Chapter 5

"Come on, pick up your sword, Randall von Chicken! Pick it up!" The cheerful shout came from a blond kid of about fifteen, lucky enough to be paired with Randall today.

Tradition dictated that even in training duels, instructors tried to match students of equal social rank. And young Condor was the weakest viscount of the bunch.

Randall reached for his fallen sword but couldn't lift it from the stone floor. The blade might as well have been frozen to the ground. It wouldn't budge.

"Come on! Use more forсe!" The boy was clearly enjoying himself, and loud laughter rang out from every side. The other dueling pairs had paused their bouts to watch the amusing spectacle.

Randall touched his Source... and nothing changed. The practice blade was still pinned to the ground, as if a giant's invisible foot was holding it down.

"Henri, maybe that's enough?" A slightly older blond boy spoke up.

"To you, it's von Klaus, Laurenz. And stay out of viscounts' affairs, you little baronling. Know your place."

"We're equals within these school walls," Laurenz reminded him.

"Pfft. What a load of crap. You bought into that teacher nonsense? That's just a lie to get noble brats from different ranks to network and help peasants with talent find patrons. I couldn't care less. So back off before I smash your pretty little head."

While Henri was distracted, Randall gave it everything he had... and managed to nudge the sword. Barely.

"What, still stuck? Try harder!" von Klaus chuckled.

"Maybe you'll listen to me, then? Enough. That kind of behavior is beneath a noble. He's several ranks below you," said a new voice, disembodied, hazy, indistinct.

Henri paused for a long moment before replying respectfully, "I'll listen to you, fine. Let him have it. Pfft."

And the sword shot into the air like a rocket! It punched through the ceiling and got stuck five meters up, right next to a delicate chandelier holding several magic crystals.

Damn it. Randall didn't have the strength for that. Klaus had done it.

At this point, the instructor, who had been silently observing, could no longer ignore the situation.

"Condor. Klaus. Control your power better. Damaging the dueling hall earns you punishment. Klaus, ten laps around the greenhouse. Condor..." The muscular warrior paused, eyeing the scrawny viscount. "You, go to the library and copy out in full all royal decrees, laws, and statutes concerning the Inquisition's operations within the Kingdom of Steel. By dawn."

Randall groaned. That was several scrolls of material! He'd be writing all night. A dozen laps would've been better.

The sullen blond brushed past him, "accidentally" bumping his shoulder and nearly knocking him over.

"When I'm Count, you'll all pay for this disrespect! How dare a knight give me orders— Ow!" Klaus jumped. The suddenly accelerated instructor had lashed his backside with a belt.

"Fifteen laps, Most Honorable Viscount Henri Klaus. You'll thank me when you're older. Like the hundreds of students before you." The teacher paused, then turned back to Condor.

"Oh, right. Von Condor, be so kind as to retrieve your sword."

The instructor was a fourth-rank warrior, but even that wouldn't let him jump five meters straight up.

"Uh... I can't reach it with my Source. Sorry. It's too high."

"Hmm. It got there because of your actions. Figure out how to retrieve it. That's part of the lesson too."

The next ten minutes were the most humiliating of Randall's short time at the Academy. He had to ask for help. No one agreed. Some wouldn't. Others couldn't, their rank too low.

Even the blurry figure who had stood up for him ignored the request. Some students even laughed.

Just as Randall was ready to give up, the sword suddenly slipped free and landed next to him, showering the hall with stone dust.

A new figure had entered the dueling hall. Grey-haired. Hook-nosed. Dressed in black and white.

"Grandfather! What are you doing here?"

"Get ready. Your education is over." Count Condor's voice was cold.

"What? But I haven't even been here a month!"

"And already disgraced yourself before the whole court. Five lashes for backtalk, Randall. Ten minutes to pack."

Young Condor looked around. The faces in the hall — sneering, mocking, indifferent, gleeful. Not a single friendly one. He wanted nothing more than to slice those smirks open, amputate their laughter. Prove that underneath the skin, they were all the same, red meat and white bone.

Like that puppy the young viscount had found on the street...

Randall dropped his gaze. One day he'd show them all. Every single one of them.

"Viscount!" a voice called out. Laurenz. "Write to me when you get home. I found something about... that thing."

"Alright," he replied. His voice sounded raspy and foreign. "Alright..."

Because what he'd asked Laurenz about was dark-magic grimoires near the Wild Lands.

*****

A dream, or rather, a memory, finally dissolved, leaving me in a kind of haze. Scenes from the past passed through me or drifted nearby.

Randall Condor was born an incredibly lucky boy. The gift of metal magic and a grandfather with the title of Count. That alone raised him above most of the population and freed him from a life of toil and servitude under the nobility. But that's where his luck ran out.

An exceptionally weak gift and a convoluted origin story made his position at court extremely unstable. The public was told his father was an unknown knight, but few believed it. Rumors at court claimed the Count's only daughter had gotten involved with a commoner and then taken her own life out of shame. Only the Count knew the truth, and he kept his mouth shut, pointedly ignoring the gossip. With the king's blessing, the grandson received the title of viscount, which only further distanced him from high society.

Randall's childhood was harsh. The cold indifference of his grandfather, the mockery of peers, the contempt of aristocrats. Determined to earn respect through strength, he trained with the sword nonstop until one day the Count caught him at it. After a brutal scolding and an order not to shame the family, Randall withdrew even further. The sword he had crafted with his own hands gathered dust and cobwebs. He buried himself in books instead: alchemy, engineering, and most importantly, ritualism. The art of channeling external power, exactly what a weakling bastard needed.

His knowledge grew, but the nobility's disdain never changed.

At sixteen, Randall discovered something. I couldn't tell what, those memories were wiped. But whatever it was, it pushed him to decide the world must end. Not for justice, out of personal spite.

New acquaintances followed, shady ones. Bandits, smugglers, cultists. Forbidden books and scrolls.

He devoured knowledge as greedily as a desert swallows rain. He took security seriously, the Inquisition loved easy targets with no court support. More and more memories were locked or erased. Sometimes, I only knew he'd met someone from indirect clues. His knowledge grew, but knowledge alone isn't power. That's how Viscount Condor met Baron Clemen.

The frontier, a place ideal not just for cultists but for human experimentation. Criminals and runaway peasants, perfect test subjects.

So what was he working on? He didn't even try to hide the goal, though he heavily encrypted the results.

He meant to destroy the world.

A typical villain. Except this one understood, world-ending plans take centuries.

What can one man do? A mage's life is long, but not infinite. So he meant to fix that.

The books said demon-pact mages gained longevity, though few lived long enough to use it.

So why rely on demons, when there might be something higher?

Randall's solution: bind an angel.

Theocracy guarded angelic knowledge jealously, so he had to proceed blindly. But he wouldn't give up. If demons existed, angels had to as well.

Reinforcing rituals, sacrifices, sigils carved into flesh — all of it drained his gift further. But the seal he designed looked solid. And as a side effect, his body grew much stronger.

Why does that matter? Possibly one reason the traitor baron's ritual failed.

Who am I now? A deranged genius who liked slicing up peasants? A world champ and reenactment nerd? Or a demon, Astarot, stuffed into this body?

All of the above, and none.

I didn't feel bad for killing someone and smearing them across a wall.

But human experimentation? No.

A wave of madness, Randall's legacy, surged inside.

It urged me to accept the path of destruction.

Yes, the world was rotten. The nobility treated commoners like animals. Mages killed for fun, used peasants in potions. Lies, perversions, cruelty.

But wipe out the world for that? No.

I'll save it. I'll bend it to my will. I'll beat the filth out of the powerful and make them respect life.

The madness agreed and retreated.

The ritual was complete. The demon sealed.

I opened my eyes.

The guest room. I used to fall asleep here all the time. At least, when I didn't pass out from exhaustion right in the ritual hall. Looks like the squad of possessed actually got me to the baron. I wonder how long I was out?

I stretched. The bed was soft, comfortable, no worse than a modern one. My body felt great, no discomfort at all. Source seemed fine too. The demon was sealed, Randall's memories were integrating. So far, so good.

I had two tasks ahead of me. First, don't blow my cover in front of the baron and scout out how powerful he really is. After that, play it by ear. If he's weak, I'll smash his fat face in. If he's strong... well, I'll pretend to be an obedient little demon and quietly build up power. Once I've got enough... heh heh. Either way, I don't envy the baron anymore.

Second, that damned royal Decree I've been assigned to carry out. Hm. How important is that, really?

I dove into Randall's memories, much easier to do now.

Yeah. This is bad.

His... my family had been under pressure since the day Randall was born. Worse, the King had allowed it to happen. Our House was restricted from hiring or maintaining troops, which meant we lost most of our assets and lands. We simply couldn't protect them. And what we could protect, we had to sell. Every court appearance came with a wave of veiled insults and mockery.

Yeah, the king's a asshole. Turns out he's the one behind everything that happened to our family. And now he suddenly announces he's thinking about "forgiving" our House and gives its heir, me, a dangerous mission? Sure, great plan. Who better to send off to assess the viability of a new outpost in the Black Forest than a bunch of "expendables"? If we die, no big loss. If we don't, "forgiven." Best part? Costs him nothing. Bastard. Seems like my ever-growing list of people who need a smashed face just got a new royal addition.

Still, for all the king's weaseling, this is a rare opportunity to restore our House. I'd be a fool not to take it.

By the way, now I understand why Grandfather wasn't too upset about the siege by Marquis Short. We didn't have any spare troops for the expedition anyway. The few left were needed to protect the family stronghold. I wonder what kind of mercs he found for the royal job? Let's be honest, most hired blades are trash, or semi-official private armies under the patronage of major nobles. Getting involved with those types is a gamble. If their patron decides it's better to sabotage the contract instead of completing it, they'll follow orders, and you won't be able to outbid them. As for allies among the nobility, ones powerful enough to lend troops and willing to see our House rise again, yeah, we've got basically none.

Still, no point guessing yet. I've got to survive the baron first. And since I'm already in his house, might as well fulfill Grandfather's order and gather intel on the Black Forest. I need at least a rough idea of what I'm walking into.

I turned my head and my eyes caught on a long, fresh gouge marring the carved headboard. Ah, right... this was the very room where I lost my bloodblade.

Brute, you treacherous son of a bitch. I let my guard down, and you struck. But why? What was the point? Were you after my knowledge, planning to extract it using a demon? Strange. Very strange. Randall and the Baron had a mutually beneficial partnership. I already shared parts of my research, even helped Clemen with his own projects now and then. I don't get it. I see no motive.

My hand clenched into a fist. My dear friend, I'll act the loyal servant, but you'll pay dearly for your betrayal. I swear it on my blood.

A quiet knock sounded at the door, followed by the whisper of hinges as it opened.

A boy of about fourteen peeked in, a servant, judging by his clothes.

"His Highness requests your presence in the small throne hall. As soon as possible."

I curled my lip. His Highness? Looks like Brute's completely lost it. As a baron, he was entitled to "Milord" at most, or "Your Lordship," if he really wanted to play it up. Though most didn't bother. Sure, he could make his people call him whatever he wanted, even God-Emperor, but letting that nonsense fly in front of me, a viscount? Insulting. Or maybe that was the point, to show me I'm just a servant now?

I rose from bed so sharply the down-filled blankets tore in shreds.

Calm down, Randall. Breathe. No need to fly off the handle just yet. Let the fat pig wallow in his delusions. Once I reach my alchemy stores, I'll brew the perfect poison for that walking sack of lard. One particularly amusing recipe came to mind, a violent, prolonged diarrhea so intense it turned fatal. A fitting end for a bloated hog.

The baron may have wanted to see me quickly, but I didn't rush. I opened the wardrobe and slowly picked out my clothes. Something practical, but still refined, enough to outshine that tasteless lump of gold-plated bacon. A silk shirt, blackened leather jacket, and matching trousers. My usual look. I always kept a few spare sets at the baron's place. Anything soaked in death, blood, and alchemical reagents would've immediately raised my grandfather's suspicions.

I adjusted the leather jacket and stepped into the hallway.

Time to play the loyal little demon.