Aster focused and pulled the object out. It materialized in his hand, and his brief moment of satisfaction evaporated.
It was the sword. The same weapon he'd used to kill his father.
The blade was even more magnificent than he remembered—longer than a normal sword, perfectly balanced, the metal seeming to absorb light rather than reflect it. The edge was impossibly sharp, and dark energy pulsed along its length in subtle waves.
"So this is a starter weapon," Aster said quietly, examining it with mixed feelings. "Something that came with... whatever I've become."
He gave it a few experimental swings. Despite its size, it moved effortlessly in his hands, as if it weighed nothing at all. The blade cut through the air with barely a whisper of sound.
It was more than just sharp—it was *magical*. He could feel the power flowing through it, responding to his own energy. This weapon could cut through more than just flesh and bone. It could sever magical barriers, could harm spiritual entities, could perhaps even damage the Eyes themselves.
"I could use this better than my current staff," Aster admitted, looking at the simple wooden staff he'd taken from Silas's collection. The staff was functional, but it was meant for defensive magic—protective barriers and purification spells.
This sword was made for offense. For destruction.
For killing.
Aster pushed down the wave of guilt and nausea that thought triggered. He couldn't afford to fall apart now. He needed every advantage he could get, and this weapon—however it had come to him, whatever it represented—was undeniably powerful.
He retrieved his staff from where it leaned against the wall and fed it into the endless pocket, storing it away. Then he returned his attention to the sword.
"I'll call it the Blood Sword," Aster decided. "Because I thought it came from the magic inside me. From my blood."
The name felt appropriate, if grim. This blade had been forged from his own corrupted essence, a physical manifestation of the darkness he now carried.
But carrying a sword openly would attract attention. He needed a way to transport it without being obvious.
Aster reached back into the endless pocket, searching for anything else that might be stored there. His fingers touched something—fabric, it felt like—and he pulled it out.
It was a sword belt and sheath, both made from black leather that seemed to drink in the light. Like the sword itself, they appeared to be part of his "starter equipment"—objects that had manifested along with his new abilities.
The sheath was perfectly sized for the Blood Sword, and the belt adjusted to fit his waist automatically when he buckled it on. He slid the sword into the sheath and adjusted it so it hung at his back, the hilt positioned where he could draw it quickly if needed.
"This looks perfect," Aster said, glancing at his reflection in a grimy mirror that still hung on one wall.
The image that looked back at him was both familiar and alien. His body was the same, but the stance was different—more predatory, more dangerous. The sword on his back completed the transformation from noble scholar to something else entirely.
Something that could kill.
Aster turned away from the mirror, unable to look at himself any longer.
"I can't live with mud on my face forever," he said, touching the dried earth that still caked his features. "I need to find an alternative that won't look weird. It's getting itchy, and it'll fall off eventually anyway."
A disguise was essential, but it needed to be something more permanent than mud. Something that would hide his identity but not draw excessive attention by being obviously a mask.
"Maybe I could forge something," Aster said, an idea beginning to form.
He looked around the abandoned house and spotted what he needed—in one corner, partially buried under debris, were several pieces of scrap metal. Old iron, probably from furniture fittings or structural reinforcements. Not high-quality material, but it would serve.
Aster dragged the largest piece—a flat section of iron about the size of a helmet—into the center of the room. He cleared away the dust and debris around it, giving himself space to work.
Then he raised his hands over the metal, letting his magic flow. But this wasn't the light, clean magic he'd learned at the academy. This was something darker, more primal. The demonic power responded to his will, channeling through his palms and into the iron.
The metal began to glow—not with heat, but with shadow. Dark energy flowed across its surface like oil on water, reshaping the material according to Aster's mental image.
"A helmet," he whispered, focusing his intention. "Something that covers my face but leaves my eyes visible. Something that looks functional, not suspicious."
The iron rippled and twisted, fighting against its own solidity. Slowly, it began to take shape—flowing upward and inward, forming a dome that would fit over his head. The sides extended down to cover his cheeks and jaw. The front pulled together, leaving only a horizontal slit for his eyes.
It was crude work—Aster had never trained in metallurgy or smithing—but the demonic magic compensated for his lack of skill, brute-forcing the material into the shape he desired.
After several minutes of concentration, the glow faded. The metal cooled and solidified in its new form.
Aster examined his creation. The helmet was simple but functional—a close-fitting design that would completely obscure his face while still allowing him to see and breathe. The metal was rough and unpolished, but that actually helped. It looked like something a poor soldier or mercenary might wear. Practical rather than decorative.
Before putting it on, Aster realized he needed to clean his face. The mud had served its purpose, but now it was just uncomfortable.
He found a small puddle of rainwater that had collected in a crack in the floor—cleaner than the corrupted rain of the valley, this was normal water from the capital's weather. Using his sleeve, he carefully washed away the dried mud, wincing as some of it pulled at his skin where the mild acid had caused irritation.
Once his face was clean, Aster picked up the helmet and positioned it over his head.
The moment the metal touched his skin, something unexpected happened.
The helmet shifted. The crude iron transformed, flowing like liquid for just a second. When it solidified again, it was no longer simple iron—it had become something else. Dark metal that seemed to absorb light. The surface was smooth and almost organic-looking, as if it had grown rather than been forged.
It matched his Blood Sword perfectly—the same dark, light-absorbing quality. The same subtle pulse of magical energy.
Aster touched the helmet experimentally. It felt comfortable, not heavy or restricting as he'd feared. And when he looked through the eye slit, his vision was perfectly clear—perhaps even enhanced slightly, as if the helmet was magically augmenting his sight.
"Maybe now I can apply to be a guard in the White Dragon Kingdom," Aster said, the plan forming more completely in his mind. "That would give me time to build trust, even if people eventually find out who I am. If I can prove myself useful, prove that I'm not the monster everyone thinks I am..."
It was a long shot. A desperate plan. But it was something.
"And being a guard would give me access to information that's kept secret from civilians," Aster continued, warming to the idea. "Security briefings. Intelligence reports. Maybe even access to royal archives where I could research the curse, the Eyes, what my father really was."
He adjusted the sword on his back and the helmet on his head, checking his appearance one final time in the grimy mirror.
The figure that looked back at him was unrecognizable. Dark armor, dark helmet, dark sword. He looked like a knight from some nightmare kingdom—dangerous, mysterious, potentially threatening.
But also potentially useful. Potentially hire-able.
If he played this carefully, if he controlled his demonic impulses and presented himself as just another skilled warrior looking for work, he might be able to infiltrate the very system that was now hunting him.
Aster took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his new identity settling onto his shoulders.
The noble scholar Aster Thornwood was dead—executed in the court of public opinion, branded as the Cursed King's reincarnation.
But this new person—this mysterious warrior with no name and no past—could still fight for the kingdom. Could still try to prevent whatever catastrophe his father had been working toward.
Could still, perhaps, find redemption.
"Tomorrow," Aster said to himself. "Tomorrow I'll approach the guard recruitment office. Tonight, I rest. I recover. I prepare."
He moved to a corner of the abandoned house that was relatively clean and settled down, his back against the wall, his hand resting on the hilt of the Blood Sword.
Outside, the city continued its panic. News of his crimes spread further. Lily wept in the Thornwood mansion, surrounded by confused and frightened servants. Silas stood in his study, staring at a viewing crystal and wondering what had truly happened in that valley.
And somewhere in the darkness, the Eyes watched.
Always watching.
Always waiting.