Chapter 3: Shadows in the Corridor
Inside his dimly lit study, Duke Morcant Vaelmont slowly swirled a glass of deep crimson wine. The firelight flickered across polished darkwood furniture, dancing over the pristine military maps pinned to the walls. Not a single sheet was out of place. Everything was arranged with cold precision—just like its owner.
Before him stood two figures. Wayne Dahmer, his loyal lieutenant, as still as a shadowed statue. Beside him, Harold Whitney, a young noble with too much pride, shifted uneasily.
"Just luck, Uncle," Harold broke the silence. "The Prince's order to burn that bridge was nothing but the desperate act of a coward. It was sheer coincidence that some mad swordsman appeared to help."
Morcant sipped his wine, his gaze never leaving the crackling flames. He did not look angry, nor panicked. If anything, he looked amused.
"Luck, Harold?" Morcant's voice was low and calm, yet it sliced through the air like a blade. "Luck does not explain why our well-equipped mercenaries failed to secure a single wooden bridge. Luck does not explain a maneuver that crippled their logistics without losing a single precious Guardsman."
He set the glass down gently. "No. That was not luck. That was brutal efficiency. Something I never once expected from my weakling nephew."
Morcant rose and walked to the window, staring into the darkness of the castle gardens. "We underestimated him. Either he has hidden his intelligence very well… or he has gained a very capable advisor."
"And what will our next step be, my lord?" Wayne Dahmer's voice was flat, emotionless.
A thin smile tugged at Morcant's lips, one that never reached his eyes. "When a rat suddenly bares its fangs, you don't burn its nest down immediately. You test it. You see how sharp those fangs truly are."
He turned, his gaze now fixed on Wayne. "We've played our game with pieces outside the castle. It's time to shift the board inside. Let's see how the Prince reacts under real pressure."
Morcant sat back down. "Wayne, send a message. Make sure the Prince understands that these corridors are not as safe as he believes."
Wayne inclined his head, his shadow stretching long across the floor. "As you command, my lord."
---
Eldrin found his refuge in the so-called Glass Garden.
The abandoned greenhouse was a monument to forgotten sorrow. Its windows were coated in dust, some panes cracked. Exotic plants had long since withered into brittle brown skeletons. At the center sat a silver bird-shaped music box, toppled on its side, broken and forever silent.
It was perfect. Quiet. No one would ever think to look for him here.
The "victory" at Echo Bridge had brought him no relief—only dread. Expectation. That word haunted him now. Gregor and the soldiers looked at him differently. Not with disappointment anymore, but with confusion… and hope. Hope was poison.
He sat on a cold stone bench, closed his eyes, and tried again.
Status Window.
Silence. Only the whisper of wind through cracked glass.
I am Alfin Leontarde. On Earth—in the game—I was an Archmage. I know the spells. I know the skills.
He concentrated, reaching for the mana he was certain existed around him, trying to draw it into himself. He strained to feel the "MP bar" that should have been there. Nothing. Just a pounding headache.
Skill: Minor Heal.
He pictured a soft green glow on his palm, the simplest of healing spells to ease the pain. He remembered exactly how it felt in the game—the warmth, the soothing light. Here? Nothing but a cold, trembling hand.
Bitterness burned his throat. He remembered his game character, capable of leveling mountains with a single spell. Now he was trapped in this weak prince's body—one that couldn't even conjure a spark.
All his knowledge was useless. Strategies, monster weaknesses—it meant nothing without power.
He was powerless. Again.
The conclusion struck like a hammer. He was utterly alone, with no strength of his own. The only path left was to hide. To keep playing the useless, unwanted prince.
---
The western corridor felt colder than usual as Eldrin made his way back to his chambers. Torchlight flickered against the stone, stretching shadows into dancing phantoms. His footsteps echoed too loudly in the silence.
He felt it.
The hairs on his neck rose. This wasn't paranoia. This was primal instinct screaming—predator.
He quickened his pace, heart pounding.
From the gap between two hanging tapestries, a shadow slid forth.
It happened in an instant. Eldrin barely caught the glint of steel before his body locked up. Time slowed. His mind screamed at him to dodge, to raise his hands, to do something. But his body would not move. The trauma of Alfin's memories, coupled with Eldrin's ingrained fear, froze him in place.
The blade raced toward his heart.
So this is how it ends…
CLANG!
Steel rang against steel.
Another shadow had appeared—faster, sharper.
Cain. His new guard.
What followed wasn't a fight—it was an execution. The assassin, efficient and deadly, suddenly looked like a stumbling amateur. Every strike was deflected with the flick of Cain's wrist. Every step anticipated.
In less than two seconds, it was over. A smooth twist, a muffled cry, and the assassin collapsed with a dull thud.
Cain stood over the body, his black blade dripping crimson. His breathing was steady, his expression unreadable. He glanced once at Eldrin, then turned away to secure the corridor. A sharp whistle pierced the silence—a signal answered by the hurried footsteps of more guards rushing closer.
Without a word to Eldrin, Cain melted back into the shadows, as if he had never moved at all.
Eldrin pressed against the wall, his legs shaking so violently he could barely stand. The metallic stench of blood filled the corridor. His illusion of safety had shattered. This castle was no refuge. Nowhere was safe. His childish dream of peace was just that—a dream.
If he wanted to survive, he needed more than hiding. He needed to do something. Something real.
Back in his chamber, door locked tight, the panic in Eldrin's chest slowly ebbed. What replaced it was colder. Harder. Pragmatic.
He stepped to the door and summoned the servant stationed outside.
"Call for the new guard," he ordered, his voice hoarse but steady. "Cain. I wish to speak with him."