As the pinnacle of arcane engineering across the entire continent, the Mage's Guild's spire was nothing short of extraordinary. Awe-inspiring from a distance, it was utterly breathtaking up close—an ever-glimmering metal masterpiece where streams of mana coursed through glowing conduits, painting vivid, intricate patterns across its surface. Looking up, one could see that the tower had no visible supports; every wall and ceiling fit together seamlessly, without so much as a crack. This marvel was all thanks to arcane technology—though such construction was only feasible within a Mana Wellspring city. Attempting it elsewhere would be nothing short of suicide.
There was an amusing anecdote about the tower's construction. Back when it was being built, some mages worried that if disaster struck and the mana sustaining the tower failed, the whole structure would come crashing down. They urged the architect to add safety measures to guard against such a catastrophe. But the architect was a raving zealot, and he dismissed their concerns with disdain.
"Safety measures? We are mages—masters of mana! We live and die by its power! If mana were to vanish, this tower would be worthless anyway. Let it crumble!"
Whether the story was true or not was anyone's guess, but it perfectly captured the popular perception of mages: figures to be revered *and* feared. After all, it was mages who had built these wonders, granting people lives far beyond the ordinary. Yet the mysterious magic they wielded was beyond mortal comprehension—and humans were always afraid of what they could not understand.
As a result, the area surrounding the mage tower was always deserted. Common folk dared not draw near, and even the occasional trespasser was quickly chased away. This stood in stark contrast to the Church of the Divine Light, where crowds thronged day and night—praying, listening to the bishops' sermons, and receiving the blessings of the Holy Mana.
This was where Lariboide lived.
As the kingdom's most renowned hero, Lariboide was an unparalleled figure in Wester. He was also the only mage to hold the dual positions of Royal Court Mage and Guild Branch Master. Even in nations where the ruling class and the Mage's Guild maintained amicable relations, the two factions were never truly one. The guild was a transnational superpower, after all—prudence demanded keeping a degree of separation. Thus, most countries forbade their royal mages from growing too close to the guild. Lariboide, however, was an exception. As both the leader of the Royal Mage Guard and the master of Wester's Mage's Guild branch, his status was the stuff of legend. What was more, when the guild bestowed this dual title upon him, King Wester IV had not objected in the slightest—a testament to the immense prestige the elderly mage commanded within the kingdom.
It was precisely because of this that King Wester V dared not voice too many complaints about Lariboide. Though he did not particularly like the old mage, he had no choice but to treat him with deference, given his influence.
As a rule, leaders of such organizations preferred to reside at the very top—and Lariboide was no different. After ascending dozens of meters to the tower's peak aboard a crystal levitation disc, the three mages escorting Blake and Ophelia led them forward. They gestured toward a massive, arcane-wrought door ahead, its surface shimmering with magical light.
"Archmage Lariboide awaits you," one of them said.
"I see," Blake replied with a nod, striding forward casually. Ophelia followed curiously behind him, her eyes fixed on his back. As the former crown princess, she had of course heard of Archmage Lariboide—but she had never imagined that Blake would have any connection to him. How many more secrets did this man hide? Ophelia found herself growing more and more intrigued.
When Blake and Ophelia reached the door, it swung open silently, revealing the chamber beyond.
The room was bathed in a soft, warm glow—not harsh in the least. Unlike the tower's exterior, which exuded a cutting-edge technological aura, the interior felt almost *homely*. A weathered wooden desk stood in the center, piled high with scrolls and documents, while a metal bookshelf to the side was stuffed with thick tomes. An elderly man with snow-white hair and beard sat at the desk, scribbling away. When the two entered, he looked up, offering them a gentle smile before removing his spectacles and standing to his feet.
"Welcome," he said.
The old man extended a hand in what seemed like a gesture of friendship—but it was anything but. The moment he moved, the heavy metal door slammed shut with a thunderous *boom*, and the room was plunged into pitch-black darkness.
What's happening?
Ophelia jumped in alarm at the sudden change, turning to speak—but before she could utter a word, several streaks of magical light sliced through the darkness, screaming toward Blake beside her.
An attack!
The magical light converged into razor-sharp blades in the blink of an eye, sealing off every inch of Blake's surroundings. Three of the blades aimed directly for his neck and chest; the slightest movement would pierce his body and end his life instantly.
"So this is how you greet an old acquaintance?" Blake's voice remained calm, his expression unchanged. His hands stayed relaxed at his sides—not even a twitch toward the hilt of his sword.
"For a man who killed my father and brother, this is lenient treatment," Lariboide's voice cut through the darkness, cold and unforgiving.
"Just a trivial favor. No need to thank me," Blake shrugged, as if the blades at his throat were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
*Click.*
At the soft sound, the warm glow flooded back into the room, and the blades of light hovering around Blake vanished without a trace. Lariboide's face once again bore that kind, amiable smile. He strode forward and held out his right hand—this time, a genuine gesture of welcome.
"Welcome to my humble abode, Lord Blake."
"Had your fun? I hope you enjoyed the show," Blake said, smiling as he shook the old mage's hand.
Lariboide's expression flickered with chagrin, then dissolved into a helpless chuckle. "You see, I'd spent years wondering how I'd greet you when we met again… I'd hoped to catch you off guard, at least."
"Try something more original next time—it might be entertaining," Blake replied, clapping him lightly on the shoulder.
Ophelia stood by, her eyes wide with shock, utterly bewildered by the exchange between the two men. According to Lariboide, Blake had killed his father and brother? Could this be some kind of sick joke? But Blake had not denied it—which suggested it was true. And yet, here Lariboide was, smiling warmly at the man who had murdered his family. What on earth was going on?
"And who might this be?" Lariboide asked, turning to Ophelia, a note of regret in his voice.
"Princess Ophelia? What brings you here?"
"She's a Wraith Soul. You know how it is," Blake explained casually.
Ophelia blushed and hung her head, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. That period of her existence was her most shameful memory—Wraith Souls were little more than mindless beasts, driven purely by instinct. Though the haze of bitter resentment had blurred the details, she retained vague impressions of that time. It was like recalling a nightmare of wandering naked through the streets—utterly humiliating, something she would rather forget forever. In her embarrassment, she failed to notice the flicker of profound grief that crossed Lariboide's face.
"Please, both of you, have a seat," Lariboide said, changing the subject. "I'm sure your journey to the capital was tiring."
"Tired? Not at all. Though that little 'warm-up' earlier has worked up an appetite. I'd be grateful for some refreshments, if you have them," Blake replied.
"You haven't changed a bit," the old mage laughed, waving a hand. Instantly, an array of exquisite pastries and tea appeared before them, and two plush, comfortable chairs materialized out of thin air behind them.
"Be seated, both of you. I suspect you have much to say to me—especially you, Princess," Lariboide said, turning his gaze to Ophelia. "You seem to have quite a few questions."
"I do, Archmage Lariboide," Ophelia replied, finally composing herself. She no longer bothered to deny her identity—if Blake had acknowledged it, there was no point in hiding it now. Moreover, she had maintained a cordial relationship with the archmage during her lifetime, so she felt no hesitation in speaking her mind. But she *did* have countless questions. "You know Lord Blake?"
"Indeed I do," Lariboide answered, casting a surprised glance at Blake. "Lord Blake—you never told her?"
"Been a bit busy lately. No time for chitchat," Blake replied, his attention clearly fixed on the pastries in front of him.
Lariboide chuckled helplessly, then took it upon himself to explain. "When I was a boy, I spent some time in Lord Blake's company."
"What?!"
Ophelia's eyes flew wide with disbelief, staring first at the elderly mage, then at Blake, unable to process what she had just heard. By the Divine Light—*when he was a boy*? Lariboide must have been in his eighties or nineties! What did that mean? And Blake looked no older than twenty!
"When I was very young, I was a poor leather apprentice," Lariboide began, his voice softening with nostalgia. "You've walked among the common folk before, Princess Ophelia—you know how harsh life can be for people like us. Especially for me. After my mother died, my life became a living hell. My father blamed me for her death, so he never showed me an ounce of kindness. My brother, meanwhile, saw me as a threat to his inheritance and treated me with nothing but hostility. I was so miserable that I tried to take my own life many times—but I always failed. And when they found me, they would beat me until I could barely move. Eventually, I lost even the strength to resist."
Ophelia's expression grew somber. She had never imagined that the revered archmage had such a tragic past. All she had ever heard were tales of his glorious deeds; his childhood had never been a topic of conversation among the nobility.
"Then, by some stroke of mana's favor, Lord Blake came to our village," Lariboide continued. "He was looking to buy a harness for his mount. My father and brother, thinking he was a naive young traveler, tried to swindle him. But Blake saw through their scheme. Enraged, they tried to attack him—and he killed them both. It was hardly a fair fight, of course. They were just two burly commoners—no match for Lord Blake."
Lariboide glanced at Blake, who remained completely unfazed, his focus still on the pastries.
"I was petrified," he went on. "I'd dreamed of killing them myself, countless times, because of all the beatings they'd given me. But I was just a weak, scrawny boy—I'd only ever dared to imagine it. Yet suddenly, the two men who had tormented me my whole life were gone. I didn't know how to react. I felt both joy and sorrow—joy at finally being free, and sorrow because they were my blood, after all. Then Blake noticed me. He asked, curious, if I wanted to avenge them. And then…"
Lariboide shook his head, trailing off.
"I said, 'Thank you for killing them.' Blake seemed surprised by that. Then he took me under his wing. And I stayed with him until…"
He did not finish the sentence. Instead, he looked at Blake and sighed, changing the subject. "But let us leave that story for another time. If you wish to know more, Princess, you may ask Lord Blake—I'm sure he will tell you. For now, let us discuss the matter at hand. Lord Blake?"
At last, Blake looked up, swallowing the last bite of pastry with a sip of tea. "What is it?"
"Why did you bring Princess Ophelia here? Could it be because…"
"She said she wanted to come back. I just gave her a lift," Blake replied, as nonchalant as ever, despite Lariboide's concerned expression. "As for *why* she wanted to return to the capital—that's a question you should ask her yourself."
"Princess?" Lariboide turned to Ophelia, his eyes filled with confusion.
Ophelia's demeanor turned serious. She had come back for one reason, and one reason alone—to find an answer. She sat up straight, fixing the old mage with a steady gaze, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and asked, her voice trembling slightly: "Archmage Lariboide… I need to ask you something. How is my mother?"
She was her only remaining tie to the past—the only thing she still cared about.
"You mean… Seraphina?" Lariboide's expression darkened instantly.
"Yes, Archmage Lariboide. Please tell me. No matter what the answer is, I can bear it."
Ophelia's voice shook more noticeably now. Her fingers tightened around the hem of her dress until her knuckles turned white, but she kept her gaze fixed firmly on the old mage, waiting for his reply.
"She…" Lariboide's mouth opened and closed, as if the words were too heavy to speak. He glanced helplessly at Blake, who made no move to intervene. Finally, the old mage gritted his teeth and sighed deeply. "She's dead."
"…!"
Ophelia's body went rigid. She had steeled herself for this answer, of course. After all, thirty years had passed since she had "died." Her mother would have been advanced in years—her passing was inevitable.
"Then… where is her grave? I need to know where she is buried," she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"I don't know," Lariboide admitted, glancing at Blake again—who still offered no help. He had no choice but to continue. "I truly don't know, Princess. In fact, very few people know where Seraphina is buried. Because…"
"Because what?!" Ophelia pressed, sensing that something was terribly wrong. She did not look away from the old mage, her eyes burning with urgency. "Please tell me, Archmage Lariboide! Why does no one know where my mother is buried?!"
"Because… she was *executed*!"
"Wha… what?"
Ophelia's face drained of all color. Her eyes widened in horror, their usual sparkle gone, replaced by empty shock.
"Executed?" she repeated numbly.
"Yes," Lariboide confirmed, his voice heavy with sorrow. "Five years after your death, Seraphina was accused of having an illicit affair with someone outside the royal family. She was imprisoned by the crown… then put to death. To be honest, we knew nothing about it until the royal proclamation was issued. By then, it was too late to save her."
"Five years after…" Ophelia whispered, her face ashen, reeling from the devastating blow. This was the only hope she had clung to—the only reason she had returned. And now she had received this cruel, unthinkable truth. Her mother was not just dead—she had died a dishonorable death, branded a traitor to the royal family. It was a reality Ophelia could not accept.
"Why? Why would this happen? My mother was not that kind of woman! I know she wasn't… she *wasn't*!!"
As Ophelia's cry of anguish echoed through the room, a faint black mist began to seep from her body. The warm glow in the chamber flickered wildly, and the entire mage tower trembled violently, as if on the verge of collapse.
"Why?! Tell me why, Archmage—!!" Ophelia screamed, rising to her feet—but before she could finish, Blake moved with blinding speed, appearing behind her in an instant. A moment later, Ophelia's body went limp. Her eyes fluttered shut, and she collapsed backward into Blake's arms, unconscious.
"Wraith Soul attributes?" Lariboide stared at Ophelia in astonishment. As she fell unconscious, the black mist emanating from her body dissipated, and the tower's trembling subsided. The old mage looked up at Blake, his expression grave. "Lord Blake… the princess…"
"If I'd acted a moment later, you and this tower would be nothing but rubble," Blake replied with a bitter laugh, gazing down at the unconscious girl in his arms. "It seems this wasn't the answer she wanted to hear."
"I knew it wouldn't be," Lariboide sighed, waving a hand to right the scrolls and documents that had scattered during the commotion. "To be honest, I never thought she would return… Lord Blake, what *are* your intentions in bringing her here?"
"I have my reasons. You know how it is," Blake answered, his eyes still fixed on Ophelia. "But my plans… depend entirely on the choice our princess makes."