”

A murmur ran through the villagers until someone called out, “Starwind.”

“Correct.” Edward tossed him the coin.

“Now look closely.”

He dropped the plant into the black water.

WHOOMPH—white flames leapt from the vessel.

“Demon fire!”

The villagers recoiled in terror, until the flames died down.

And then they gasped.

The black water had turned pure white, shimmering with a gentle glow.

“That’s… holy water,” someone breathed.

It was the very same light-blessed liquid they’d been paying the temple for.

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“Frederick.”

Isaac, though in this life, the name was Edward, set down the document he had been reading and lifted his gaze to the butler.

“Yes, Young Master.” Frederick’s smile was warm, brimming with pride.

Edward frowned. “Could you stop staring at me like that?” The man’s look of quiet admiration was simply too much.

“My apologies. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just… this is the first time you’ve shown an interest in the estate’s affairs,” Frederick said, his voice carrying an unmistakable note of emotion.

“Father isn’t here,” Edward replied casually. “And this is the estate I’m going to inherit.” That was all it took for Frederick’s eyes to shine again. “Of course! It’s only right you should be involved. But please, don’t overwork yourself, you’ve yet to fully recover.”

“Got it,” Edward said, turning back to the papers. The deeper he read, the heavier the words felt. The Griffith finances were worse than he had imagined. The debts alone could have swallowed the yearly budget of a respectable kingdom. Everything of value had been sold, every loanable coin borrowed, and expenses pared down to the bone, yet ruin still loomed, only delayed by desperation.

“What’s this income here? Did we borrow more money?” One section caught his eye, a vague list of names without titles or positions.

“That’s money sent by the knights of the house,” Frederick explained, “those who are working as mercenaries now.”

“I thought the knight order was disbanded.”

“It was. His Lordship released them from their oaths, since he could no longer maintain them. But not one of them entered the service of another lord.”

Edward raised a brow. “Wouldn’t mercenary work be a blow to a knight’s honour?”

“They do it to send money back to the Baron.”

Edward stared at him. “That’s… some loyalty.”

“Even though they were released, they never accepted it. They still believe their oath is valid.”

“You haven’t been paid for a year either, have you, Frederick?”

“That’s right, Young Master.”

“Then why haven’t you left?”

Frederick’s expression grew complicated. “The name Griffith carries a weight not so easily abandoned. Like the knights, my family has served the Griffiths since my ancestors’ time.”

“You have a surname, don’t you? What is it?”

Frederick’s brows lifted. “You’re asking me my surname… I never thought I’d see the day. But I’m not allowed to use it officially.”

“Why not?”

“I have my reasons.”

“This isn’t an official setting. Tell me.”

He hesitated, then spoke. “It was Marshall.”

Edward’s eyes widened. The Marshalls had once served the Griffiths when they were royalty, and after the fall of Isaac Griffith five hundred years ago, the Marshalls had risen to become the royal house of Aerok. Which meant the elderly man before him, dressed in worn formal wear, was kin to the current king.

“That’s right,” Frederick said. “The current royal family is actually the cadet branch. My family stayed loyal to the Griffiths for over a thousand years. When the Griffiths became barons, my ancestor surrendered his title to remain in service. His younger brother became king.”

It was absurd, a royal serving as butler to a baron, and unpaid for a year at that. “Don’t you regret it? You could have lived as royalty.”

But Frederick’s eyes shone with pride. “This is what my family has always done. I’ve never once regretted it. I imagine the knights feel the same.”

Edward fell silent. He could picture that ancestor from five centuries ago, and the image twisted something deep in his chest.

“The Griffiths have stood for fifteen hundred years,” Frederick said quietly. “A house that endures that long is worth serving. I hope you take that to heart, Young Master.”

“I will,” Edward promised. “And neither you nor the knights will regret your choice.”

Frederick blinked in surprise, his expressive face threatening to betray tears. Edward, sensing the moment, changed the subject. “So, where’s the rest of the family? Why hasn’t anyone visited?”

“Her Ladyship, the Baroness, passed away right after giving birth to you.”

“I see.”

“You have one half-brother, but he was banished.”

“Why?”

“He caused too many incidents and earned His Lordship’s wrath.”

“…I see.” The estate was bankrupt, the family fractured—this was a disaster.

“Back to the main point,” Edward said. “The drought began about ten years ago?”

“Yes, Young Master.”

“And before that?”

“It rained regularly, and the land was fertile.”

So it probably wasn’t the Demon King’s Castle causing it. “Anything profitable besides farming?”

“Hunters and fishermen pay taxes.”

“Pocket change.”

“That’s true.” Farming was the estate’s lifeblood. Everything else was insignificant.

“What about the Demon King’s Castle?”

Frederick blinked. “The castle, sir?”

“Are there still monsters there?”

“They appear occasionally, but not many.”

“Could there be something valuable inside?”

“People thought so once. Adventurers flocked there three hundred years ago. But they stopped coming.”

“So there’s nothing left?”

“Likely not. Why do you ask? You haven’t found some strange idea in a book again, have you?”

Edward gave a small smile. “Just thought I’d ask.”

What he truly wanted to confirm wasn’t written in any book, it was a memory from the Demon King himself. A place only the Demon King could enter. A place even his subordinates had been forbidden.

If those treasures were still there, they might be the key to saving the Griffith estate.

Not that it mattered yet. Right now, it was impossible.

The problem was, he had no idea what dangers might be lurking in the Demon King’s Castle.

Five hundred years ago, it had been the most dangerous place on the continent. The less explored a place was, the more dangerous it tended to be, and for all he knew, some of the Demon King’s old subordinates might still be there. In this frail body, facing them was out of the question.

Troublesome.

He needed time to rebuild his strength, but the estate’s condition left no room for that. The Baron had even borrowed from a loan shark, putting the castle up as collateral, and the repayment deadline was fast approaching. If they couldn’t raise the money, they would be thrown out into the streets.

There has to be a way…

Edward pressed a hand to his temple, trying to think.

A memory surfaced, one from the Demon King’s own past.

“There’s a well in the village, right?”

“There is, but it can’t be used.”

“Why not?”

“Demons poisoned it with some kind of drug, so it’s contaminated. According to the priest, the well dates back to when the Demon King still lived.”

“So it’s been sealed off?”

“The priest draws the water regularly and sends it to the city’s temple for purification. If they don’t, the evil energy spilling from the well will endanger the villagers.”

“What god does this priest serve?”

“The god of justice, Theos.”

Theos. Charles had served that god as well, and Theos-worship was the state religion of the Holy Empire.

“So does that mean the well belongs to the temple?”

“No. It’s the lord’s property. Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering if there’s a way to channel that water to the farmlands.”

“That’s a good idea, but His Lordship has already tried everything he could.”

“I see. Let’s leave it at that for today.”

“You’ve worked hard. That was excellent handling of the matter.”

Frederick bowed with a pleased expression. Edward had only reviewed the estate’s finances, but the way the butler praised him, you’d think he’d done something grand.

The next day, Edward headed to the village.

What’s this?

Several villagers crossed his path, but their greetings were half-hearted at best. Some reluctantly dipped their heads, their faces twisted with open hostility. Others didn’t greet him at all, pretending not to see him.

Looks like I was hated quite a bit.

While the estate had been falling apart, Edward had been collecting banned books and dabbling in black magic. No wonder they despised him.

Pathetic.

It wasn’t just their attitudes. Every villager he passed had the glassy eyes of a dead fish, their skin shrunken and clinging to bone. If even the lord’s storerooms were empty, the people had to be on the brink of starvation.

Here it is.

Edward stopped at the village’s central well. It was covered with a hinged lid, locked tight with a thick, sturdy padlock. This well had been here five centuries ago, and in the Demon King’s memories, it had produced Mana Water.

As the name suggested, Mana Water restored mana, formed when underground water absorbed the energy of buried mana stones. Demons had used it, yes, but they had never tampered with it, not while the Demon King lived.

Mana Water on its own was valuable, but it was also the base for many elixirs and fetched a high price. Even a modest supply could give them breathing room.

As long as it’s not contaminated…

Edward made his way to the temple within the estate.

It was larger and more lavish than the lord’s own castle, and inside, dozens of villagers were gathered.

“Young Lord?”

The people near the entrance looked startled at the sight of him.

“What the—? It’s the Black Mage Lord.”

“Shh! He’ll hear you.”

“So what?”

“Well, this is strange. What’s he doing here?”

“Maybe he’s here to repent.”

The whispers tickled Edward’s ears. So “Black Mage Lord” was his nickname.

“What are you all doing here?” he asked a nearby villager.

“We’ve come to receive holy water from the priest.”

“Holy water?”

“Yes, blessed by the gods. It even glows.”

“And drinking it cures illness?”

“It drives out the evil energy in your body.”

“And then?”

“Your mind clears. Your strength returns.”

“Really?”

“It’s true. One cup will wake you right up. It’s miraculous water.”

Another villager nodded along, eager to confirm it.

That’s Mana Water. The effects were identical.

“And they give it out for free?”

“Of course not. Theos is the god of justice. To receive his blessing, you pay a fair price. Offer tribute, and you get the holy water.”

Something about this stank.

The priest appeared, so heavy the floor seemed to shake with every step. His face gleamed with grease, a second chin folding beneath his jaw. Edward recalled his name—Thomas.

The villagers bowed. Edward inclined his head as well.

“Oh, Young Lord Edward,” Thomas said, smiling with benevolence. “What brings you to this humble house of God?”

“I wanted to offer my thanks,” Edward replied. He’d heard it was Thomas who had tended to him when he collapsed.

“As a servant of the gods, I only did my duty.”

“And there’s one favor I’d like to ask.”

“What sort of favor?”

“I’d like to check the water from the village well.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Thomas’s smile faltered. Even if the water was contaminated, there was no reason to react so visibly.

Got you.

Edward smiled inwardly, watching the priest’s stiff expression.

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The knowledge of my comrades?

Just before his death, Isaac had activated the Black Soul and absorbed the souls of his fallen companions.

It had lasted only a short time, but in that instant all the strength and knowledge they possessed became his.

The hundred members of the death squad had each been the best in their field. Somewhere among them, there might have been one who knew how to overcome mana reflux syndrome. More than a few had been hailed as great mages or sages, after all.

How is this even possible?

By all common sense, it was madness to cram ninety-eight souls into one. For a few minutes, one might wield godlike power, but afterward the soul serving as the vessel should collapse and die.

And yet now…

Knowledge Isaac had never once learned in his previous life was stacking neatly in his mind, weapon mastery at the level of a Grand Master, an encyclopedic understanding of every school of magic, and even secrets of the world he’d never known existed. If written down, the information could fill an entire library, with plenty to spare.

It was a wonder his head hadn’t burst.

He had no idea whose mind it had all come from. The knowledge was there, yes, but not the memories of learning it, none of his comrades’ experiences, none of their emotions. It felt as if someone had plucked out the core of their knowledge and arranged it for him like a tidy collection on a shelf.

“Young Master.”

Isaac blinked and turned his head. Frederick, the butler, was watching him.

“I can understand what frame of mind you must have been in when you did such a thing.”

“What thing did I do?”

The butler crossed to the bookshelf and plucked out a heavy volume. “While keeping such books close, you conducted experiments that should never have been attempted.”

The gold-embossed title glinted in the lamplight: The Book of Demon King Summoning.

No way.

The Black Soul absorbed nearby souls. Isaac had been using it up to the very moment of his death. Could it be he had absorbed the Demon King’s soul as well? Perhaps that was what had kept his own from collapsing. If the Demon King’s soul truly had that much power, it could have borne not just ninety-nine, but even more.

Of course, that would mean the vessel was the Demon King’s soul, not his. That part still made no sense.

“Given the state you’re in, I’m sure you now understand,” Frederick said quietly. “Doing such things will only eat away at the rest of your life.”

So that’s how it is.

The owner of this body, Edward, had been terminally ill. He must have been desperate enough to try anything, even forbidden books. It seemed he had planned to summon the Demon King and use its power to prolong his life.

Instead, he’d ended up with Isaac, who had swallowed the Demon King’s soul whole.

Edward’s attempt to survive had erased him entirely.

A flicker of unease tugged at Isaac’s chest. He hadn’t meant to take his descendant’s life.

“How old am I?”

“Twenty years old.”

“…Poor kid.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind.”

“Well then, I’ll take my leave. The priest said you should remain at rest.”

“All right.”

There were so many questions he could have asked, but for now, he wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

When Frederick left, Isaac turned his gaze to the bookshelf. Most of the volumes were devoted to black magic, but a few appeared to be histories. One title caught his eye: The History of the Fifth Age.

Isaac had lived at the end of the Fourth Age. Since the Demon King’s fall marked the close of an age, it meant he himself had ended it.

He opened the book. The first page was a map of the continent. In the corner, a note read: According to the Postwar Settlement Treaty of the Anti-Demon King Alliance, in the year 2022 of the Holy Solar Calendar, these are the territories of each nation.

A map from exactly five hundred years ago.

The Holy Empire?

Before the war, the land had been divided among four great nations. Now they’d been swallowed up into one.

That thieving bastard.

The country had been founded by Charles, that worthless leech. The thought of him living in luxury on stolen glory, holding such vast territory, made Isaac’s blood boil.

Aerok too?

Once ruled by House Griffith, Aerok had been restored, but only halfway. After the kingdom’s fall, its people had fought at the front in every battle against the Demon King. Even if Isaac had been branded a traitor, their toil and sacrifice should have been undeniable.

Yet their land was halved, the missing half swallowed by the Holy Empire. The treaty’s promise to restore the borders had been trampled.

It was the price of Isaac’s supposed crimes, and of Charles’s so-called achievements.

Damn it.

Even falsely accused, he’d hoped his loyal subjects would be treated fairly. But there would be no glory for a kingdom cut in half.

What’s the situation now?

With a sinking feeling, he turned to the final chapter. The most recent map nearly made him crush the page.

Damn bastards.

The Holy Empire now covered more than half the continent. Aerok was reduced to a quarter of its original size. Once again, its neighbor had taken the land, always the Holy Empire.

Five hundred years had passed, and Isaac had thought revenge was meaningless. But seeing his descendants scraping by on a meagre scrap of land while Charles’s heirs sat on a throne of gold turned his stomach.

This is driving me insane.

He crossed to the window and threw open the curtains. The Griffith domain sprawled below, a lonely village in the middle of a wasteland, not even ringed by a wall.

What’s that?

In the distance rose a mountain with a jagged peak sharp enough to pierce the sky. The slopes were littered with the ruins of vast structures.

The Demon King’s Castle?

Five hundred years ago, that had been the seat of his enemy.

Don’t tell me I was revived right where I died.

Isaac’s final battle with the Demon King had taken place right there, before that very mountain fortress.

He had never set foot inside, the Demon King had come out to meet the death squad in person.

And yet…

Now, the interior of the Demon King’s Castle was as clear in his mind as if he had lived there for years. He could recall the echoing halls, the great chambers, even the secret places only the Demon King could enter.

I really did devour the Demon King.

The Black Soul had swallowed the Demon King’s soul whole. All the strength, all the knowledge that monster had possessed, now lodged within Isaac’s own.

He understood perfectly well what that meant.

How strong could I become?

If he survived this illness… if he could grow enough to unleash the full potential of the soul now inside him… then he might not simply be the strongest alive, he could become the strongest in history.

Even in his previous life, he had been counted among the top fighters of the age. Ninety-eight comrades, each one an elite, had fought alongside him. That alone had been enough to reach the pinnacle.

Now, he carried the power of the Demon King, the being who had annihilated them all single-handedly. With that much strength, even a god might not be out of reach.

I can change things.

Restoring a fallen house would be the simplest of tasks. More than that, he could set history itself right.

History was written by the victors, after all. Isaac had won the fight but died, and so he had not been counted as a victor. Charles had survived, and thus his version of events had become the truth.

If Isaac could claim victory this time, perhaps he could seize the right to write history anew.

Thank you.

The thought was tinged with guilt as well as gratitude. Edward Griffith had given him this second life, even if unintentionally. Without him, Isaac would never have known how far his people had fallen.

I’ll live for your share, too.

And with that, Isaac resolved to live as Edward Griffith from this day forward.

That evening, Frederick himself carried in a meal, knocking lightly on the bedroom door.

“Young Master, it’s Frederick.”

“Come in.”

Frederick entered to find Edward lying in bed, a book propped open in his hands.

“A history book?” the butler asked, frowning.

Edward held up the cover, then closed it and sat up.

Frederick paused. The body was the same, thin as a rake, shoulders hunched from years of neglect, cheeks hollow, skin as pale as candle wax, black hair brittle and dry. Yet the violet eyes that met his now shone with a sharp, cutting clarity that hadn’t been there before.

“How are you feeling?” Frederick asked, trying to sound casual.

“Much better. Is that dinner?”

“Yes.”

Edward took his seat at the edge of the bed while Frederick set the tray down.

“No meat?” Edward asked, glancing at the watery soup and hard bread.

“Regrettably, no,” Frederick sighed.

Edward tilted his head. “Aren’t we a noble house? You said we’re barons?”

“A fallen noble house, yes.”

“How fallen?”

“Including myself, there are exactly three people managing this castle,” Frederick said flatly.

A true lord’s castle should have had at least ten servants. If even the butler was doubling as footman and cook, the situation was dire.

“So that’s why you came yourself,” Edward murmured.

“That’s correct.”

“How did it end up like this?”

“Because of a drought that’s lasted over ten years. We’re probably the least productive domain on the continent.”

“What’s the cause?”

“No one knows. The lord tried everything, but nothing worked.”

“Where’s my father?”

Frederick’s expression tightened. “He went to borrow money.”

“From whom?”

“I’m not sure. He said he wouldn’t return until he found someone willing to lend. He’s already borrowed from everyone who might, so… he won’t be back soon.”

“I see.”

Edward nodded with a calm that felt out of place. A noble’s honor was his life, especially one from a house that had once worn a crown. To be reduced to begging for loans was humiliation beyond words.

Frederick’s chest ached for his master, even as frustration simmered at the spoiled young man before him.

“He’s even borrowed from a city moneylender. The knight order has been disbanded, all the horses and armor sold. A few men still serve out of loyalty, but their wages are three months late. As for my own… I haven’t been paid in a year.”

“You don’t have to give me meat,” Edward said, but Frederick wasn’t listening. His eyes had fallen on a book lying nearby.

“And yet you spend what you have on black magic books like these,” he said, lifting it.

Edward frowned. “You’re saying I bought that?”

“If not you, then who? The house has no money, but you do, your mother’s family is a great noble house in the east.”

Frederick’s voice had risen without his intending it.

“Really?”

“Your uncle, Count Lancer, sends you an allowance every month.”

“I see.”

“If these books helped you, I’d say nothing. But after the latest incident… they do you more harm than good.”

Edward set his spoon down and walked into the adjoining study.

“What are you doing?” Frederick called, following.

Edward ignored him, pulling open drawer after drawer until…

“Here.”

From the desk, he took a small leather pouch and tossed it to Frederick. Coins jingled inside.

“Looks like my uncle’s money. Use it to put out whatever fires are most urgent. If anything’s left, keep it for yourself.”

“M–My lord…”

Frederick stared, stunned. The young master had never once shown interest in the domain’s affairs, had hoarded every coin for himself. The change was so abrupt it left him speechless.

“And while Father’s away,” Edward continued, “I’m acting lord, right?”

“Yes… Young Master.”

“Then gather all the financial records for the domain and bring them here after dinner. I’ll review them.”

“Financial records?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

Frederick could only gape. Words utterly failed him.

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There are things one simply has to do. Not because anyone orders you to, and not because you particularly want to. They are the sorts of things that could cost you dearly—your savings, your sanity, or, on the less fortunate days, your life—and yet, for some unfathomable reason, you still do them.

The only consolation, if you can call it that, is that the world likes to brand such people “heroes.” History is built on their backs, after all. Of course, history books don’t mention the other kind—the ones who do the right thing, get the job done, and are rewarded not with glory but with mockery. There’s a name for them, too. Suckers.

Isaac Griffith was a sucker. Not on purpose. Oh no—he’d been dragged into the role entirely because of one particularly loathsome specimen of humanity.

“Get back here, you—!” Isaac’s voice cracked with fury. “This is madness!”

But the man didn’t look back.

Charles. Sir Charles, if you went by the title carved into medals and sung about by bards. Greatest holy knight on the continent. A shining symbol of courage. At the moment, however, Charles was showing the back of his gold-plated armour to the enemy and legging it with the speed of a startled deer. It was, Isaac thought sourly, a rather impressive display of athleticism for someone allegedly weighed down by righteousness.

“Such admirable camaraderie,” said a voice like steel dragged over stone.

Isaac turned. The Demon King Baal—supreme lord of demons, despoiler of kingdoms, and general ruinous nuisance—was smiling at him. A hundred of the finest warriors had marched all the way to this blasted courtyard to put an end to Baal. Now, ninety-eight of them were lying still, and Charles was making himself scarce. Which left Isaac.

“We don’t need rubbish like that anyway,” Isaac muttered. He had never liked Charles. Smiling hypocrite. Always dodged the dangerous jobs, yet somehow managed to be adored by everyone. Still—Charles’s holy magic was real. One touch and Isaac’s battered body might have been whole again.

“What will you do now?” Baal asked, rising slowly.

There was no mistaking the bodies. No mistaking the toll Isaac’s side had taken on the Demon King, either, no matter how well he hid it. Isaac was all but spent himself, but there was one card left to play.

Forgive me.

The air turned cold as Isaac called upon the Griffith family’s oldest, darkest secret—Black Soul. A colourless vapour rose from the fallen, flowing into him. Strength. Memories. A hundred lives, burning in his veins.

“Aaagh!”

Blood burst from his nose, his ears. His skull felt as though it might crack open from the pressure. The sheer force of it would tear him apart within minutes.

“The Griffiths’ Black Soul,” Baal said, almost approvingly.

If he simply stood still, Isaac would burn himself out and collapse. But Baal was a creature who loved a fight far too much for that. The Griffiths had once ruled the kingdom of Aerok, until Baal ground it to dust. The clan had sworn vengeance ever since, and Isaac was its strongest blade.

Around him, the other dead had been much the same—champions of lost nations, survivors of massacres, each carrying their own reason to see Baal fall. Now, their wills were joined at Isaac’s swordpoint.

“This will be interesting,” Baal murmured, striding forward. The ground shuddered beneath his steps. His presence seemed to crush the air itself.

Isaac’s legs twitched with the urge to flee. But after calling on Black Soul, there was no running—only forward. 

If I’m going to die, I’ll die like a Griffith.

He braced his stance. “Aaaargh!” His comrades’ souls lent their fading strength to his limbs as he charged.

Baal met him head-on. The blade went in clean—through flesh that had turned aside the blows of the greatest swordsman alive. Baal’s own strike drove through Isaac’s abdomen in the same instant.

“Once more,” Isaac gasped, “as one—”

Baal’s eyes bled. Isaac tore his blade free and, with a final roar, swung. The Demon King’s head struck the flagstones with a dull thunk.

Isaac sank to his knees in a spreading pool of red. 

I did it. 

The world would remember him now. Statues in every plaza. Portraits in every great hall.

And the Griffiths—heroes again. Respected. Wealthy. The family name restored. 

Not bad, he thought, and allowed the darkness to take him.

***

“My name is Edward Griffith?”

The question came out hesitant, almost as if the speaker was testing how the words felt on his tongue.

Edward Griffith—the eldest son of the Griffith family—had been unconscious for days, his body lying pale and still as though it belonged in a coffin. Only a few minutes ago had he stirred, and since then, every word he’d spoken had been in a strange, almost foreign manner.

“Yes, young master,” the elderly man in the immaculate tailcoat replied, his eyes glimmering with pity. “You are the eldest son of the Griffith family.”

The man introduced himself as Frederick, the family butler.

“I’ve served you for nearly twenty years,” he said, “and now I find myself having to introduce myself.”

Edward, however, didn’t so much as blink in recognition.

That was because the man inside Edward’s body wasn’t Edward at all—it was Isaac, his ancestor.

Isaac lifted a hand to his own chest, running it over skin and bone that felt far younger than it had any right to be. The deep wounds he had taken in the battle against the Demon King were gone, vanished as though they had never existed.

Have I been reincarnated as my own descendant?

It was absurd. He had killed the Demon King—of that he was certain—and died moments later. And yet, here he was, alive again, born into another body. He’d heard the odd tale about reincarnation, of course, but had always dismissed them as tavern gossip and drunken superstition.

“The priest warned that you might lose your memory,” Frederick said, his expression darkening. “It appears he was right. I’m not sure how I’ll explain this to the Baron.”

Isaac blinked. “Wait—my father is a Baron?”

“That’s correct.”

“The Griffiths are royalty. How are we barons?”

The butler gave a long, tired sigh. “In ancient times, yes.”

The Demon King’s destruction of the kingdom wasn’t unique; plenty of realms had fallen the same way. But the leaders of the anti-Demon King alliance had sworn—publicly—that when the war was over, all borders and thrones would be restored. The Griffiths, as the royal family, should have been reinstated without question. With Isaac’s own accomplishments, they should have been treated better than any other house.

“What year is it now?” Isaac asked, the words tight.

“It is the year 2522 of the Holy Sun Calendar.”

Five hundred years. Enough time for dynasties to rise and rot away.

Isaac’s mouth curled in distaste. “What kind of catastrophic misrule did my descendants manage to pull off to sink this low?”

“They governed well enough,” Frederick said, voice firm. “But your ancestor’s crime was far from light.”

Isaac frowned. “Ancestor? Who?”

“Have you forgotten that ‘Isaac the Betrayer’ was from the Griffith family?”

Isaac’s eyes narrowed. “Betrayer? Are you talking about the Isaac who killed the Demon King five hundred years ago?”

“No. The Isaac who sided with the Demon King and stabbed the heroes in the back.”

“What?” The heat in Isaac’s gaze could have burned through stone. “The one who killed the Demon King was me—Isaac!”

Frederick’s brow furrowed. “Have you been to another world? The one who killed the Demon King was His Holiness, Charles.”

“Charles?” Isaac’s voice turned venomous. “The holy knight Charles?”

“That’s right. He slew the Demon King, saved the world, and went on to found the Holy Empire.”

“That bastard didn’t do a damn thing!” Isaac roared.

“You’re the only person in the world who would think that.” Frederick shook his head.

What happened back then?

The memory came easily enough: the main allied army waiting beyond the Demon King’s front courtyard, hemmed in by a sea of demons. They had been holding their ground, barely. The moment the Demon King fell, those demons would have lost their strength, the siege would have broken, and the main force could have reached the battlefield in time to see the truth.

The Black Soul technique of the Griffith family was infamous. A single glance at the bodies and the battleground would have told them who had made the impossible possible.

Unless… Charles had come back after running away, destroyed the evidence, and claimed the kill for himself. When the main army arrived, he must have spun his tale of heroism, taking all the glory—and then, for reasons Isaac could not fathom, branding him a traitor.

“I’ll kill that bastard with my own hands—” Isaac tried to push himself upright, rage boiling over.

But reality hit him like a hammer. Charles had been dead for centuries. His bones, if any remained, would be dust. The thought made his vision blur and darken, the fury in his chest clawing for escape.

He coughed—once, twice—and then blood spilled from his mouth, dark red against the sheets.

“Young master!” Frederick lunged forward, catching him before he collapsed.

Isaac gritted his teeth, clutching at his chest. The pain was worse than when the Demon King’s sword had skewered him.

“Do I have… some kind of illness?”

“You suffer from mana reflux syndrome,” Frederick said quietly.

Mana reflux syndrome—where the mana inside the body flowed in reverse, tearing it apart from within. It crippled magic use and shattered the body’s balance, cutting life short.

So I reincarnated for this?

His great sacrifice had left him remembered as a traitor, and now he was dying by inches from a disease. He half-expected to keel over from sheer frustration before the illness finished the job.

No… it’s not entirely hopeless.

Isaac forced himself to breathe, to think.

Only fools die from mana reflux syndrome…

He froze. Those thoughts—they didn’t feel like his own.

The notion that mana reflux syndrome, now considered incurable, had once been revered as a divine blessing. That reverse-flow mana meant one’s output was higher than normal, and that if it could be controlled, the mage could surpass all others.

Where… did that come from?

He had never read such a thing. Never heard it. In his previous life, his own younger brother had died from the same disease, and Isaac had studied every scrap of information available at the time. This knowledge had never been part of it. And yet now… he knew not just the theory, but specific methods for controlling it.

This feels like…

Like someone had slipped the knowledge directly into his mind.

And then the memory struck him—his final act before dying.

The Black Soul.

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