EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC21: Dragon Tongue Magic II
Chapter 21: Dragon Tongue Magic II
"If I really want to master Dragon Tongue Magic... I'll need more than just knowing the words. I'll need the kind of heart that can support it. A heart that can move mana like dragons do. Otherwise..."
He stopped mid-sentence, slowly clenching his fist.
"...this kind of power will destroy me from the inside. For dragons, mana is the same as life. But for humans like me? It's not. We use it up. We burn through it. We run out. They live through it. But for us... it's dangerous."
Fenric fell quiet for a long time. He stared at his own hand, watching how small traces of mana glowed faintly along his veins. It looked cool—shining like magic—but it was still a weak copy of what real dragons had.
"They're not like us," he whispered. "They're completely different from every other living creature."
Most living beings had two separate systems in their body. Blood flowed through veins to keep them alive. Mana had its own path—it moved through spirit channels or magic veins, sometimes through a core. The two systems only met at certain points, and that too in a limited way.
"But dragons... they don't split it up like that," Fenric said with a quiet awe in his voice. "They've evolved differently."
In a dragon's body, the heart wasn't just a pump for blood. It was the center of their whole existence.
"One heart. One network. One stream. Their blood is mana, and mana is their blood. Every drop moving through their body holds life and magic at once. That's why dragons don't need chants or fancy circles. Their body is already full of magic—always active, always ready."
And that was the main difference.
"Dragon Tongue Magic doesn't just need mana. It needs mana-infused blood. Vital energy that's deeply mixed with magic. You can't fake it with shortcuts or cheap tricks."
He leaned back in his chair, thinking hard, going over the facts in his mind.
"For a human, casting magic means gathering mana, shaping it, then releasing it. That whole process takes effort, time, and skill. But dragons? They just speak the words. Their mana is already flowing in their blood, moving through every part of them. The spell activates the moment they speak. No delay. No failure."
Fenric's fingers slowly tightened over the edge of the tome.
"If I want to use this kind of magic the right way... I'll have to change how my body works."
The Sloth Dragon King's blood inside him gave him a starting point. A seed of potential from a dragon. But that potential was sleeping, slow to move. It needed time. It needed something to stir it up—like training, strong emotions, maybe even a special ritual.
"I'll have to build a mana-blood network in my own body. Reroute how my energy flows. Maybe even change how my heart works."
It was a crazy idea.
But so was reading a dragon's ancient magic book inside a secret dimension left behind by a legendary Grandmaster.
And yet, here he was.
A quiet smile crossed his face.
"Alright. If the price of gaining this power is changing what I am... then I'll pay it. I've already left the normal path behind."
His eyes narrowed with quiet resolve.
"Becoming a king wasn't meant for ordinary humans anyway."
Fenric exhaled slowly, letting the thoughts fade like mist from the surface of the lake. There would be time for theory—later. For now, practice was king.
He rolled his shoulders, stood up, and took a few measured steps across the grassy clearing, settling into a stable stance. The tome floated beside him, flipping to the elemental page like a dutiful servant.
"Alright," he said, flexing his fingers. "Back to the basics."
He held out his left hand, focusing not on power—but precision.
"Solv Torah."
A stream of water burst upward from his palm like a miniature fountain, dancing briefly in the air before falling harmlessly into the grass. The spell wasn't strong—but it was smooth, stable, almost playful in how it obeyed.
"Nice. Let's try something else."
"Thar Eryl."
The moment the words left his mouth, vines of solid earth surged from the ground, wrapping around an invisible target before crumbling gently into dust.
"Too soft," he muttered, already adjusting his posture. "Stronger intent."
"Thar Eryl!"
This time, the vines came thicker, sharper—binding tight before snapping back like a coiled whip. Fenric nodded in approval.
"Veyl Vana."
A gust of wind swept forward in a cone, rustling the plains grass ahead like a living wave. It kicked up dust, disturbed a few startled birds, and then settled once more.
Fenric grinned.
The rhythm was settling in now. The feedback loop between word and effect was growing tighter. His brain was starting to associate sensation with syllables, a new language being etched into his nerves.
He pressed forward.
"Noct Drath."
A spear of pure shadow jutted forward from his fingertips—silent, sleek, cold. It faded almost instantly, but the chill it left behind crawled over his skin like a whisper from the void.
"...That's going to need caution."
Then he raised both hands this time.
"Luxa Seln."
A bubble of radiant light shimmered into existence around him—like a soft sun forged into a shield. It blocked the wind, glowed warmly, and slowly dimmed into nothing as he let go of the command.
He exhaled, blinking rapidly as a bit of sweat rolled down his temple.
Five spells.
His heartbeat had picked up, and his limbs were a little heavier.
The book had warned him.
Don't practice more than five spells per session when starting out.
He could feel the drag on his energy—not quite exhaustion, but that edge of strain where pushing further might backfire.
Fenric sat down again, dropping into the grass with a quiet thud.
The lake glimmered at his side, still undisturbed. The floating tome hovered down beside him, closing its current page with an approving hum.
He let his head tilt back, staring up at the sky.
"Not bad for a beginner," he murmured, lips curling faintly. "But this... this is just the foundation."
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC22: Drake
Chapter 22: Drake
While Fenric was living his simple life someone was living a total different life.
In a lavish mansion that had once echoed with laughter, flirtation, and excess, silence now reigned.
Prince Drake—once the empire's most flamboyant and notorious royal—sat slouched in a velvet chair, his once-pristine tunic wrinkled and partially unbuttoned. A goblet of wine slipped from his fingers and shattered across the marble floor, staining it crimson.
"Useless," he spat, flinging another empty bottle across the room. It hit a polished statue of his younger self and cracked the porcelain cheek.
His golden hair, usually styled with obsessive perfection, hung in a messy curtain over his eyes. Dark circles marred his once-impeccable face. No women. No servants. No parties. No power.
No freedom.
"Fenric..." he growled, the name leaving his throat like venom. "You dare turn the court against me... in front of the Emperor... in front of everyone?!"
He stood abruptly, knocking the chair backward, and began pacing like a caged beast.
Drake clenched his fists so hard his nails bit into his palm.
He closed his eyes—and he saw it.
That cursed courtroom.
The Emperor's voice still rang in his ears, cold and absolute:
"As for the Fourth Prince, he is now banned from leaving his quarters for the next ten years, and all his royal duties will fall upon the Third Prince."
A pause.
"And since the Third Prince is not as physically strong, the Fourth and Fifth Royal Knights will aid him."
The crowd had frozen. Courtiers, ministers, generals—everyone stunned.
Drake remembered how Myria Bloodrose and Roman Kaiser had stepped forward. No hesitation. No doubt. They knelt without a word of protest, as if loyalty to Fenric had been there all along, dormant beneath polished armor.
"We will obey His Majesty's orders."
And that was it. His disgrace, sealed in front of the entire Imperial Court.
Drake's eyes snapped open, filled with hate.
"Fucking bastard... now he's pitied by them," he spat, pacing again. "Those two... they look down on me now. They kneel for him. Him! I can't even kill that spineless little—"
Click.
The door to his private chambers opened without warning.
Soft footsteps echoed in, firm yet elegant. His breath caught for a second before he turned, slowly.
A tall, regal figure stepped inside—silver robes flowing like mist, face partially veiled, but unmistakable.
Empress Balina.
Drake's mother.
She closed the door behind her with quiet finality, her gaze cutting through the room like a sword.
"What are you doing?" she asked, voice low and scolding, yet not without disappointment.
Drake turned away and scoffed, not answering.
But she advanced, sharp and composed, eyes narrowing.
"What do you have to say now?" she continued. "You failed me. You let that Third Prince humiliate you in open court. And not only that but You've let them imprison you in your own mansion?"
Her voice dropped, venom seeping through silk.
"Ten years. Ten. Years. Do you understand what that means for our position in the court?"
Drake whirled around, eyes bloodshot.
"And what did you expect me to do?!" he shouted. "The Emperor cut me off! My estate is under audit! Imperial knights now serve him! You want me to fix that from inside a fucking cage?!"
She didn't flinch. She simply folded her arms and stared her son down, with the cold elegance only Empress Balian could wield.
"No," she said icily. "I expected you to not underestimate your enemies. If you truly wanted to be the future Emperor, then you should've kept your record clean. No indulgences. No loose ends."
She leaned in, her voice sharpening like a dagger.
"That way, they never would've gotten the chance to imprison you."
Those words stung harder than any lash. Drake flinched, jaw tightening with guilt—and humiliation.
The Empress stepped closer, her perfume laced with roses and iron.
"He will die," she whispered, her breath like frost. "In just one month. That poison was crafted by the court's most loyal alchemists. It's slow. Silent. Completely undetectable. Seventeen years of microdosing—every dose calculated, every symptom masked."
She looked him dead in the eyes.
"Even the greatest healers of the Empire wouldn't know what's killing him.
And when the final month comes, the poison will erupt inside his body. His organs will rot, his blood will burn. And he'll die. Quietly. Elegantly. Just as we planned."
She turned toward the window, letting the fading light glint off her jeweled cuffs.
"So don't waste your time thinking about Fenric. He's a dead man walking. And the dead don't need revenge."
Of course, neither of them knew that Fenric's curse had already been broken. If she had known—if she realized her masterwork poison had been purged from his blood by a power no alchemist could understand—she would've been gobsmacked. Horrified, even. After all, the poison wasn't some ordinary toxin—it was a generational secret of the Duchy of Ragos, her family. A concoction perfected over centuries. Used only to kill kings.
And now?
The one person they used it on was alive and thriving.
Still ignorant of that truth, the Empress placed a hand under Drake's chin, raising his face with an imperial gentleness that masked iron resolve.
"Focus on fixing yourself. You have ten years now. And yes, that bastard Emperor may release you early—but that doesn't matter. This is your chance. Learn the court. Master tactics. Raise your strength."
Her eyes narrowed.
"You are the second-weakest among all the princes and princesses. That's not acceptable. Not if you want to inherit the throne."
She let go of his face slowly, like a mother letting go of a flawed gem that still had potential.
"We want a descendant of our blood sitting on that throne," she said, voice fierce with ambition. "And you are that person. So you'd better work hard."
Drake nodded stiffly.
But her gaze darkened.
"The elders in my family... they're watching you now. They are not pleased. I'm holding them back, keeping them in check—for your sake. But you know what will happen if I can't anymore."
Drake's face paled. He swallowed hard, nodding faster.
"Y-yes, Mother..."
"Good." She turned away, walking gracefully toward the door. "So work hard. Make me proud."
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC23: Drake II
Chapter 23: Drake II
"Good." She turned away, walking gracefully toward the door. "So work hard. Make me proud."
She paused at the threshold, not even looking back.
"Massage my shoulders when I return. My nerves are frayed from cleaning up your mess."
Then she disappeared down the hallway.
Drake remained frozen on the floor, knees weak, sweat running down his temple. His hands trembled as he stared at his reflection in a shattered shard of the broken mirror.
"I will work hard, Mother..." he muttered, his voice barely holding together. "Just keep them away from me..."
Because if the elders from the Ragos Dukedom got tired of waiting, he knew exactly what they'd do.
Replace him.
Just like that. A whisper in the dark. A slip of poison in his wine. A letter forged in his name confessing to high treason. The Ragos family didn't groom heirs—they carved them from marble, mercilessly discarding any statue that cracked.
Drake sat in silence for a long time, the ticking of the gilded clock echoing like war drums in his skull. The once-luxurious chamber—now more a velvet prison—felt like it was closing in on him.
His fingers curled into fists.
Fenric... That weakling worm had turned the tables. Humiliated him in front of the entire court. Took his knights, his duties, his future.
And now the bastard was living in peace somewhere, reading books, while he, the Fourth Prince, heir to one of the deadliest noble bloodlines in Eldoris, was locked away like a disgraced dog.
"I'll rise again," he whispered, voice trembling with a cocktail of fear and fury. "And when I do... Fenric better perish at the poison—because if he doesn't, he'll wish he had. He'll be groveling at my feet, begging for death like a dog under my heel."
The broken mirror shard in his hand cracked further as his grip tightened. Blood trickled down his palm, unnoticed.
His eyes—once filled with entitlement—now gleamed with the raw, desperate glint of a cornered beast.
"I'll learn everything. Politics. Warfare. Espionage. Even magic, if I must. I'll become the perfect Emperor—so flawless even the elders won't dare replace me."
A bitter grin tugged at the corners of his lips, twisted and hollow.
"And then, when the world kneels to me... I'll make sure he sees it. Every moment. Every crown placed on my head. Every cheer that echoes his irrelevance. I'll erase him from history... as nothing more than a footnote."
The wind outside his sealed window howled—a distant storm rolling over the capital.
***
"Achooo!"
Far across the royal grounds—inside the hushed grandeur of the Royal Library—Fenric blinked and sniffled, half-buried under a mountain of ancient scrolls and language manuals.
"...Huh?" he murmured, rubbing his nose as another shiver passed through him. "Wasn't I healed? How the hell do I still get a cold?"
He looked around suspiciously, then glanced at his arms. Not a bruise, scratch, or ailment in sight. His physique was refined—lean muscle, healthy skin, clear mana flow. Even his Mana Sea, vast as a great lake, was swirling with vitality and power.
And yet—
"I'm now at Soldier rank..." he muttered, frowning as he leaned back in his chair. The table before him was scattered with notes on Dragon Tongue Magic, a harsh, ancient dialect of elemental command. He had just finished deciphering the syllables for "Raen Drath"—Fire Strike—when the sneeze had ambushed him like a stealth attack.
He glanced toward the ceiling. "Is this, like... a magical allergy? Did one of these tomes get sealed with dust from the Great Demon War era?"
Another pause.
He coughed. Just once.
"...Okay, that one might've been psychological."
Fenric rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish grin tugging at his lips. His eyes wandered toward the tall window at the far end of the study, where the last blush of sunset faded into indigo. The moonlight began to spill through the lattice panes, casting silver patterns across the floor.
"Guess my body's demanding rest now," he muttered, voice low and tired. His fingers brushed the side of the table, lingering over the worn edges of the ancient books he'd spent the whole evening poring over.
With practiced ease, he began tidying up. The language scrolls, the annotated dictionaries, and the half-deciphered Fairy spellbooks were all carefully rolled and stacked. As for the Dragon Tongue Spellbook, he held it a moment longer—its leather binding faintly warm, as if responding to his mana.
"Back you go."
He raised his hand, and a faint shimmer of verdant light surrounded his fingers.
The Fairy Ring, now nestled on his right index finger, pulsed gently. No longer just an artifact, it had bonded with him completely—responding to his will and spirit.
A ripple of spatial distortion flickered across its gem-like surface, and the tome vanished from his hand, pulled effortlessly into the Fairy Ring's internal realm.
Unlike a typical storage artifact, the Fairy Ring was something far more potent. Its internal dimension was vast—nearly endless—and its magic was subtle, graceful, and ancient. It could store weapons, books, scrolls... even living beings, provided they were willing and had a soul signature attuned to the ring bearer.
It was not just a vault.
It was a king's sanctum.
A remnant of the once-glorious Fairy Kingdom, crafted from the very essence of the fallen Fairy King.
Fenric flexed his fingers, feeling the weightlessness of the grimoire now nestled within the hidden sanctuary of the Fairy Ring.
With a faint breath, he turned back toward the central pedestal of the Royal Library—his expression unreadable, but his mana pulsing with quiet command. A flick of his hand, and the ancient runes embedded in the marble floor shimmered back to life.
The arcane seals reactivated with a low hum, glyphs of warding folding into place like a lock being whispered shut by the world itself. The doors to the Royal Library—his domain now as the appointed Royal Librarian—clicked with a final, magical thud.
Fenric stepped out into the dim corridor, where shadows stretched long under moonlight filtered through stained glass. Waiting a few steps away were the ever-dutiful Roman Kaiser and Myria Bloodrose.
"Library's sealed," he said casually, adjusting the sleeve of his cloak.
The two Royal Knights nodded in perfect synchronicity.
"Understood, Your Highness," Myria said, her tone neutral but her eyes, as always, keen.
"We'll retire to our assigned quarters within your estate," Roman added, gesturing politely before taking the opposite corridor.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC24: New Servants
Chapter 24: New Servants
"We'll retire to our assigned quarters within your estate," Roman added, gesturing politely before taking the opposite corridor.
They vanished in silence—shadows with swords, trusted protectors in a world full of daggers.
Fenric continued down the hall, finally arriving at the familiar double doors of his private wing. As he stepped into the front parlor, the scent of lotus-scented incense greeted him—a calming aroma meant to ease one's spirit.
"Your Highness, welcome back," came the soft voice of the new head maid, a calm and composed woman in her mid-thirties named Theris. She bowed deeply, then rose, holding a small silver tray in her hands.
"Your evening medicine," she said, eyes downcast in practiced deference. "Prescribed by the palace alchemists for maintaining constitution. Instructions state it is to be taken with warm water after dusk."
She extended the tray toward him.
Fenric blinked slowly. On the tray was a small vial of shimmering liquid—a cloudy blue hue, faintly sweet-smelling, subtle. The kind of medicine that wouldn't raise suspicion in anyone except those who knew what to look for.
He took the vial, his hand steady... but his eyes sharp.
This again.
The same vial he'd been given since childhood.
The same hidden poison—crafted over seventeen years to kill him slowly, undetectably. A death sentence dressed as medicine.
Fenric took the vial in hand.
The maid stood quietly nearby, eyes respectful, waiting. Her presence was gentle, professional, and—most importantly—watchful. Just enough to report back if he refused it. If he even hesitated.
Fenric brought the vial to his lips.
And drank.
The maid smiled, satisfied. "Shall I draw your bath now, Your Highness? Or would you prefer dinner first?"
"Dinner," Fenric said smoothly, wiping the corner of his mouth with a silk kerchief.
The maid bowed, expression serene. "Very well. I'll inform the kitchen." And with that, she left.
The moment the door clicked shut behind her, Fenric's calm facade cracked just a hair as he leaned back in his chair and muttered, "Honestly, this charade is exhausting."
He looked down at his palm, where his Fairy Ring—disguised now as an elegant tattoo on his ring finger—glimmered faintly.
Inside it, not a drop of that poison was missing.
He had never swallowed it.
"Now that I have Cured, there is no need to drink that Posion anymoe" he mumbled as he remebered, despite knowing it was posion he had to drink it.
He had discovered a critical detail—if the poison was stopped abruptly, his body, conditioned over years, would collapse in rejection and death would follow within days.
But if he continued to ingest the poison, his body would deteriorate over three months—and still die slowly.
So, to buy those precious three months, Fenric played along.
He let them think he was still under the Empress's leash, still quietly drinking the venom they'd dosed him with since birth.
But today... everything changed.
Today, the Fairy Ring bonded with him completely. Today, the poison was truly rendered powerless—its residuals burned out by the harmonized magic of Spirit and Dragon blood.
He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his robe.
"Now that I'm cured, I don't need you anymore."
His gaze swept across the room—at the door where the maid had just exited. The one who smiled a little too easily. The one who worked too efficiently.
She wasn't just any maid.
She was Drake's mother's agent.
So were the cooks. The butlers. The stablehands. The stewards. Every servant in this estate had been planted by the Dark Empress.
And Fenric had let them stay.
Because they brought him his "medicine."
He sighed. "If I had kicked them out too early... I'd have died before even curing myself."
But now?
Now he had options.
"Tomorrow," Fenric muttered, eyes narrowing, "I'll go to the Slave Market."
In Eldoris, slavery wasn't born of conquest or cruelty—it was law-bound penance.
Those who committed crimes—thievery, corruption, desertion, treason of the second class—were stripped of their citizen rights and reclassified as "atonement products." Branded, sealed with obedience sigils, and sold into service. A second life, purchased in coin.
Only the most irredeemable—murderers, defilers, and high traitors—met immediate execution.
Fenric exhaled slowly, gaze sweeping over the estate.
"After buying the slaves," he continued, voice flat, "I'll replace every maid, every butler, every cook in this mansion."
His tone wasn't laced with malice. It was simply... operational.
This was procurement strategy.
He'd tolerated the spies of the Dark Empress long enough. Letting her think he was weak. Poisoned. Dependent.
But now? The board had changed.
Not only did he have money saved up from the last 17 years, but the Emperor had also redirected Drake's yearly allowance to him. Since Drake was imprisoned in his own mansion for the next ten years, all that money now went to Fenric. On top of that, he also received income from his duties as the Royal Librarian—at least until Mavis returned, which wouldn't be for another five years—and from his position as Headmaster of the Imperial Academy.
Right now, he could be said to be the richest prince in the entire Empire.
The next day arrived quietly. Two Imperial Knights came to his estate as usual, reporting in for their duty. Fenric met them in the entrance hall, already dressed and prepared for the day.
"I'm heading out for a while," he said casually, adjusting the cuffs of his coat. "You'll be escorting me."
Roman, the Fourth Royal Knight, nodded with his usual calm expression. "Understood, Your Highness."
Before leaving, Fenric glanced at Myria and asked, "How's Elaine doing?"
Myria offered a faint smile. "She's learning well under my guidance. Quick to adapt. Quiet, but observant."
Fenric nodded thoughtfully. "Good. Then bring her to me later—I'd like to speak with her."
"As you wish," Myria replied with a graceful bow.
As Fenric stepped out of the estate's grand archway, the butler was already waiting at the foot of the steps, standing beside the royal carriage.
The carriage itself was sleek and reinforced, painted in deep obsidian and silver trim—the official color scheme granted to royals of the Vareldis line. Four magical beasts, horse-like but clearly far beyond ordinary steeds, stood harnessed and ready. Their scales shimmered faintly beneath their fur, and their eyes glowed with pale violet energy. These were Duskhorn Chargers, bred for both speed and intimidation—beasts only granted to high-ranking nobles or royalty.
"Your carriage is ready, Your Highness," the butler said, bowing slightly.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC25: New Servants II
Chapter 25: New Servants II
Okay, here's the text with grammar corrections:
"Your carriage is ready, Your Highness," the butler said, bowing slightly.
Fenric gave a nod as Roman and Myria took position on either side of the door. He stepped in without fanfare, settling into the plush interior as the two knights mounted their spectral steeds to ride alongside.
As Fenric stepped out of the royal grounds, a strange sense of anticipation stirred in his chest.
This was his first time leaving the palace district—his first time truly outside.
He paused for a moment at the top of the steps, eyes sweeping across the grand gates that marked the boundary of royal territory. Beyond them, the city stretched out like a living tapestry: bustling streets, towering buildings, magic lanterns flickering in broad daylight, and voices—so many voices. A world he'd only glimpsed from balconies or behind thick curtains was now just a carriage ride away.
The butler stood beside the open carriage door, bowing low. The Duskhorn Chargers snorted, pawing at the ground, their violet eyes pulsing with restrained energy.
Fenric took a steady breath and stepped forward.
The moment the doors closed behind him, the driver gave a signal. With a sharp cry and a tug on the reins, the Chargers surged forward, pulling the carriage out through the gates and onto the main road. Magical runes beneath the wheels lit up, cushioning the ride over the stone-paved streets.
Fenric leaned back slightly, then turned to look out the window.
The capital unfolded around him—vivid, chaotic, alive.
There were no cheers, no bowed heads, but Fenric saw the glances.
People noticed—the way their eyes flicked to the royal insignia etched in silver and crimson on the carriage doors, the sigil of House Vareldis, once buried beneath layers of obscurity, now glinting in broad daylight.
Still, the citizens only looked for a moment before returning to their work. This was the heart of the Vareldis Empire, a place where humans weren't the only ones filling the streets. Elves walked alongside dwarves, beastfolk argued with merchants, and even among the noble houses, there were names belonging to races beyond humanity.
Fenric's gaze wandered from stall to shop, to passing pedestrians and distant towers. Everything felt surreal. What he'd read in books and heard through whispers in the palace was now in front of him—alive, layered, messy, beautiful.
'Seeing it in real life is really something else,' he thought as he smiled. The world he only read about in books was now the world he was living in.
Far from the capital's center, within the shadowy halls of the Royal Citadel's eastern wing—the domain unofficially known as the Cradle of Thorns—Drake's mother stood in front of her private mirror, a thin line forming on her lips as the message arrived.
"So... he's left the palace grounds."
Her reflection barely moved as she turned away from the whispering crystal orb, its glow fading.
"I wonder," she mused quietly, her voice low and unreadable, "if the older ones in the family will try to eliminate him now..."
She tapped her long, crimson nail against her chin, almost idly.
After all, she knew her lineage well.
The Ragos Dukedom did not allow loose ends to wander. And now that Fenric had stepped beyond the safety of royal walls, it was only a matter of time before the family sent assassins—silent, efficient, and utterly merciless.
The carriage came to a smooth halt, its enchanted wheels dimming as the runes faded. With a gentle creak, the door was opened from the outside.
"Your Highness," the butler said with a bow.
Fenric stepped out, his boots touching the stone pavement of the capital for the first time in his life.
Before him stood a towering structure of blackstone and golden latticework—The Silver Chain Exchange, the largest and most reputable slave house in the entire Vareldis Empire. Despite the grim nature of its name, this place was neither chaotic nor lawless. It operated with precision, decorum, and unshakable hierarchy. It had to—after all, this was not the slaver pits of border towns. This was the capital.
A pair of heavily armored knights at the gate saw his crest and immediately moved aside, heads bowing just slightly—enough to show respect without making a scene.
Fenric strode in calmly, his eyes sweeping across the lobby.
It was almost eerily quiet inside. Smooth floors, scentless incense, and polished counters greeted him. A few buyers, mostly nobles and state officials, were seated with recorders and clerks going over documents. No whips, no chains—only efficiency. The displayed products stood in formation behind enchanted glass barriers, eyes calm and trained, waiting.
They were not the broken or helpless. These were sinners repaying debts—thieves, conspirators, failed assassins, even a few rogue mages who'd lost their rights. Slavery in Vareldis was punishment by law, not inheritance; it was a second chance, if one could call it that.
A smartly dressed elf with silver-rimmed glasses approached him, bowing elegantly.
"Your Highness Prince Fenric," she said smoothly. "We've been informed of your visit. Please—this way to the private chamber. The best selection fitting your requirements has been prepared."
Fenric gave a nod. "Lead the way."
The elf led Fenric through a hallway lined with paintings of imperial decrees and noble clientele. Eventually, they arrived at an opulent chamber—velvet drapes, enchanted lighting crystals hanging from silver sconces, and a long blackwood table with a pitcher of spirit-infused water already prepared.
A few discreet attendants stood ready at the corners of the room, their eyes downcast, silent as statues.
The elf gestured politely toward a cushioned seat. "Please, Your Highness. Do make yourself comfortable."
Fenric sat, hands folded, calm but alert.
The elf took a seat across from him and pulled out a crystal ledger. Its surface glowed faintly with magical interface runes.
"To begin, may I inquire about your preferences today, Your Highness? Gender, race, primary skillset, and any additional specifications?"
Fenric didn't hesitate.
"Two males. Best available, any race," he said. "But they must be skilled in both combat and household service."
The elf nodded, fingers sliding across the ledger.
"And?"
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Chapter 26: New Servants III
"And?"
"Ten females," Fenric said, his voice crisp and efficient. "A variety of races, strictly for domestic work—maids. Cleaning, kitchen duty, estate protocol."
He paused for a moment, then added, "If any among them are combat-capable and still know proper household duties, that's also acceptable. I wouldn't mind some extra security."
The elf gave a slight, respectful smile, impressed by the foresight. "Understood, Your Highness. Multi-role personnel, should they meet your standards."
"Any further specifications?"
Fenric shook his head. "That'll be all." \n(o)v.e\l.com
The elf gave a final nod and stood smoothly. "Then please wait here. I'll have them brought in shortly, according to your specifications."
With a graceful turn, she exited the room, the soft swish of her robe the only sound that lingered behind.
Fenric remained seated, fingers tapping slowly on the polished blackwood table.
Behind him, the butler—who had been standing in perfect silence—finally spoke, his voice composed but tinged with caution. "Your Highness... may I ask why you're suddenly looking for more servants?"
Fenric didn't even look back. "Nothing serious. I just need the Dark Empress's dogs out of my house," he said casually, as if commenting on the weather.
The butler stiffened.
"...I'm not sure I understand, Your Highness," he said, trying to keep his tone even. "We've served you loyally for years. How could we possibly be—"
"I can
kill you all," Fenric interrupted coldly, "and then I can naturally replace you all."
The words hit like a hammer. The air in the room dropped several degrees.
The butler stood frozen, his mouth slightly open, hands trembling by his sides. He took a step back instinctively, but his mind was racing.
Damn it. If he kicks us out, the Dark Empress will kill us. If we stay, he'll kill us. Either way... we're dead.
He bowed stiffly, lips pressed tight to keep from cursing aloud.
"Understood... Your Highness," he said with effort.
Fenric didn't respond. His eyes never left the table.
While the two knights looked at each other and then shrugged and remained silently standing.
The doors opened with a soft click, and the elf returned—her expression calm, but there was the faintest trace of pride in her eyes.
"Your Highness," she said with a bow, "the selections have arrived. I believe they meet your expectations."
Behind her, the procession entered in an orderly line.
First came the ten females—each one distinct, yet equally striking in beauty. It was evident that they'd been carefully curated not just for competence but for presentation. Some had long elven ears and ethereal grace; others bore the soft features of beastkin with twitching ears or patterned tails. A few were human, but no less refined—each with a poise and elegance that spoke of noble training. Their uniforms were simple but crisp, clearly tailored to highlight their forms without being vulgar.
Most notable of all, however, was their presence. Even though they stood demurely, heads lowered, Fenric could feel it—these weren't mere slaves. These were trained individuals, molded to serve but capable of so much more.
Behind them followed two males—tall, broad-shouldered, and undeniably powerful. One had dusky bronze skin and short silver hair, the other bore deep violet eyes and carried himself with the air of a commander. Both wore reinforced butler attire over their slave garb, a subtle nod to their dual-purpose roles.
Fenric's eyes narrowed slightly. He could sense it. High Master level, no question. Their mana pressure was carefully suppressed, but to someone like him—now tuned to the rhythm of the Dragon Tongue Magic—it was as clear as day.
The elf gestured gracefully. "These two, Varn and Izel, have passed all combat trials and are trained in elite estate protocol. Bodyguard and housekeeper in one, Your Highness."
Then she motioned to the maids. "The ten females vary in origin and skills, but all have domestic mastery—cleaning, etiquette, cooking, and a few with basic healing spells and first aid. Three are combat-capable at High Master level or above."
Fenric stood slowly, stepping forward to inspect them one by one. None dared to raise their heads, but he could see the awareness in their eyes: discipline, readiness, and quiet fear. Good.
"Acceptable," he said at last.
The elf bowed again. "Shall I proceed with the transfer and binding rites?"
"Yes," Fenric replied. "And make sure to file it under my name only. No proxies."
"As you wish."
The elf gave a gentle nod, then clapped her hands softly.
A second attendant entered the room—this one robed in ceremonial garb, holding a silver tray upon which rested a small, rune-inscribed grimoire, a glowing quill, and a thin knife made of enchanted starlight ore.
"The rites shall now commence," the elf said calmly.
She began with the two male slaves—Varn and Izel. Each stepped forward silently, kneeling before Fenric without protest. The elf opened the grimoire and began reciting an incantation in the binding tongue—an ancient language reserved solely for contractual rites of servitude and soul-bound pacts.
A faint golden magic circle appeared beneath Varn first, pulsing gently.
The elf took the quill, pricked the tip of Varn's finger with the blade, and let a single drop of blood fall onto the sigil. It was absorbed instantly.
Then she turned to Fenric, offering him the same blade.
Fenric took it without flinching, sliced a small cut across his palm, and pressed it over the same rune.
With a brief fwoom, the contract flared, then vanished into both of their skin—leaving a faint silver crest etched on the back of Varn's neck, and a mirror symbol on Fenric's palm.
"Bound," the elf said with satisfaction.
The same process was repeated for Izel, then each of the ten female slaves. They approached one at a time, gracefully and without hesitation. Some closed their eyes tightly during the binding. Others simply stared ahead, already accustomed to this ritual.
By the end of it, Fenric's left hand glowed faintly with a lattice of overlapping contract marks—each one tied to a new servant, each one now under his complete control.
The elf closed the grimoire with a soft snap.
"All contracts sealed," she said. "Each of them is now tied to Your Highness alone. You may issue orders, recall them at will, or even enforce loyalty through the geas marks, should it ever come to that."
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Chapter 27: New Servants IV
"All contracts sealed," the elf woman said, her voice smooth and professional. "Each of them is now tied to Your Highness alone. You may issue orders, recall them at will, or even enforce loyalty through the geas marks, should the situation demand it."
Fenric flexed his fingers, watching the glowing contracts fade into his skin until only faint traces remained—like tattoos of ownership, visible only to him.
"Perfect," he muttered. f r\eeNovelBin.c(o)(m)
The elf bowed. "Would Your Highness prefer we deliver them to your estate, or will you escort them back personally?"
"Just escort them back," Fenric replied without hesitation.
She nodded, then paused, tilting her head slightly in thought. "Would Your Highness care to see the rest of our stock? You might find others suited to more specific roles... perhaps ones tailored for your future needs?"
Her voice carried a hopeful lilt, a subtle pitch from a merchant who knew she was standing before a high-value client.
Fenric gave her a brief sideways glance, then a single nod. "Lead the way."
"Of course," she said, turning with a practiced smile and gesturing for him to follow.
She led him down a separate corridor. The stone beneath their feet transitioned from polished marble to enchanted black basalt, absorbing sound with each step. Arcane lights flickered to life overhead as they descended deeper. Soon, they arrived at a reinforced door made of mana-hardened steelwood.
The elf woman placed her hand on a glowing glyph. With a soft hiss, the door opened to reveal a vast underground complex.
Fenric stepped inside—and the scale struck him at once.
The showroom was enormous. Slaves of various races were divided into distinct sections: one group undergoing martial drills with spears and swords; another being taught noble etiquette and estate maintenance; yet another rehearsing fine courtesan art—elegant movement, soft speaking, seductive poise.
Everything was categorized and arranged with military efficiency. It was less a slave house and more like a carefully managed personnel depot.
Fenric stood at the threshold, arms folded behind his back, silver eyes calmly scanning the operation in front of him.
"Please, Your Highness, take your time. You may find individuals tailored to your future strategies," the elf woman said courteously, then stepped aside to let him explore freely.
Fenric gave a silent nod and began moving forward at a measured pace.
Roman and Myria followed close behind—calm, disciplined, unreadable. The butler, however, trailed behind them with a pale face, sweat glistening under the enchanted lights.
As Fenric walked through the facility, he observed its sheer size with silent approval. This place could house over ten thousand people comfortably, and it was so well designed that no one even needed to share a bed or training space. Everything—from combat arenas to dormitory wings—was organized like a miniature fortress.
He passed through one section after another: combat pits where weapons clashed against shields; household wings where trainees practiced folding sheets with precision and reciting etiquette lines—all methodical and efficient.
Then he entered the courtesan wing.
The air shifted.
It was thicker here—sweetened with perfume and filled with ambient music. Warm lighting and velvet drapes softened the environment. Boys and girls were arranged in refined stances, walking, reclining, or posing. Their expressions were blank, but their eyes followed him—discreetly, calculatingly.
Fenric moved silently through the ranks—until he stopped mid-step.
She was standing among the new recruits. Younger than most. Ash-grey hair, loosely tied. Amber eyes.
Not the prettiest. Not the most graceful.
But it was her face that made him freeze. Though still immature and awkward, it bore an uncanny resemblance to a face he remembered all too well from the original novel.
"...It can't be," Fenric murmured under his breath.
The name hit him like a blade:
The Merciless Butcher.
The infamous villainess from the original story. A woman who would eventually become not just the Empire's, but the entire world's most feared assassin—loathed by nobles, dreaded by generals, and oddly respected by commoners for her unflinching execution of the corrupt.
She had never been a main character, yet her shadow loomed across the story's events. Time and again, she had stepped from the dark to tip the scales—at times even saving the protagonist's life, though her name was rarely spoken.
She wasn't just a killer; she was the killer. Cold, calculating, efficient. A legend born of blood. One of her most infamous feats was assassinating over ten thousand people within a single month—dismantling a minor kingdom from within. That was the moment she stepped into legend. NovelBin
Fenric racked his memory, trying to recall her origin. She was an orphan, caught stealing, and eventually sold to a slave merchant.
Then adopted—strangely enough—by a minor noble family on the Empire's western border, not as a plaything or maid, but as a nanny. They'd asked her to look after their young daughter, no more than five years old.
And for the first time in her life, she had known warmth, something close to family.
Until it was all stolen.
The family was wiped out in a brutal power grab by a corrupt noble house, eager for land.
And when that small girl died in her arms—her first taste of love, laughter, and safety—that's when it happened.
She didn't break into grief.
She was reborn in wrath:
cold, absolute, merciless wrath.
That day, the Merciless Butcher came into being.
Fenric's eyes narrowed as he studied the girl. She was trying to blend in with the others—shoulders stiff, posture too controlled. She wasn't failing for lack of trying. She was failing because everything about her screamed wrong environment.
She couldn't have been older than fifteen.
But she already had the eyes of a woman—sharp, haunted, and calculating.
"That girl," Fenric said quietly to the elf beside him, "the grey-haired one."
The elf blinked, then scanned her ledger. "Ah, yes. Sharp eyes, Your Highness. Shall I include her in your acquisition list?"
Fenric gave a slow nod.
The elf raised a curious brow but bowed low. "As you command."
Behind him, the butler's face paled even further—yet another silent reminder that his replacement was not just a possibility, but a countdown.
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Chapter 28: Merciless Butcher
Behind him, the butler's face paled even further—a silent, lingering reminder that his replacement was no longer just a possibility but a ticking countdown.
Roman and Myria exchanged a brief glance but said nothing, maintaining their unshakable discipline.
Fenric turned his gaze back toward the girl.
Just in time to see her eyes lift and meet his.
It lasted only a moment. No smile, no flinch, no fear—just calm calculation.
Fenric mentally noted her for specialized training. Her innate specialties were already known to him: she had a clear affinity for assassination techniques and a natural pull toward Darkness Aura arts. I'll need to find high-quality assassin aura techniques for her, he thought.
{Brat. Use Soul Projection. You'll see her real potential,} Duserdis's voice echoed in his mind, smooth and faintly amused.
'Duserdis?' Fenric responded mentally, mildly surprised. 'You're awake?'
'And what do you mean "use Soul Projection to scan her potential?"'
{Tch. You still haven't fully grasped the magic I gave you. Lazy princeling. Now shut up and use it. You're wasting time.}
Fenric rolled his eyes internally. "If you don't tell me how it works, how the hell would I know?" he shot back, even as he followed the ancient dragon's advice.
{Then stop whining and listen, hatchling,} Duserdis's voice slithered through his mind like smoke—equal parts exasperated and amused. {Soul Projection isn't just about ejecting your spirit and gawking at things. It's an imprint resonance. You extend a fragment of your soul—like a ripple through water—and observe how other souls respond. Their reactions tell you everything: elemental affinity, mental acuity, spiritual strength... even deeply buried trauma.}
Fenric raised a brow slightly as his awareness expanded. He allowed his spirit to brush gently across the nearby cluster of recruits. Threads of raw emotion, flashes of talent, and even fragments of buried memories sparked briefly in his mind like flickers of static.
"I thought this was just to see one's progress, not others'."
{It is—if you're basic. But in the hands of a real master, like me, it becomes a tool of destiny. You can assess anyone. You can even see what they themselves cannot: their latent potential, their ideal path, their limits... and their breaking points. Of course, you're still at the toddler stage, so don't expect prophecy.}
Fenric gave a quiet grunt, his mental tone dry. "Thanks for the motivational speech, oh wise ancient lizard."
{Flattery will get you nowhere. Now focus. Push your soul forward, gently. Think of it like fog crawling across stone—not a blade, not a hammer. You're not dominating; you're brushing. When your spirit touches another soul, pay attention to what returns: heat, chill, resistance, echo... every reaction tells a story.}
Fenric followed Duserdis's guidance, steadying his breath. He visualized his soul extending outward—a ghostly mist unfurling from his chest. It slipped silently into the air, like fog gliding across a midnight moor, brushing against the spiritual fabric of the compound.
But that was it.
No reaction, no feedback—just still, empty quiet.
'I don't sense anything,' Fenric muttered, a crease forming between his brows.
Duserdis's voice returned, unimpressed. {Tch... figures. You're about as subtle as a warhorn in a library. I'll help this time—but don't get used to it. Talent without mastery is wasted breath. Practice until you can do this blindfolded.}
Fenric was just about to make a sharp reply when something changed.
The air in front of him shifted, not due to his own projection, but someone else's.
A vision shimmered into view—pale and faint, like mist reflected on glass, but undeniably clear.
A profile floated before his eyes, formed by ethereal strands of energy:
[ Name: Aria ]
[ Age: 15 ]
[ Potential: Soul Magic | Death Magic | Dark Magic ]
{See? This is how you use Soul Projection—not just to view your own soul, but to perceive the structure of others as well.} Duserdis's ancient voice rumbled in Fenric's thoughts. The prince nodded slightly, though inwardly he muttered, "It's like an appraisal screen in a game." He had already known he could use Soul Projection to assess techniques, but this—this was a new layer.
'Alright then, tell me all the ways I can use Soul Projection,' he asked with a curious spark.
{No. Today was an exception. I'm not going to spoon-feed you. Learn, experiment, master it on your own.}
And just like that, the old dragon fell silent again.
Fenric clicked his tongue softly, then refocused. "Fine. Then help me find more talent," he muttered.
Though Duserdis didn't speak again, Fenric sensed his approval. With renewed calm, he began sweeping through the facility once more.
He returned to the courtesan wing first. Two more girls stood out—not just for beauty, but for raw potential. One harbored untapped skill in swordsmanship; the other possessed a dormant but powerful necromantic seed. Both were untrained but brimming with hidden capabilities.
From the household wing, he selected a red-haired girl. Her spiritual structure was surprisingly aligned with Dark Aura and assassination techniques—similar to Aria, though lacking that same devastating spark. Her strength leaned more toward spiritual concealment and shadow weaving.
And finally, the combat wing.
There, three individuals caught his attention. Two boys had exceptionally high aura cultivation potential—both demonstrating innate control over life force and martial energy. The third, a quiet youth, showed staggering magical aptitude. His elemental affinity was raw but profound, hinting at a future as a master-class caster.
Pity I didn't use Soul Projection when I picked the first twelve, Fenric thought, mildly annoyed. I could've curated a far more refined first batch.
Still somewhat caught in thought, Fenric brushed aside the stray fog at the edges of his mind. He stepped out of the slave trader's estate, his expression composed but unreadable.
Roman was waiting by the steps and gave a respectful nod.
"Where to now, Your Highness?" he asked.
Fenric glanced back briefly. He had already dismissed the butler—no longer wanting the man trailing behind him. The old servant's usefulness had run its course.
"Hmm... I'd like to explore the capital a bit," Fenric said casually.
Roman and Myria exchanged a look. Myria stayed silent, arms folded behind her back. Roman cleared his throat and spoke cautiously.
"I don't think that's a wise decision, Your Highness. You've just offended the Fourth Prince's entire faction. It won't be safe—especially if the Ragos family decides to retaliate."
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Chapter 29: Ambush
"I strongly advise against it, Your Highness," Roman said, his voice low and steady. "You've just insulted the Fourth Prince's faction in public. If the Ragos family takes offense, retaliation won't take long."
He paused to let the meaning settle.
"They're known for their assassins... and they rarely miss."
Fenric sighed and ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated.
"Tch... so we're just heading back now?"
Myria stayed quiet. Roman didn't argue.
They walked in silence back to the carriage that waited outside the estate gates. Fenric stepped inside first, followed by Myria and Roman. The carriage began to roll down the cobbled path, the city slowly passing by outside the windows.
A few minutes later, as they crossed into a quieter street, Myria's eyes narrowed. She shifted slightly in her seat, her hand already resting near her weapon.
"Something's wrong," she said calmly.
Fenric straightened. "What is it?"
"Killing intent," she replied. "Someone's approaching fast."
Roman glanced through the small rear window. "We're being followed."
Fenric was about to respond when movement flickered outside.
Figures appeared—black-clad and masked—slipping out from alleys and rooftops, closing in on the moving carriage from all directions. They weren't shouting or making a scene, just approaching with quiet, practiced steps.
"Assassins," Roman confirmed, drawing his sword. "Ragos style."
"Hmm, they are too untrained if even I can see them," Fenric muttered.
'I don't think, they are here to Assassinate me' Fenric thought, from the book he knows if the Merciless Butcher is numbe one in assassinations, Ragos family is number two.
The carriage came to a sudden stop as the driver likely noticed the threat. Myria opened the door and stepped out immediately, calm and alert.
Twelve enemies.
Six from the sides, four on the rooftops, two already close, pretending to be part of the crowd.
Fenric though just calmly looked, as he he is now sure of it.
These weren't here to kill him; they were here to scare him.
{Brat, are you just going to sit there while your guards do all the work?} Duserdis's voice echoed in Fenric's head, dry and sarcastic.
'What do you expect me to do?!' Fenric shot back. 'I'm barely at Soldier level—I'd be dead in a second out there!'
{At least you know your limits,} A low chuckle followed. {You've got the blood of three powerful people in you. Stop acting like a bystander. Train harder. In a year—or even six months—you'll be strong enough to kill these types on your own. Until then, stay alive.}
Fenric nodded as he added, 'I know that, thanks for stating the obvious!'
{Exactly. And when you're king, I'll accept a nice palace room as payment.}
Before Fenric could say anything else, one of the assassins moved.
No warning—just fast, clean motion—a curved blade aimed for Fenric's throat.
A silver flash.
The attacker collapsed instantly, head severed from his body. Myria had moved in the blink of an eye, her sword appearing in her hand as if by magic.
Roman was already gone from Fenric's side.
One of the assassins flew backward, his chest crushed from a powerful strike. Roman stepped out of the recoil, calm and ready for more.
Ten attackers left.
They paused, reconsidering.
That hesitation was fatal.
Myria moved again, striking with precision. Each motion targeted weak points—joints, vital organs, nerves. She moved fast, clean, and without hesitation.
Another tried to throw a smoke bomb.
Roman intercepted him mid-air with a kick that shattered his ribs. Without wasting a second, he turned to the next.
Three came at him.
He stepped forward.
All three were down in moments—broken necks, collapsed lungs, cracked spines.
Myria slashed through two others; one didn't even realize what had happened before falling.
Only one assassin remained.
A young woman, her eyes glowing faintly with red mana. She hesitated. Her dagger shook in her grip.
Neither Roman nor Myria moved.
She turned to run.
She didn't make it far.
A silver needle shot through her neck—fast, quiet, and precise.
She fell instantly.
Twelve attackers—not a single one escaped.
Fenric stayed inside the carriage, staring silently.
It was over.
Roman wiped blood from his gauntlet. "No hard feelings," he muttered.
Myria calmly sheathed her sword; she hadn't even been touched.
"They weren't top-tier," she said. "Their timing and positioning were off. Most likely sent as a test."
"Disposable," Roman agreed. "The ones behind this wanted to see how we'd respond."
"...This was a warning, actually," Fenric muttered.
Roman turned toward him. "A warning?"
"Yes," Fenric nodded. "The Ragos family knows that if they kill me outright, the other factions will come down on them. So they didn't send their best—they sent weaklings to make a point: to tell me, if I meddle in the wrong place again, like with Drake... I'll die."
Roman and Myria exchanged looks. Roman placed a hand firmly on Fenric's shoulder. "Don't worry. You have us. We'll always protect you."
Fenric gave a small nod, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
The slaves I brought... some of them can be trained into powerful Warriors, but that'll take time. I need immediate protection—something stronger, a backup plan.
He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, letting the rocking of the carriage calm his mind.
Meanwhile, Myria and Roman spoke telepathically.
"Isn't His Highness... a little too calm?" Myria asked.
"Yes," Roman responded. "Back in training, one of the new recruits fainted just seeing a severed head, but he just watched a dozen die—and didn't flinch."
Curious, Myria intentionally sent a severed assassin's head sliding toward Fenric's feet, just to test his reaction.
But when she looked over, Fenric was still as stone. His expression hadn't changed at all: calm, cold, detached, like the head meant nothing.
"He's not just any prince," she said, remembering his reaction at that time. "His mind is already sharper than most veterans."
But the truth wasn't entirely that simple.
Fenric had flinched—internally—when he saw the head.
The only reason his face remained composed... was because of a Trait tied to his class. It suppressed all negative emotions—fear, anxiety, and hesitation—keeping his mind clear and stable under pressure.
It wasn't that he wasn't afraid, but that fear couldn't reach him.
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Chapter 30: Return and Planing
The rest of the journey was uneventful. They reached the estate without any further trouble.
As soon as the carriage pulled into the manor grounds, Fenric stepped out.
He headed inside without a word.
The old maids and butlers—those who had served him for years—were already waiting at the entrance, their belongings packed. Silent. Heads bowed. A few of the older ones had tears in their eyes.
But Fenric didn't stop.
He didn't speak to them.
He simply walked past without a glance.
The message had already been sent.
Loyalty to the Third Prince was no longer optional—it was a requirement. And betrayal had consequences.
The last thing he saw from the corner of his eye was the older head maid giving a deep bow, her shoulders shaking. But he didn't turn back.
Not even once.
Instead, he shifted his gaze to the group now lined up at the side of the courtyard.
The slaves.
No longer in chains.
They stood upright—dressed in clean training clothes, with their hair trimmed and eyes clear. Silent, but steady. And when Fenric passed by, one of them stepped forward, lowered his head, and said calmly:
"Welcome home, Master."
Fenric gave a simple nod.
And with that, he walked inside the mansion—his mansion—while gesturing for the others to follow.
All nineteen entered behind him.
Twelve of them had been bought earlier, back at the slave-trading house. At the time, he had selected them randomly, under the recommendation from manager based on his choice. He hadn't evaluated their potential—only their price and general condition. It was a blind acquisition.
It wasn't until after the encounter with the so-called Merciless Butcher that Duserdis explained the utility of his Soul Projection ability. Through it, Fenric realized he could evaluate a person's hidden aptitudes—magic, aura compatibility, affinity paths, and more.
So, he returned and made another selection.
This time, he chose with purpose.
From across the different sections of the slave estate, he handpicked seven more: the Butcher herself, two from courtesans section, one from household section , and three from combat slaves section.
Seven in total.
These were the ones he now considered his investment.
As he stepped into the main hall, his silver-white hair catching the chandelier light, Fenric cast Soul Projection once more. The spectral mist rolled silently across the group of nineteen. One glance was all it took.
Twelve of them—his original buys—had no noteworthy talents. Some barely registered mana presence at all. As expected.
He faced them briefly.
"You'll be assigned to housework," he said plainly. "Kitchen, cleaning, inventory, logistics. No special treatment. You were bought for that purpose, and nothing's changed."
There was no resistance—only quiet nods.
Turning to the remaining seven, all between the ages of fifteen and sixteen, he paused.
They were untrained. Blank slates.
But with the right guidance, they could become far more than that.
"These seven will stay with me," he announced to the new Head Maid and head Butler. "No chores. No interruptions. Prepare quarters close to the training yard."
"Yes, Master," the Head Maid said immediately.
Fenric looked over the seven once more. Some showed signs of fear. Others curiosity. But none looked away.
"From now on," he said calmly, "I'll teach you techniques... give you structure... and if you endure—true power."
He let that sink in before adding:
"If any of you reach a designated threshold... you'll earn the right to buy back your freedom."
The room went silent.
Some eyes widened. One clenched their fists.
Fenric didn't smile. He simply turned and began walking toward the eastern wing of the mansion—where the training courtyard and old war hall lay unused.
The seven followed closely behind.
There was a new energy in their steps—silent, but eager—as they moved through the corridors behind Fenric. He walked calmly, hands behind his back, his eyes forward.
Without turning, he asked, "By the way... what crimes did you all commit?"
The question hit like a ripple through the group. They exchanged glances before answering one by one, hesitantly at first.
"We stole," one admitted quietly.
"Caught taking food," said another.
"Pickpocketing."
"Bread from a merchant's stall..."
"From a noble kitchen..."
"All of us... just tried to eat."
Fenric didn't respond immediately.
He kept walking.
But in his mind, the answer was clear—and simple, about thier parents.
They were all orphans. And all once free adventurers Children.
In the Vareldis Empire, or whole world, except few ones, being a free adventurer sounded like a badge of pride. You weren't tied to any noble house. You didn't pay tax. You could move between borders and claim your own fortune, unaffiliated with kingdoms or empires.
But that same freedom came with its own cruel curse.
When a free adventurer died, their children had no claim to title or inheritance. No clan. No protection. No guaranteed future.
And the Empire? It bore no obligation to help them.
That was the cost of "freedom" in the wilds.
So when these kids stole—just to survive—they weren't judged in court. They were sold like tools.
Fenric glanced back at them now. None of them looked guilty. Just worn.
"Why did you steal?" Fenric asked, his voice level as he walked ahead of them through the polished stone corridor. "You could have offered to help at an inn or a tavern for coin."
The group paused behind him, shuffling slightly, unsure how to respond. A few lowered their heads in shame.
But then, the ashen-haired girl—silent until now—answered coldly.
"Hmph. We were framed, actually."
Her voice was flat, like a blade dulled from use yet still capable of cutting. Fenric glanced at her, then looked to the others as they hung their heads in quiet agreement.
"I see," he murmured, tone unreadable.
He stopped before the large arched doors leading to the inner courtyard and turned slightly to face them. "Was it the slave trading house I bought you all from?"
The seven exchanged glances before slowly shaking their heads.
"They were kind to us," one of the younger boys admitted. "Better than most."
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Chapter 31: Training partners
Aria, the ashen-haired girl, spoke first. "They were kind to us."
She paused and looked down. "I don't know about the others, but in my village... I used to help at the healer's hut. Cleaning up, running errands. Then one day, a noble accused me of stealing. I didn't even understand what I'd done wrong. After that... I was sold. Eventually, I ended up at the place you bought us from."
The others shared their own versions of the same experience.
All of them had once tried to live quiet lives—doing small jobs, staying out of trouble. But everything changed with one lie from a noble or a merchant's accusation.
Fenric listened without a change in expression.
"I'm not like those nobles," he said finally, his voice steady and calm. "This world has good and evil... but there's something even greater than both."
Aria tilted her head slightly. "What's greater than that?"
Fenric's eyes sharpened. "The side with the bigger fist."
He gestured behind him toward the large training courtyard. Runes glowed faintly on the stone floor, and at the center, a massive war golem stood silently like a sleeping guardian.
"I'm giving all of you the chance to become that fist."
He walked forward, pushing open the heavy courtyard doors. Threads of magic stirred in the air around him.
"Until now, I was poisoned—broken, stuck in bed, drowning in silence. But I've started to heal. And as I rise, so will the ones who choose to stand beside me."
He turned back to them. His silver-white hair shimmered under the torchlight. His expression was sharp—cold and clear like moonlight on steel.
"From this point on, you're not just tools. You're my allies."
Silence followed.
The seven of them stood still. They had no training, no confidence.
Fenric stood in the courtyard's shadow. He reached down and picked up a worn training sword. It was old and dull but well-balanced. He gave it a casual swing, and the air whistled with its weight.
"I'll help each of you earn your blessings," he said. "I'll pay for them. I'll even help you find your path."
He stopped swinging the sword and pointed it straight at them.
"In return... promise to become my loyal weapons."
Silence again.
Aria frowned and crossed her arms. "We're already your slaves," she said quietly.
Fenric didn't react. He lowered the sword and shook his head. "I told you—you can earn your freedom. I don't want to own anyone. I want to build something more."
She narrowed her eyes. "Then why ask us to swear loyalty if we're just going to leave one day?"
Fenric gave her a small smile—not mean, not warm. Just real.
"If all you want is to work for a few years and leave, that's fine. You can do that. The door's open. I'll still keep my promises—food, shelter, training. You won't be forced to do anything. The only chains are the ones you choose."
He dropped the sword to the ground. It hit the stone with a sharp, ringing sound.
"But if you want more—if you want power, respect, the kind of strength that nobles bow to—then swear now. Not as slaves. But as warriors who'll rise with me."
The ground seemed to pulse. Or maybe it was just the tension in the air.
One of them stepped forward.
"I'll be your blade," He said, bowing.
One by one, the others followed, lowering their heads—not out of fear, but from their own decision.
Only Aria stayed still, her face unreadable.
Fenric didn't push. He looked at her and spoke softly, "Can you give me some time?"
She hesitated.
"...Fine," Fenric said flatly.
"But that means I won't train you. I won't invest in you. You can go back to working as a maid."
He turned slightly, his voice clipped and cold. "And after working long enough to earn your freedom—maybe ten or twelve years if we follow Royal maid pay—you can leave."
Aria stared at him, frowning. Was he serious?
She searched his face. Still. Unreadable.
There was nothing for her to argue with.
"...Understood," she muttered. Then she turned and walked away.
Fenric didn't said anything as she left, but inside, he sighed.
He did feel a bit sorry for her—Aria had the most potential of anyone here. In twenty years, she could've become one of the strongest assassins alive.
But he wouldn't train someone who might betray him later.
He could force her—but that would only make her hate him. Better to let her walk away freely than tie her down with chains.
Her file said she'd never belonged to any noble house. Her parents had been adventurers, both executed during a noble's escort mission. A splash of monster blood hit the noble's cloak. He called it an insult and had them killed on the spot.
Aria had watched it happen.
Then later, another noble framed her and sold her into slavery.
No wonder she hated nobles. No wonder she flinched at the word "loyalty."
Fenric quietly let out a breath and turned to the six who remained—his new warriors.
Now came the time to truly understand them.
His golden eyes glowed faintly as he used Soul Projection to examine their talents more deeply.
Selene (from the Courtesan Wing)
Combat Skill: Swordsmanship
Affinity: Wind and Lightning
Energy Type: Aura
Lyra (Courtesan Wing)
Combat Skill: Magic Staff
Affinity: Death and Shadow
Energy Type: Mana
Calia (Household Wing)
Combat Skill: Daggers / Shortblades
Affinity: Darkness and Void
Energy Type:
Spirit
Darin (Combat Wing)
Combat Skill: Greatsword / Heavy Blade
Affinity: Earth and Flame
Energy Type: Aura
Rek (Combat Wing)
Combat Skill: Spear / Halberd
Affinity: Life and Metal
Energy Type: Aura
Eiden (Combat Wing)
Combat Skill: Magic Staff / Arcane Bow (Hybrid)
Affinity: Water and Ice
Energy Type: Mana
"So I've got three who lean toward Aura Mastery, two pure mages, and one Spirit-born," Fenric murmured, eyes scanning the group.
He could already see their paths unfolding like pieces on a strategy board.
He nodded to himself.
"Roman."
Before he even finished the name, a gust of wind blew through the hall. A second later, Roman appeared, kneeling with one knee on the stone floor.
Fenric looked him in the eye, calm as ever.
"Bring the Blessing Crystal."
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC32: Class Awakening
Chapter 32: Class Awakening
{A/N : Class rankings are from weakest to strongest
Common - Uncommon - Rare - Epic - Unique - Legend - Mythic }
**
"Bring the Blessing Crystal."
Roman bowed once, deep and unquestioning, then vanished—his aura flickering like a broken mirror in the air.
Fenric turned back to the six.
The Blessing Crystal—an artifact of structured divinity. Not a miracle by any stretch, but the standard across the world for class awakening.
Unlike the rare and thunderous blessings granted directly by Supremes, this relic channeled only a fragment of such divinity.
A facsimile.
And yet, it was enough.
Enough for nearly 99% of the world's population to carve out their path.
Even before Supremes discovered they could bestow blessings, the Blessing Crystal was the standard method. It was only after some Supremes started experimenting that people realized their blessings were usually far stronger than those granted by a standard crystal. These blessings were mostly passed down through specific families or lineages.
The Vareldis royal family, for example, has its own specialized Blessing Crystal—passed down from the Supreme who founded the empire. It allows them to awaken a class unique to their bloodline.
Almost all princes and princesses in the Vareldis Empire have awakened their class through it.
All except Fenric.
He was blessed directly by a living Supreme—Duserdis, the Ancient Supreme of the Dragon Race.
Inside Fenric's mind, a voice stirred.
{Why didn't you ask me to awaken them instead? You could have ended up with a stronger, more elite unit of users.}
Duserdis sounded mildly annoyed.
Fenric gave a half-smile, bored.
'Would you have actually blessed them?'
{No,} Duserdis replied bluntly. {Those who receive my blessing need to meet a certain standard. And while all six are promising, none are strong enough for me to bless personally.}
{Although... that girl, Aria—the one who left—she does meet the standard. She could've received the blessing of the Fairy King Supreme.}
Fenric raised an eyebrow.
'She's that good?'
He was surprised, but also not. Deep down, he already knew. After all, Aria was destined to become the God of Assassins, a Supreme-tier powerhouse in the future.
Still, it was a little shocking to hear that even Duserdis considered her worthy of a Supreme's blessing.
{She's that capable, yes. But not like you.} Duserdis continued.
{Back when you were poisoned, I didn't notice. But now that your body is healed... you're three times more refined than her. And that's without even counting the blessing and bloodline I've already given you.}
Fenric simply nodded.
Then, he asked, 'You said 'Fairy King Supreme' as if she's not even worthy of your blessing. Is that what you meant?'
Duserdis didn't deny it.
{Yes. That's correct. To receive my blessing, one must have a powerful soul—one capable of bearing the will of a living Supreme.}
{The Fairy King's blessing, on the other hand, is from a dead Supreme. He died during the Great Demon War, and his remaining blessing was absorbed by me. It's still potent—but since it's not tied to a living will, it doesn't require the same level of spiritual strength. Just being a top-tier genius is enough to qualify for that.}
Fenric nodded once again, ending the mental exchange.
Just then, Roman returned—kneeling, as always, with formality sharp as steel. In his hands was a small, Prismatic Crystal, about the size of an adult's fist. Despite its modest appearance, it radiated a sacred aura that made the nearby servants lower their eyes instinctively.
"Awaken them," Fenric ordered.
Roman bowed wordlessly and approached the six chosen individuals.
One by one, he pressed the crystal lightly to their heads—right between the eyebrows—where it would briefly test their affinities and read their soul imprint. The process was simple, but sacred. The prismatic light of the crystal shimmered with each contact, faintly reflecting each individual's energy resonance.
On each forehead, a faint symbol began to form—glowing softly in a hue that matched their dominant affinity.
This was the ancient ritual of class awakening—a moment that would determine their future, their power, and the path they would walk.
Roman stepped back, gently lowering the glowing prismatic crystal. "Your Highness," he said with a respectful bow, "the resonance has begun. I'll return the Blessing Crystal to its vault."
Fenric gave a slight nod, and Roman exited the chamber, carrying the crystal with reverent care.
The silence that followed was brief—interrupted by the soft arrival of Myria, stepping in from the corridor.
She paused beside Fenric, eyes narrowing as she watched the six aspirants bathed in sacred light.
"...From the intensity of the glow," she murmured, "I can already tell. All of them are remarkable. Their bodies are syncing unusually fast. High compatibility, rare affinity reactions... this isn't normal."
She turned to him, gaze steady.
"You saw this from the beginning, didn't you? You can see talent—real talent."
Fenric said nothing for a moment, then gave a short nod.
Myria's expression shifted—understanding dawning, and a hint of awe in her voice.
"Then... may I ask... should I swear an oath?"
"You must," Fenric replied. "From this moment on, you will never speak a word about what you've seen, nor about their potential, without my express permission. Betray that command, and the Will of the Supreme will shatter your soul."
Without hesitation, Myria placed a hand over her heart and knelt. "I swear upon my soul," she said firmly. "By the Will of the Supreme, I bind my voice and loyalty to your command."
The oath sealed in silence—an unseen force whispering through the air like a silent contract signed in fate.
Moments later, Roman returned, having secured the crystal.
He paused upon seeing Myria kneeling, sensing the residual power of a vow just taken.
Fenric turned toward him. "You too, Roman. Swear the same oath. No word about me. No word about the six undergoing awakening. Not to anyone."
Roman immediately knelt, fist over chest. "By the Will of the Supreme, I swear. I will protect all knowledge entrusted to me."
With that, both attendants stood—now bound by silence and as for loyaly they have already taken that oath to never harm a member of Royal family when they become the Royal Knights.
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EXTRA SURVIVAL GUIDE TO OVERPOWERING HERO AND VILLAINC33: Class Awakening II
Chapter 33: Class Awakening II
As the ritual drew to a quiet close, the glow of the Blessing Crystal finally faded, vanishing like morning mist after a storm. The chamber dimmed, settling back into its natural state.
One by one, the six stirred, their eyes slowly opening.
They looked... different.
Their bodies had matured slightly. A subtle power now buzzed beneath their skin. Their posture shifted unconsciously—stronger, more grounded. And most of all, their eyes now carried clarity.
They had Awakened.
Each of them now stood at the Soldier Rank—the first and most important step for all newly Awakened in the Empire. Their aura signatures, though still raw and untrained, were unmistakably real.
Fenric stepped forward, his voice calm yet commanding.
"You've awakened. That much is clear. Now—tell me. What class did you receive?"
Selene stepped up first. A faint breeze still fluttered the hem of her robes.
"Wind Duelist, Your Highness."
Fenric gave a small nod. "Fitting."
Lyra came next. Her eyes were a little darker than before, her voice soft but sure.
"Grave Whisperer."
There was a pause.
Fenric looked at her with quiet interest. "You'll need guidance. The darker paths can consume the unprepared."
Then he added, "But if you can keep your mind intact, you may go further than most. Grave Whisperer is an Epic Class."
Calia stepped forward third. She didn't say much—just tilted her head slightly, testing her senses.
"Shadow Queen," she said plainly.
"A Rare Class," Fenric confirmed. "Good. Work hard, and you may command real power one day."
She gave him a subtle smile and bowed.
Darin thumped a fist proudly against his chest. A coil of flame danced briefly around his forearm.
"Pyro Warrior."
"Another Rare Class. Excellent," Fenric said with a nod.
Rek stepped up next, rolling his shoulders with a grin. One of his eyes gave off a faint green glow.
"Vital Alloy Monk."
Fenric raised an eyebrow but kept his expression composed. "A body that endures nearly anything—if trained properly. A strong choice."
Finally, Eiden exhaled. A faint mist escaped his lips before fading into the air.
"Ice Soul Mage," he said, standing with the stillness of frozen winter.
Fenric turned away from them, walking toward a corridor leading deeper into the estate.
"All of you," he said over his shoulder, "have taken your first step toward greatness."
He led them down a hall into another chamber, where Roman stood beside a stone platform. A glowing circle had been prepared on the floor, etched in old runes—meant for oaths and ancient vows.
"Roman," Fenric ordered, "guide them through the Oath of Knighthood."
Roman bowed and stepped forward, his expression solemn.
"This is your last chance," Fenric said as he turned back to them. "You can still walk away. But if you take this oath—your lives are no longer your own."
His voice was low, but steady. "Your loyalty becomes mine. Your blades, mine. Your fate—bound to the will of House Vaelthorn Vareldis."
Not a single one stepped back.
One after another, they dropped to a knee, hands placed over their hearts.
Roman began the vow, and they repeated each line:
"By blade and breath, by blood and soul—
I pledge myself to the will of Fenric Vaelthorn Vareldis.
My life is his to command,
My strength, his to wield,
My oath, bound not by fear, but by loyalty.
Let my soul shatter if I break this vow,
For I now walk the path of the Knight."
As the final words echoed through the chamber, a soft wave of energy swept through the room.
The Oath had taken hold.
A golden crest pulsed faintly above each of their hearts before vanishing—proof the vow was sealed.
From that moment on, loyalty was no longer a matter of choice.
It was an unbreakable fact.
Clap.
Fenric clapped once, signaling the ceremony's end.
"Good," he said as he rose. "Now that the oath is sealed, we move to the next phase."
He looked to Roman.
"Draw the summoning circle again. The Spirit Summoning one."
Roman gave a short nod, and Myria, already anticipating the command, moved to assist. The circle had only been used once before, but they had prepared it for tonight's second use.
It took ten minutes.
Ten minutes of focused silence, as glowing runes re-formed across the stone floor, drawing lines of silver and white light in sacred patterns.
When it was ready, Fenric turned.
"Roman," he said, "bring out the monster core. A dark-type. Superhuman level or above."
Roman gave a silent nod and turned to leave. Fenric motioned for Myria to accompany him.
The two knights left together without delay.
Fenric, now seated near the edge of the chamber, regarded the remaining six with his usual calm.
"Before we go further," he said, "I need clarity."
His gaze swept over them.
"You've all awakened. You've gained your classes. But what path will you walk from here?"
He pointed toward Selene, Darin, and Rek.
"You three—Aura wielders, correct?"
They nodded together.
"All of us have shown Aura signs," Selene confirmed.
He turned next to Lyra and Eiden. "And you two are Mages?"
They nodded as well—Eiden immediately, Lyra a touch slower.
"And you," he said, turning to Calia, "yours is a Spirit-based class, isn't it?"
Calia stiffened. She hadn't said anything about that. Not out loud.
"How... how do you know?" she asked.
Fenric didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
He tapped the armrest once, then said, "For you, Calia, this is crucial. Without a Spirit contract, your class won't evolve. You'll remain stagnant."
Calia nodded slowly. She already suspected it. Her class—Shadow Queen—required a Spirit Bond to grow. Without it, she'd be stuck at the base level, unable to advance.
Just then, Roman and Myria returned.
Roman carried a sealed obsidian sphere about the size of a child's head. Inside swirled a volatile blend of dark violet, deep black, and streaks of emerald energy—alive with eerie motion.
Roman knelt and presented it.
"The core, Your Highness," he said. "From an Abyss Poison Serpent, slain near the outer marsh."
Fenric stood and approached, peering down at it with interest.
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