The first ray of morning sunlight streamed through the window, gilding the soft bedspread—yet Blake was already awake.
He sat up and gazed out at the scenery beyond: rolling mountains ringed the horizon, and beneath the sun, the emerald forest blazed with vibrant life. Clear, melodious birdcalls drifted on the breeze like a beautiful symphony. Blake drank in the sight, a genuine smile tugging at his lips. It had been far too long since he'd beheld such natural beauty. In his sealed soul realm, there had been opulent decorations and warm beds, but no trace of nature's splendor, no touch of sunlight's warmth. They say you never know what you have until it's gone—but for Blake, there was still plenty of time to savor the world anew.
The wandering spirits had vanished into the shadows at dawn, retreating to their underground domain. But their efficiency was truly remarkable. When Blake stepped out of his bedroom, he found the corridors clean and tidy; the moth-eaten curtains had been drawn back neatly to either side. The smudged, cracked windows glistened clear and bright—as if they were brand new, if one ignored the web of fissures crisscrossing the glass.
The weeds that had sprouted through the floorboards and the cobwebs dangling from the ceiling were gone without a trace. The faded red carpet now shone with renewed luster. The spirits had executed Blake's orders flawlessly, performing every task in their power to perfection.
In truth, Blake had only discovered the spirits' existence after taking possession of this castle. Back then, he'd used the power of the **Knight of the Apocalypse** to forge a contract with them, becoming their master. According to the spirits themselves, this land had once belonged to a necromancer in ages past—a sorcerer who'd mastered a forbidden art to bind souls and created this very cohort of wraiths. Blake suspected the necromancer had intended to craft an army of undead servants. Unfortunately, he'd left the castle before completing his work, only to be killed by his enemies. And so, the spirits—bound by dark magic yet denied physical vessels—had been trapped in this desolate place, neither fully alive nor truly dead. As time passed, humans had conquered the region and built this castle atop the necromancer's lair, forcing the spirits to hide in the shadowy depths below. That was until Blake arrived, discovered their presence, and changed their fate forever.
Bound by the necromancer's unbreakable spell, the spirits were immortal and indestructible. That was why, on the eve of his own death, Blake had entrusted them with safeguarding the castle, selecting powerful souls to absorb, and maintaining the ancient ritual array—all to pave the way for his resurrection.
And judging by the results, they'd done an impeccable job.
The only drawback was that once the sun rose, the spirits still had to retreat to the underground shadows. It wasn't that sunlight would destroy them; rather, it was an innate dread of the sun woven into every undead creature's being. Even if the rays couldn't harm them, they sapped the spirits' strength so severely that, in daylight, they were no more substantial than thin air.
For now, Blake was the only human in the castle. From the boy's memories, he recalled that an old stablehand had accompanied the youth to this place—but after dropping him off at the castle gates, the stablehand had fled in terror, abandoning the boy to this eerie, cursed fiefdom.
It was clear that the boy, Felix by name, had known the castle's sinister reputation. Yet the recklessness and stubbornness of youth had kept him from turning back. The night before, Blake had gone through the belongings the boy had brought with him. It was truly pitiful how destitute this scion of a fallen noble house was. Besides a meager supply of food, he'd owned only a single change of clothes and a few tattered books on continental history. Of course, the boy had also carried the official documents granting him this fief—sealed and signed by the realm's nobles, all genuine, no forgeries. Perhaps the lords had figured the boy wouldn't live long enough to make use of them, so forging fake papers would have been a pointless waste of time and effort. Hence, they'd given him the real deal.
These documents officially recognized him—**Blake Felix** (to avoid suspicion, Blake had simply adopted the boy's surname alongside his own given name)—as the rightful lord of the castle and its surrounding lands. Like any other feudal lord, he was obligated to pay taxes to the kingdom on time and raise an army to defend the realm in times of war. In return, he held absolute authority within his fief: the right to levy taxes, conscript soldiers, and… the **droit du seigneur**.
*How utterly tedious.*
Blake curled his lip in disdain as he read the line. In his past life, he'd always found the droit du seigneur a ridiculous, overrated privilege—especially among the nobility, who cared little for exercising it. Though it had originally been created to flaunt a lord's power and status, most nobles shunned the right entirely.
The reason was simple: being a lord meant being swamped with responsibilities. For the great lords who ruled over dozens of villages and towns, weddings were a daily occurrence. With their own affairs already piling up, who had the time to gallivant across the countryside to claim the "first night" with every newlywed bride? Furthermore, if a lord *did* exercise the right and a child resulted, it would only lead to endless trouble. The nobility prided themselves on their "pure, sacred bloodlines." If a commoner woman gave birth to a child sired by a noble, the lord was legally obligated to take the child in and raise them—an act that would stain his family's honor as a mark of lowly indiscretion. In this era, there were no DNA tests to verify parentage, so countless frauds had tried to pass off their children as a lord's bastard to extort money or titles. And for many commoner women, bearing a noble's child was a ticket to wealth and prestige—after all, noble blood was considered a mark of superiority in the eyes of the masses. Sometimes, the brides were more eager for the droit du seigneur than the lords themselves.
Thus, the droit du seigneur had long become a dead letter, a hollow institution that existed in name only. After all, if a noble wanted a beautiful woman, he could have one by any means he desired. Not every bride was a beauty, and pursuing the right would only invite unnecessary trouble. So even though the droit du seigneur had never been formally abolished, its only remaining purpose was to remind the common folk that they were nothing more than the nobility's property.
The official fiefdom charter was the most valuable item the boy had possessed. Beyond that, there were a mere dozen gold coins and a decorative dagger for self-defense—proof of just how destitute this fallen noble truly was.
While lords could levy taxes to fill their coffers, Blake knew full well that his fief contained no other human settlements besides the tiny village at the foot of the mountain. The surrounding mountains were teeming with wild beasts, but not a single bandit or robber could be found. In the past, Blake had chosen this location precisely for its seclusion—a place to rest and hide from the world. Back then, the lack of people had been a blessing. Now, however, he realized it might pose a significant problem.
But before addressing that issue, there was a more pressing matter at hand.
With that thought, Blake picked up the boy's dagger. Like all noblemen's ornamental weapons, it was utterly useless for combat. The gemstones inlaid in the scabbard and the gold thread woven into the hilt made it clear: this was a trinket designed for show, a bauble to fleece the wealthy.
As the **Knight of the Apocalypse**, Blake needed a weapon worthy of his power—and this flimsy dagger would never suffice. He required something far sturdier, far deadlier.
Then, a memory stirred. At the foot of the mountain, in that tiny village, there had been a blacksmith's shop. In his past life, Blake had commissioned the smith to forge a few… interesting trinkets. Seventy years had passed since then, but in a backwater town like this, things rarely changed. Even if the original smith had grown old and died, his descendants would likely have taken over the business.
No time like the present. Having made up his mind, Blake wasted no time in setting out. Fortunately, the old stablehand had possessed a shred of decency: he'd left a horse for the boy before fleeing. Blake wasted no time in mounting the steed and riding down the winding mountain path toward the village at the base.
What he didn't expect, however, was that his arrival would immediately turn him into the center of attention in the entire town.
Duskwood Village, nestled in this remote mountain valley, was not entirely cut off from the outside world—but it was close enough. In a place where strangers were a once-in-a-decade occurrence, any unfamiliar face instantly became the subject of intense curiosity and gossip. And so, the moment Blake rode into the village, every eye turned to him.
"Look! That's him—the new lord of the cursed castle!"
"Poor lad, he's so young… Such a waste."
"By the grace of the Saints… What a cruel world we live in."
Looks of pity, fear, sorrow, curiosity, and suspicion followed Blake's every move, only to dart away the moment he glanced in the observers' direction. But Blake paid them no mind, riding leisurely toward the blacksmith's shop he remembered so well. The one advantage of such a stagnant, isolated town was that it rarely changed. Even after seventy years, the streets were still familiar. The sign above the Rose and Tankard Tavern still hung crookedly, exactly as it had in his youth—as if time itself had stood still in this forgotten corner of the world.
Thanks to that unchanging familiarity, Blake quickly found the blacksmith's shop. Compared to seventy years ago, it had undergone a few noticeable upgrades: the old wooden door had been clad in a layer of polished copper, and the weathered wooden signboard had been replaced with a brand-new slab of peach wood. For a town where nothing ever changed, these small improvements were nothing short of striking.
Blake paused at the door, taking a deep breath of the warm, iron-scented air wafting from within. A faint smile tugged at his lips. Then, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
And froze.
As the old saying went: never judge a book by its cover.
Today, Blake finally understood the true meaning of those words.
From the outside, the shop looked much the same as it had in his memory. Subconsciously, he'd expected the interior to be unchanged too. But he'd never imagined that the smithy had undergone a complete transformation behind that copper-clad door.
The rows of swords, shields, and suits of armor that had once lined the walls were gone without a trace. In their place hung pitchforks, hoes, and rows upon rows of kitchen knives—their blades polished so brightly they dazzled the eye.
This wasn't a blacksmith's shop at all. It was a farm tools store, plain and simple.
Blake stared wordlessly at the burly figure wielding a hammer behind the counter of kitchen knives, clanging away at a piece of red-hot iron on the anvil. For a long moment, he was utterly speechless.