Chapter 2: The Fox's Bargain (Part 2 — Journey into the Cursed Ruins)
The Astervale Valley lay bathed in pale orange dusk, its sprawling meadows painted gold by the fading sun. From the balcony of his room, Eliot watched the horizon quietly, his thoughts tangled between disbelief and reluctant acceptance.
He was still trying to come to terms with it — this wasn't just some dream or delusion. He had truly woken up in the world of the novel Song of the Spirit King, reborn as the most infamous noble in the western provinces: Eliot Astervale, the "Trash Lord" destined to die a pitiful, unremarkable death.
Except this time, Eliot had no intention of following that script.
His eyes drifted down to the courtyard below, where servants moved about preparing a travel carriage and provisions. Kieran had already arranged everything, whispering something about "a minor inspection of northern lands" to keep suspicion low.
He turned back to his room, where Whisper's translucent form sat lazily atop his desk, swishing her nine faint, ethereal tails. Only one of them shimmered with a true glow — her first, partially unsealed tail.
"You're frowning again," she said. "That usually means you're overthinking something unproductive."
Eliot shot her a tired glance. "I'm thinking about survival. You should try it sometime."
"I am survival. You'd be dead twice over without me."
"Debatable." He closed the trunk of supplies, double-checked the straps, then reached for the last bag on the table — filled entirely with baked goods wrapped in parchment.
Whisper tilted her head. "Is that… food?"
Three small bags sat on his desk: one filled with survival essentials (bread, dried meat, water flasks), another with sealed vials of mana essence, and the third… snacks.
He wasn't about to risk death on an empty stomach.
"You're bringing pastries to a cursed ruin?" Whisper's voice drawled from his shadow.
"I'm not dying hungry," Eliot replied, adjusting the strap of his satchel.
"If you die, I'm taking them."
"Over my dead body."
"That's exactly what I meant."
"Provocation ?," he said defensively.
"You're bringing scones to a cursed ruin."
"Better scones than starvation."
"Or better yet, not going at all."
Eliot sighed. "You said your tail was sealed there."
"I did. I didn't say you had to be the one to fetch it."
"I'm not trusting anyone else with this. If the seal reacts to bloodlines, I'm the only one it'll open for. So yes, I'm going — and you're coming with me."
Whisper smirked. "Oh, so now you need me."
"I need your power, not your commentary."
"You'll get both. It's a package deal."
Eliot muttered something about regretting all his life choices and fastened the last buckle. Just then, a soft knock came at the door.
"Enter."
The door opened to reveal Seren, the Blade Chef of Astervale — calm as ever, wearing travel leathers and a short cloak. A long dagger gleamed at his hip.
"Master Eliot," he said in his measured tone. "Kieran requested that I accompany you. The woods beyond the manor are dangerous."
Eliot smirked. "And you volunteered?"
Seren's expression didn't change. "No, sir. I was ordered to."
"Charming fellow," Whisper murmured.
Eliot ignored her. "Good. Then let's get moving before I change my mind."
Night fell as they departed the Astervale estate, their horses clopping softly over the dirt road winding north. The forest loomed ahead — Silverwood Grove, ancient and silent, the trees gleaming faintly like they'd been dusted with moonlight.
A cool breeze rustled through the leaves. The air smelled of damp moss and faint mana — the natural hum of old spirits sleeping beneath the roots.
Eliot had read about this place in the novel. It was said to be where the first Spirit King had walked, where the veil between mortal and spirit realms was thinnest. Which also made it one of the most cursed areas in the entire duchy.
He wasn't comforted by that thought.
Whisper appeared beside him in semi-corporeal form, walking lazily atop the air as though the night itself carried her. Her tails glowed softly, illuminating their path.
"This forest is alive," she said softly. "Listen closely."
Eliot frowned. "I don't hear anything."
"Exactly. No birds. No insects. No wind. The forest is holding its breath."
Seren's eyes darted to the treeline. "Spirits."
Eliot nodded. "Or something worse."
"Oh, definitely worse," Whisper said cheerfully.
"Remind me why I didn't leave you sealed?" Eliot muttered.
"Because then you'd die."
"Touché."
The silence stretched as they rode deeper into the woods. Now and then, a flicker of blue light glimmered between the trees — faint, shifting, like fireflies made of mist.
Seren's hand hovered near his blade. "Spirit remnants," he murmured. "Weak, but aggressive."
Eliot glanced at him. "We avoid fighting unless necessary. I don't want the entire forest waking up."
"Then move quietly, Lazy Lord," Whisper teased.
Eliot didn't dignify that with a reply. Instead, he slowed his horse and studied the faint trail of mana lines on the ground — thin, glowing streams of energy weaving toward a single direction.
"The ruins," he whispered. "It's guiding us."
"Or luring us," Whisper corrected. "Depends how optimistic you're feeling."
"I stopped being optimistic the day I woke up here."
Hours later, they reached it — the heart of the forest.
A clearing opened before them, dominated by an enormous stone arch nearly swallowed by ivy and roots. Ancient runes pulsed faintly along its surface, humming with low, rhythmic energy.
Eliot dismounted and stepped forward slowly. The air here felt heavier, thicker — as though the world itself was watching.
Whisper's tone softened. "That's it. The Gate of Whispers. My first tail lies sealed beyond those stones."
He studied the runes. They shimmered with a mix of spirit and curse energy — incompatible yet somehow stable. "It's reacting to my bloodline," Eliot said, running his gloved fingers along one of the carvings. "This place was made by an Astervale."
"Your ancestors were spirit tamers once," Whisper said. "But they tried to enslave the old spirits. The tails you'll find aren't just my power — they're fragments of what they took."
"Wonderful," Eliot muttered. "Family inheritance: generational hubris."
Seren knelt beside the runes, examining them with a calm, analytical gaze. "It's unstable," he said. "You can unseal it, but not without backlash."
Eliot grimaced. "That was going to be my guess."
He took a slow breath and pressed his palm to the runes. Whisper's voice lowered into an ancient chant, the air vibrating with her power. Blue light spiraled around them, lines of energy dancing between Eliot's fingers.
The gate trembled.
The vines writhed.
And then, the world screamed.
A dozen ethereal shapes burst from the stones — translucent, twisted, eyes burning with hollow hatred. Spirit remnants.
"Ah, there it is," Whisper said sweetly. "The curse."
Eliot swore under his breath. "Seren!"
Without a word, Seren moved. His blade shimmered silver as he struck the nearest spirit, cutting through its misty body — only for it to reform immediately.
"They won't die that way," Whisper snapped. "They're bound to the curse!"
"Suggestions?" Eliot demanded.
"Unseal the gate!"
"Working on it!"
He pressed harder, blood trickling down his wrist as the runes flared brighter. The remnants screamed, swirling around them in a cyclone of wailing mist. Seren's dagger gleamed with shadow energy, slashing through the chaos, buying Eliot seconds.
"By blood and bond," Eliot hissed, "the spirit's silence — awaken truth!"
The runes erupted in blinding light.
The remnants shrieked, dissolving into smoke — but something else moved beneath the ground.