I looked at the creature that was once Volkin, and a hollow, aching void echoed in my chest, a space far emptier than the one his death had left. The magnificent, proud wolf with eyes of molten gold was gone. In his place stood a perfect replica forged from pure, living shadow, its form solid and menacing, its silver fur now an illusion of rippling darkness. But its eyes were blank, empty pools of obsidian. There was no intelligence there, no ancient pride, no memory of the brutal, contemptuous beating he had given me. He was a puppet, a beautiful, deadly tool reset to its factory settings, his very soul now a command I held in the palm of my hand.
I tested my new, terrible control, a bitter taste rising in my mouth.
"Dance," I said, my voice flat and devoid of emotion.
The shadow wolf, without hesitation, began to move. It wasn't a dance. It was a clumsy, unnatural approximation, its powerful limbs twisting awkwardly, a grotesque parody of the fluid grace it once possessed.
"Eat," I commanded, pointing to the mangled remains of a Gruntusk I'd killed earlier.
It trotted over and began to devour the carcass with a chilling, mechanical efficiency, its jaws tearing and ripping without relish or hunger.
"Don't poop."
It stopped chewing instantly, its body unnaturally still, a perfect, unthinking machine of obedience.
"Nice," I muttered, watching this silver-furred idiot wag its tail with a joy that wasn't its own. "A loyal E-rank mutt who takes orders like a robot."
But credit where it was due—even if its soul was gone, its physical prowess remained, amplified by its new shadowy nature. The shadow-Volkin's claws could still rip through the tough, magically-reinforced hide of a C-rank Dire Bear like it was parchment. While I was still struggling to aim a simple shadow spear without my body rebelling in a wave of nausea, my new pet had already dismembered a beast that would have killed me ten times over. It was a grim, constant reminder of the power I had stolen, and the power I had yet to master.
We spent the next two months in a grueling, self-imposed hell of intense training. The Hally Forest, with its whispering shadows and ancient, hostile trees, became my personal proving ground. By day, I pushed this new body to its absolute limits, forcing it to adapt to the torrent of shadow mana I channeled. I would practice my skills—Shadow Bind, Shadow Bomb, Shadow Creation—until my nose bled, my muscles screamed, and I collapsed from mana exhaustion, only to get up and do it all over again. I learned to weave the shadows into intricate traps, to detonate them with precision, and to form weapons that were as sharp and cold as my own resolve.
By night, I hunted. With Volkin at my side, his silent, deadly efficiency a stark contrast to my own clumsy efforts, we stalked the forest. I used my Shadow Army skill to raise the souls of the creatures we killed, slowly building an eerie, macabre little troop. A goblin scout with unnervingly quick movements. Two kobold spearmen who fought with a coordinated savagery. A hulking lizardman whose shadowy scales could deflect a blade. They were all E-rank, all bound to my will, a silent, disposable army that I used to test my strategies and overwhelm tougher prey. I sent them into battles I knew they couldn't win, just to observe, to learn, to gather data on my enemies' weaknesses.
By the time two moons had waxed and waned, casting their silvery light over my bloody work, I was ready. I was no longer the fragile noble boy who had stumbled into this forest. I was something new, something harder, something forged in pain and shadow.
I stood at the towering gates of Ashborn Academy, the most elite institution in the empire, a place that trained future heroes and, occasionally, monsters like me. The massive gates, forged from black iron and etched with glowing runes of protection, seemed to hum with a power that made the air itself vibrate, a constant, low thrum of immense magical energy.
I held out the academy registration card I had found in the original Ashen's belongings, its crimson seal gleaming in the morning light. The guards, clad in the polished steel of the Academy's private militia, their faces impassive, barely gave me a second glance as I stepped through the gates like I belonged.
I didn't. But that was the fun part.
After booking a room in a nearby inn that catered to new students, a place filled with the nervous energy of hopeful youths, I made my way directly to the academy's legendary library. The written exam was scheduled for the day after tomorrow, and thanks to Ashen's eidetic memory, I already knew most of the questions. All I needed to do now was review, cross-reference, and play smart.
'System,' I thought, a familiar sense of detached curiosity washing over me. 'Show stats.'
[
─── STATUS WINDOW ───
Name: Ashen Crimson
Rank: D
Level: 3 (EXP: 40/100)
➤ ATTRIBUTES:
▸ Physical Strength: C
▸ Mana Capacity: SS
▸ Agility & Speed: D
▸ Charm: S
▸ Luck: E
➤ AFFINITIES:
▸ Shadow (Synchronization: 45%)
▸ ???
▸ ???
➤ SKILLS:
▸ [Shadow Bind (Active)]
▸ [Shadow Bomb (Active)]
▸ [Shadow Creation (Active)]
▸ [Shadow Army (Innate)] – Current Summons: 5/5 (Volkin, Goblin, Kobold x2, Lizardman)
▸ [Shadow Veil (Passive)]
▸ [Cold Composure (Passive)]
]
With a lazy sigh, I pushed open the heavy, oak-and-iron doors of the library. The scent of old paper, polished wood, and the faint, ozone tang of mana ink hit me like a wave of nostalgia I'd never earned. Inside, shelves stretched up to a vaulted, cathedral-like ceiling, creating canyons of books that seemed to go on forever. Students moved like quiet ghosts between the towering shelves, their whispers lost in the vast, echoing silence.
I navigated to a quiet, secluded corner in the history section and began searching for the books tied to the exam questions Ashen remembered. This was how I'd win—not with brute force, but with cunning. By cheating without ever being caught.
But peace, I was quickly learning, was an overrated and fleeting commodity. Because sitting at a nearby table, bathed in a shaft of sunlight pouring through a magnificent stained-glass window depicting a forgotten battle between gods and mortals, was the one person I didn't want to see yet.
Eren Whitehound.
He sat as if the library had been built for him, his posture perfect, his crisp white-and-gold uniform immaculate. His silver hair seemed to glow in the light, and his jawline looked as if it had been carved by a divine hand. His icy blue eyes scanned the pages of an ancient tome with an air of bored familiarity, as if he already knew its secrets. This wasn't just Ashen's rival. This was the crown prince of the powerful Whitehound family, son of a duke feared across the continent. He wasn't the strongest in the academy yet—but he was well on his way.
Next to him, looking like a delicate porcelain doll in comparison, sat his sister, Noora Whitehound. Her frame was slender, her skin so pale it seemed to glow under the chandelier's light, and her silver hair was woven into an intricate braid over one shoulder. Her lilac eyes darted between the pages of her own book with a casual curiosity, but there was a coiled tension in her posture, an aura that said: one wrong move and I will explode this entire room. She crossed her legs, and her fine silk robe shifted just enough to reveal the matte-black combat gear she wore underneath.
Troublemakers. Both of them.
I ignored them, settling into an empty, high-backed chair and cracking open a book on ancient battle formations.
Rote learning. My secret villain art.
I was half a page in, absorbing the text with an ease that was still unnerving, when another presence approached.
She had long, soft golden hair that seemed to dance around her like tangible sunlight. Her eyes were the calm, clear blue of a perfect spring sky, and she wore the academy's white and gold uniform as if it had been designed for her alone.
Aurelia.
Ashen's childhood friend. And, in the future I was trying to prevent, his love interest.
In this timeline, however? She was just another person I had to push away.
"It's nice to see you again, Ashen Crimson," she said, her voice warm and genuine, her smile so bright it could have lit the entire library. "It's been so long."
"It's just Ashen now," I replied, my voice deliberately cold, flat, and devoid of emotion. I didn't look up from my book.
Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a tiny crack in her perfect facade. "Whatever you want," she said, her voice still holding onto that infuriating kindness. "But I'll always be your friend. That hasn't changed."
"You should reconsider," I muttered, turning a page. "Being near me is a danger. You'll suffer for it. So keep walking."
She tilted her head, her golden hair spilling over her shoulder. "If suffering means being by your side," she said softly, her voice filled with a conviction that sent a jolt through me, "then I'll gladly hold on to it."
My brain lagged. My carefully constructed walls of indifference trembled.
'System, this woman is confessing to a villain in public. Issue a warning before I get infected by emotion.'
But I didn't let it show. I opened my mouth to deliver a final, crushing dismissal, to end this conversation and walk away—when another figure stepped into the library.
And my world paused.
Lucielle Crimson.
My sister.
She hadn't changed. She still walked with the predatory grace of a queen, as if she owned every room she entered. Her crimson hair was tied back into a tight, severe braid, her golden eyes glimmering with a familiar, judgmental fire. Her battle uniform, a practical and deadly ensemble of dark leather and steel, clung to her form like it had been stitched in rage.
Her gaze swept the room, dismissive and arrogant—and then it landed on me.
Of all the people in this cursed place, I hadn't expected to see her.
Not this soon.
Not now.