Morning light filtered through the grayish-yellow sky, spilling faintly across the cracked cobblestone road like watered-down wine—lacking warmth, adding only a touch more desolation.
Eleres stepped out of the old inn known as the Mist Horn Tavern, the worn black cloak on his shoulders faded to a dull gray. His boots creaked against the loose stones underfoot, and more than once he had to watch his step to avoid tripping over the uneven gaps.
It was his fifth day in Greyshade Town.
As its name suggested, Greyshade felt more like a ruin crystallized from fog and shadows than a living town. Just a few narrow streets, a handful of homes, a single main road connecting the town's gate to a meager market square. Three sides of the settlement were ringed by low, crumbling walls, beyond which lay a tangled swamp of moss and reeds. Somewhere in the distance, the howling of night wolves still echoed faintly.
Eleres walked slowly down the street. Few people passed by—mostly thin, rough-clothed villagers. Some hauled water buckets, others pushed rickety carts. Barefoot children darted between puddles, shouting and chasing one another. An old man gnawed on a brick-hard piece of black bread at his doorstep, staring into space with lifeless eyes.
"Out of money."
He stood before a cluttered roadside stall, watching as the vendor took his last silver-trimmed armguard and weighed it with a scrutinizing gaze, offering in exchange only a few battered copper coins.
"Hmm... decent material," the man muttered, squinting at the etchings. "This pattern... looks familiar. Not royal-made, is it?"
"Picked it off the battlefield," Eleres replied coolly.
The vendor gave him a sidelong glance, but didn't press further. In a town like this—where even soldiers didn't bother to patrol—asking too many questions could get you dumped into the swamp to feed the bonefish.
The few coins were barely enough to cover a couple of hot meals. Eleres clenched them in his palm, regret surfacing like bile in his throat.
If only I'd stripped a few gems or insignias off those six corpses. Could've gotten a decent bottle of wine, at least.
But back then, his body had been wrecked, his mind fogged in pain. All he could think about was getting away from that blood-soaked battlefield. He had no time to loot the dead.
"Fool," he muttered.
He continued walking. The blacksmith's forge ahead had already lit its fire, and rhythmic clanging rang out like a drumbeat.
That blacksmith was a one-armed dwarf who'd once fought in the Southern Empire's siege wars. His leg had been shattered in battle, leaving him crippled and forced to retire in this backwater town.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Each strike landed like a blow on Eleres's chest.
He stared into the flames licking the edge of the rusted forge, lost in thought. Even a crude iron plate—so long as it was forged well—could mean the difference between life and death.
He let out a soft, bitter laugh.
"Too bad… I can't even afford scrap armor anymore.
The market square of Greyshade Town was little more than a cluster of makeshift stalls. The roofs were patched with torn canvas, and the ground beneath was nothing but soggy yellow mud. The air was thick with the stench of mutton fat, salted fish, rotting vegetables, and the unmistakable smell of animal droppings.
Eleres wandered aimlessly through the maze of booths.
A butcher hacked apart a wild hare with a broken sword, blood spattering across the counter. At a nearby herb stall, dried moss, shriveled snake gallbladders, and unidentifiable black claws—beast or human—were arranged in piles. One old woman, wrapped in colorful rags, waved a cracked crystal orb and muttered, "Ashes curse the bones, and the souls are crying… You there, young man! I see bad energy between your brows. Care for a sip of my Spirit-Cleansing Water?"
He ignored her and walked past with his head low.
But then, a snippet of conversation drifted past his ears—words that brought his steps to a halt.
"You hear? The Black Knight Academy up north is recruiting!"
"This early? It's barely spring."
"Frontlines are bleeding dry. They've lowered the bar. Anyone who can lift a sword can try their luck… My cousin's boy can't even lift a sack of grain, and he's planning to sign up."
Eleres instinctively looked toward the two youths chatting near a fruit stall.
An academy?
He stood still for a moment, then turned and made his way to the ramshackle wooden shack he'd been renting. It was barely standing, its warped planks riddled with mouse holes, the dirt floor uneven and damp. But it kept out the wind—and that was enough, for now.
He sat down heavily on the creaking cot and stared at his hand. Between his knuckles ran faint streaks of unnatural, pallid gray—the residue of necromantic magic.
The system had stitched his broken body back together with undead energy, repairing what should have been fatal damage. He wasn't crippled, but his original strength had been compromised. His noble blood and magical sensitivity remained—but his physical resilience was no longer what it once was.
"To become a knight…"
He muttered the words under his breath.
Once, that would've been an afterthought. As a prince of Elarian, he could've entered any academy he pleased—most would've begged him to.
But now? Now he was nameless. Statusless. Dressed in a ragged cloak, mistaken for a beggar by anyone with eyes. Without formal identification or a sponsor, he couldn't even remain in this town for long—not legally.
"If I can't get into that academy…" he murmured, fingers tightening over his chest.
The Black Seal System still slumbered deep within his soul.
He knew this decision wasn't just about survival anymore.
This was the beginning of his road to vengeance.
Only by entering the academy and proving himself in the annual tournaments could he earn the qualifications to leap to a higher-ranked institution—perhaps even a royal knight's college.As a knight, with a legal identity and a respectable title, he could walk openly through cities, approach nobles and court officials, and inch closer to those who betrayed him.
Without that identity, he was nothing but a nameless vagabond.And worse, if anyone discovered the truth—that the magic sustaining him was necromancy—he'd be burned at the stake before he could speak a word of justice.
The only ones who should ever know he used necromancy… are the dead.