The King’s Summon

As their conversation came to an end, the girl stood to leave. But something inside Tristan resisted the idea of her departure. Without thinking, he reached out and gently tugged at the sleeve of her dress.

She turned back, her expression unreadable.

"Where do I meet you tomorrow?" he asked.

The lazy man within him scoffed. This body—the boy known as Tristan Merigold—was far too formal, too eager. Emotions flared uncontrollably every time she so much as looked at him.

This kid is a cesspool of emotions. It flares up every time she just looks at him. I really need to find a way to control his impulses.

The girl met his gaze with her usual, detached expression. "Just meet me here tomorrow. We'll go somewhere else once you arrive."

"Alright."

With that, she left, yet she lingered in his thoughts like an echo he couldn't shake. Frustrated, Tristan ran a hand through his hair. He had no idea how to deal with the emotions surging through him.

Letting out a deep sigh, he muttered, "I really need to control this body."

Now alone, the silence of the library surrounded him. He turned his attention back to the book in his hands, but before he could begin reading, a memory resurfaced—those strange notifications he had seen while falling into darkness.

How do I make them appear again?

As if responding to his very thoughts, the notifications reappeared before him.

[Blessing: Necromancy]

[Necromancer Skill: Necromancer's Mimicry]

[Captaincy Skill Retained: Truthful Liar]

The sudden appearance startled Tristan, but he quickly composed himself, scanning the list of abilities.

"Necromancy, I understand… but Necromancer's Mimicry? What is that?"

The system responded instantly.

[Necromancer's Mimicry: Those who control their soldiers gain their skills.]

What a simple explanation.

Yet, even with the limited information, he understood the implications. This skill allowed him to inherit the abilities of those he controlled.

But before he could fully process it, another message appeared.

[Restriction: Those who fall by your hands will not conform to you.]

Tristan's expression darkened.

"That's ridiculous. So if I kill someone myself, I can't use Necromancer's Mimicry?"

The system remained silent. No answer would come. He would have to discover the truth on his own.

Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to reality. He wanted to take the book with him, so he made his way to the librarian's desk. The descent down the long staircase was grueling—it felt as though the steps themselves carried the weight of centuries, suffused with an aura of despair. By the time he reached the bottom, he was breathless.

"You should really consider making the journey between floors easier," he said between heavy breaths.

The librarian merely smiled. "It's better for young people if it stays like this."

Tristan exhaled sharply before placing the book on the desk. "I'd like to check this out."

She nodded, taking out a quill and parchment, noting the book's title before glancing up at him.

"What's your name?"

"Tristan Merigold."

She scribbled it down and filed the paper away in a neatly organized section. "You're all set. You may go now."

Tristan nodded and exited the library.

As he walked back to the boutique, his mind drifted toward the girl and the Star Implant. If every person in this world was born with at least one star… did he have one as well? He was not originally from this world, but the body he inhabited had existed here long before him.

"I wonder how many stars this kid had?"

A notification answered him.

[Number of Stars: 1]

"Should've known."

He followed the familiar path Mr. Kenway had shown him, but as he approached the boutique, his heart clenched.

A crowd had gathered.

His pace quickened.

Then, he saw it—what was once a pristine boutique was now a ruin of shattered glass and destruction. The windows had been smashed, the interior defiled, its very essence stripped away by reckless hands.

Mr. Kenway stood in front of the wreckage, his expression unreadable.

Tristan's fists clenched as he overheard murmured conversations among the onlookers.

"I saw a few men throw stones at the boutique," one voice said. "They must be from that gang."

Tristan turned toward them, his voice dark and laced with menace.

"What's the name of the gang?" he asked, his tone carrying a quiet, chilling fury. "And where is their base?"

The bystanders hesitated, sensing the violent storm brewing within him.

"The Crescent Moon Gang," one of them finally said. "Their base is between Friees and Killington Street."

Tristan inhaled sharply. Now that I know where they are, I'll make them regret ever laying a hand on this place.

But first, he forced himself to mask his rage. He approached Kenway, his voice softer but still weighted with barely restrained anger.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Kenway shook his head. "Don't worry. The apartment is fine. It's just the boutique."

"Just the boutique?"

Tristan's jaw tightened. His grip clenched until his nails dug into his palm.

That night, after hours of helping Kenway cover the broken windows with sheets of paper, Tristan watched as the old man finally retired to his room without a single word of complaint.

And that was when Tristan made his decision.

"Now is the time."

Silently, he slipped out into the streets, seeking out a passerby.

"Where's the cemetery?" he asked.

The person hesitated before answering, assuming he wanted to visit a departed loved one.

Tristan followed the directions and soon arrived.

The cemetery was a solemn place—a resting ground for the forgotten, where the dead slumbered undisturbed. As he walked through the rows of tombstones, a thought crept into his mind.

What happened to my original body? Was it buried… or burned?

No one could answer that question.

But that didn't matter now.

He moved deeper into the graveyard until he found what he had been searching for—a lone tombstone, set apart from the rest. The grave of DeAndre Killington, the strongest swordsman of the Middle District.

Tristan stepped forward, placing a hand on the cold stone. His voice was steady, commanding, laced with an undeniable authority.

"Rise from your slumber. Follow me and confide in me… for I am your king."

His eyes burned with resolve.

"Now rise."