The Imperial admission letter, sealed with the ominous double-headed eagle of the Habsburgs, felt less like an honor and more like an immediate exile order. Daemon was officially safe from the immediate, localized jurisdiction of the Berlin nobility, but the urgency of his removal confirmed he was now property of a much higher, more demanding power. He fully understood the implication: the Empire valued his utility, but it also wanted him contained, studied, and potentially neutralized if he proved too unruly. He spent the next forty-eight hours ignoring the mountainous pile of transfer paperwork, focusing instead on the practicalities of his new life: finalizing his lab setup, securing his wealth, and preparing for immediate departure under the Imperial escort.
Financially, he was extraordinarily well-positioned for an orphan: he had thirty thousand credits in liquid funds. Logistically, he was even better. His newly cast Mythril-Tungsten ingots, a precious commodity now worth a fortune due to their unique composition, were carefully secured within a reinforced, magically sealed strongbox ready for transport to the Imperial Academy. These ingots represented the future of his research and the promise of further technological dominance; they were non-negotiable cargo. His portable scientific equipment—the glass beakers and distillation apparatus meticulously reverse-engineered from his past life's memory—were cushioned and packed with surgical precision.
Most critical of all were his weapons. His two Mythril-Tungsten Chokuto blades—the tangible, reforged spoils of his victory over Adolf von Steiner, and the true symbol of his dominance over the Steiner name—were sheathed in their dark, resinous scabbards, strapped securely across his back beneath his coat. Their obsidian-grey surfaces seemed to drink the light, radiating a cold, inherent superiority. He traced the unique Damascus pattern on the hilt, a swirling testament to the fusion of mythical metal and earthly strength.
He had just finished packing the last of his advanced alchemical compounds when the alarm sounded. It wasn't a conventional siren or a magical blast, but a subtle distortion in the ambient Aether flow near the ground floor, detected by a simple runic sensor he had calibrated precisely for unauthorized human magical signatures. Count Lancaster had kept his promise of swift, discreet action. The Count's desperation to restore his family's lost face dictated immediate, violent retaliation, seeking to eliminate Daemon before he fell under the Kaiser's unbreakable protection.
Daemon didn't hesitate. He knew the windows of opportunity for these small, localized attacks were closing fast; once he was on Imperial soil, they would cease. He moved immediately, his augmented speed allowing him to transition from still research to combat readiness in a fluid instant. He entered the living room, drawing both Chokuto blades in a silent, seamless motion that spoke volumes of his internalized combat choreography.
There were three figures: professional, non-affiliated outsiders—mercenaries or assassins hired by Lancaster for their guaranteed discretion and proven lethality. They wore dark, oil-treated leather armor designed to dampen Aetheric signature and carried specialized, non-magical, high-tensile steel weapons, wisely avoiding the unpredictable nature of magic. They had bypassed the main gates using high-grade cloaking runes and entered the residence assuming the commoner would be asleep or easily overwhelmed by coordinated physical attack.
The leader, a massive man armed with a spiked, heavy mace designed to crush bone and break magical concentrations, hissed, realizing they had been detected. He gave a sharp, minimal hand gesture. The three immediately launched the attack, rushing Daemon in a disciplined, tight pincer formation intended to corner him and crush him before he could complete a complex magical incantation. They were using anti-mage tactics, banking on his tournament spectacle relying on complex elemental manipulation.
Daemon met the incoming assault not with magic—a resource he deliberately conserved for the long game—but with the full, devastating force of his augmented speed and swordsmanship. He relied entirely on the physical superiority of his new blades and his mastery of the Kyoto-style dual-wielding technique, a form that emphasized absolute precision, speed, and cutting efficiency. He kept his core energy tight, not even activating the thermal runes on the blades, wanting to test the pure, non-magical cutting power of the mythril-tungsten alloy against high-grade, mercenary-issue steel.
The first assassin, a nimble rogue with two short, razor-sharp swords designed for close-quarters combat, targeted Daemon's legs and arms simultaneously. Daemon spun on his heel, his movement a devastating blur of controlled power, calculating the precise angle of intersection. The obsidian-grey Mythril-Tungsten blade in his left hand moved in a silent, horizontal arc, perfectly intersecting the rogue's twin weapons. The blade sliced cleanly through both of the rogue's hardened short swords as if they were made of soft clay, the momentum carrying the Chokuto directly through the rogue's torso. The man fell without a sound, shocked that his weapon had offered less resistance than a simple block of wood. The rogue's death was immediate and silent, a terrifying testament to the alloy's structural perfection.
The second assassin, who specialized in nets and spiked chains designed to restrain high-affinity mages, threw a heavy, weighted chain at Daemon's head. The projectile was fast, but Daemon's physical multiplier made it seem slow. He ducked under the chain with minimal movement and, using the momentum of his dodge, drove the Chokuto in his right hand—unactivated, cool to the touch—forward. The mythril-tungsten alloy proved too structurally dense and sharp for even the reinforced, mail-like chain armor the assassin wore. The blade pierced the man's chest cavity instantly and silently, entering and exiting before the assassin could gasp or initiate a counter-move. The sheer speed and lack of magical interference meant the man was dead before his body knew it.
The leader, realizing the sheer, cold, and unnatural lethality of Daemon's blades and inhuman speed, immediately abandoned the mace and drew a large, runic dagger, desperately attempting to channel a quick burst of disabling magic. This slight hesitation and reliance on magic was the opening Daemon needed. He shifted his weight, closing the distance in a single, blurring step that covered the ten feet between them in a fraction of a second. He delivered a crushing cross-strike with both Chokuto, parrying the runic dagger with one blade while driving the second blade deep into the leader's throat.
Daemon ensured all three men were dead. No magic, no fire, no electrical arcs—just pure, overwhelming physical superiority and flawless swordsmanship facilitated by the genius of his alloy. He needed no witnesses to his true capabilities; the spectacle of the tournament was enough, but specific details about his new weapons could not leave this residence. The assassins were silenced forever, their deaths a tactical imperative to protect his secrets and send a clear, non-verbal message back to Lancaster.
The entire confrontation lasted less than ten seconds. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the drip of blood onto the ruined parlor floor. Daemon felt no remorse; only clinical satisfaction that his swordsmanship and material science had proven so utterly superior to the weapons and defenses of the current world. He quickly retrieved the dagger from the leader and wiped the magnificent grey blades clean on the assassin's cloak before sheathing them. The Mythril-Tungsten alloy was truly revolutionary. He didn't bother to hide the bodies; they were part of the message.
He took a final inventory: the strongbox was secure, the Chokuto blades were sheathed, and his luggage was ready. As he finished, he noticed a faint residual pulse of Aether near the exterior of the house—too subtle to be an attack, too sustained to be natural. Surveillance, he deduced instantly. This was the work of Duke Steiner's agents, documenting his every move as his enemy began the long game of character assassination. Unlike the blunt force of Lancaster, Steiner was collecting data to find a legal or political lever.
Outside the residence, concealed within a specialized cloaked runic array, two of Duke Steiner's most trusted intelligence officers watched through magically enhanced lenses. They had seen the initial surge of the three assassins. Then, moments later, they saw Daemon step out of the living room—unscathed, composed, and utterly devoid of magical strain—to finish packing. The agents exchanged horrified glances. They had heard muffled metallic shings and heavy thuds, but there had been zero magical residue, zero fire, and zero water emanating from the building. To them, it appeared as though a common student, utilizing only two swords, had killed three trained, armored combatants instantly without using any magic whatsoever. He is far more dangerous than the Dean reported, one agent transmitted silently to the other. His physical output is inhuman. The weapons... they are a terrifying anomaly. He has left no evidence of elemental magic, only evidence of murder. The Duke must be warned: his enemy is not a mage, but a ghost. They quickly added this terrifying assessment—that Daemon possessed the ability to dispatch professional threats with physical, untraceable force—to the Duke's growing dossier.
Daemon paused at the threshold. He allowed the pulse of the surveillance rune to wash over him, knowing that his complete lack of panic and the absence of any magical residue in the house would only deepen their confusion and fear. He had won his resources, silenced his immediate enemies, and established his new, lethal persona. He stepped out of the newly purchased, blood-soaked residence, pulling his coat tight and swinging his duffel bag—containing thirty thousand credits, his lab equipment, and his mythril ingots—into the waiting, Imperial Academy carriage. The carriage, marked with the Kaiser's seal, was his protective bubble. The journey would be long, through the German Empire and into Austria, but the transfer was complete. He was no longer the meek orphan of Berlin. He was a weapon, and he was heading for the heart of the German Empire, where true power—and true danger—resided, ready to play a new game.