Chapter 3: The Departure

  After the ritual ended, the exhaustion that had weighed down my body suddenly vanished, and the waves of emotion that had crashed over me subsided.

  My energy returned, as if I'd just woken from a long, deep sleep.

  The line of light that had shone brightest slowly dimmed and faded from my sight, leaving the world looking normal again.

  "Are you alright, Sir Aister?" the Archbishop asked, his tone laced with feigned concern.

  "Thank you for your worry, Your Grace. I feel fine," I replied.

  "Good. Come with me, Sir Aister."

  "Very well, Your Grace."

  Strangely, the respect and awe I once felt for this Archbishop seemed to vanish instantly.

  Perhaps the vow had sharpened my instincts.

  The Archbishop led me to the cathedral courtyard.

  There, twenty-five people stood frozen in neat rows.

  Their gazes... they weren't human gazes. They were the stares of puppets.

  Their eyes were empty—soulless, devoid of curiosity, devoid of fear. A shiver ran down my spine.

  "Your Grace... what kind of contract binds them? Why aren't they like the slaves I know?" I whispered.

  "Why, it's a slave contract, of course, Sir Aister," the Archbishop replied casually.

  "Then... what happened to them?"

  "They've been bound by a high-level spell, so they appear like this. But don't worry, Sir Aister, they're fine. Still, that magic remains dirty and repulsive."

  "Then why are their stares so completely empty?"

  "That's the Palace's doing. They are 'emotionless weapons' specially prepared by the royal family," the Archbishop sighed deeply, as if disappointed by the practice, though I knew he was likely complicit.

  The priest who had been standing before the crowd suddenly shouted loudly, "LISTEN UP, YOU SLAVES!"

  His voice echoed.

  "This is your new master. Respect him! His name is Aister Fondal!"

  Silence. No reaction. No nod. Not a single facial muscle moved. Yet, the power I'd just acquired allowed me to see something horrifying. I saw thin threads of light wrapped around their necks and wrists, lines stretching up into the sky, disappearing somewhere.

  "Very well, Sir Aister. Let's inspect the supplies you'll be taking," the Archbishop urged, breaking my trance.

  We headed to the cathedral treasury. A rather magnificent horse-drawn carriage was already parked there. The horses looked sturdy, the type bred for long journeys.

  The supplies provided by the Cathedral and Palace were no joke: twenty-five slave guards, a fully equipped carriage, top-quality parchment, expensive paper made from rare trees, abundant food supplies, a large bag containing 13,000 gold coins, and various strange artifacts.

  After the inspection, we returned to the prayer hall briefly for a travel blessing. When the prayers ended, the Archbishop no longer escorted me.

  Now, an ordinary priest guided me to the carriage, where the slaves were already shouldering their supply packs.

  Archbishop's Point of View

  ——

  "Damn it! If those old bastards from the conservative faction hadn't forced us, we wouldn't have lost this much."

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  "Calm yourself, Archbishop."

  "Who are you? And where is Duke Airan?" the Archbishop demanded, his voice rising.

  "I am the Duke's messenger, Your Grace. The Duke is currently facing those old men in the council meeting. The situation is quite heated. There are rumors someone leaked this matter to Grandmaster Tristan. It seems to be the work of those conservatives."

  The Archbishop's face reddened with suppressed rage. "Hah... Why is that madman Tristan interfering again?"

  Tristan, always Tristan. Does he think he's some god who can act however he pleases? Just because he's a Vow Knight, that madman Tristan thinks he can do whatever he wants.

  "I admit Tristan is powerful," I continued, "but his madness... Compared to Grandmaster Iona, who is also a Vow Knight but remains calm, Tristan is like a loose cannon, capable of causing chaos at any moment."

  "But it must be acknowledged, he's still a hero in the hearts of the people," the young noble countered.

  "So what?!" I barked, slamming the table. "This is a kingdom, not the people's country! Why should we fear the opinions of common rabble?"

  "The problem is, he's famous throughout the kingdom, Your Grace. If he mobilizes public opinion against the Cathedral and the Palace, our position will become difficult."

  "Tch. Tristan truly has no equal when it comes to making trouble," the Archbishop snorted, massaging his throbbing temples.

  Aister's Point of View

  ——

  I stood at the city gate, confused.

  I figured I should head to the neighboring city, since a storm was about to hit the capital.

  The sky was dark and overcast. When a storm hits, the road to the city of Lahyana usually becomes impassable for carriages.

  So I hurried toward that city—I'd never been there before.

  I was heading to the nearest forest and city, Lahyana.

  Just as that intention formed in my mind, a line of light appeared in the air.

  That line shone far brighter than the structural lines of the buildings around me.

  It pointed toward the northern gate. Toward the forest.

  Is this power connected to my will? I marveled inwardly. Yardorh truly guides me wherever I want to go, not where I must go.

  The journey began. Halfway there, the silence of these slaves began to bother me.

  I tried to speak with them.

  "Hey, what's your name?" I asked one of the guards—a bald, muscular man armed with a machete.

  Silence.

  "Are you thirsty?"

  Silence.

  "We'll take a short break."

  They stopped in unison, but no one answered.

  It felt like talking to walking walls.

  Frustration began to creep in.

  My eyes kept returning to the threads of light wrapped around their bodies.

  A strange urge rose in my hand—a desire to cut those threads.

  If I cut those lines... would they be freed from their contract? Or would their souls be destroyed instead?

  Ignorance held me back.

  I didn't dare risk killing twenty-five people on my first day.

  Our group had just entered the forest path.

  I sat on the front seat of the carriage, trying to scratch my pen across the parchment.

  My right hand moved on its own, following the imaginary lines of light shown by Yardorh.

  Suddenly, the forest fell deathly silent.

  No cricket sounds. No bird songs.

  Then... BOOM!

  The ground shook violently.

  The ink in my hand spilled, staining the paper.

  BOOM!

  The second tremor was stronger.

  Our horses neighed hysterically, their eyes rolling white.

  The slaves, usually frozen like statues, now stirred restlessly, stepping back in unison as if their primal instincts screamed of danger.

  It wasn't an earthquake.

  It was the sound of something repeatedly striking the earth at high speed.

  From the direction ahead—away from us—a living "projectile" was speeding toward us.

  He wasn't walking.

  He was running.

  But this wasn't an ordinary human run.

  Each time his foot struck the ground, the road cracked and created an explosion of dust.

  Trees lining the path swayed violently from the wind he generated.

  His speed was so immense that his form blurred.

  The figure noticed our group.

  He performed an emergency brake.

  SCRREEEEEECH!

  His feet gouged into the earth, carving a ten-meter trench before finally stopping right before our carriage. A powerful gust hit my face, forcing me to close my eyes for a moment. The heat radiating from his body felt like a furnace.

  When the dust settled, I saw him.

  A man standing two meters tall. His breath came in gasps, not from exhaustion, but from overflowing rage and urgency. His muscles tensed, ready to explode.

  On his shoulder, the Golden Compass emblem—the mark of a Vow Knight—gleamed in the sunlight.

  Grandmaster Tristan.

  He didn't look at me as an enemy. His eyes were wild, searching for something.

  He stared toward the Capital with despair, then his eyes returned to me. His gaze fell upon the faint mark on the back of my hand—the remnant of Yardorh's vow.

  Those powerful shoulders slumped instantly.

  "Damn it..." he muttered.

  His voice wasn't a shout, but a deep groan of disappointment. "I'm too late."

  He struck a massive tree beside him.

  A tree as thick as three men could encircle—shattered into splinters with a single bare-handed punch.

  "YOU BASTARDS. You palace people!" he roared at the sky.

  His thunderous voice sent birds scattering in the distance.

  I trembled atop the carriage. "G-Grandmaster?"

  Tristan turned to me.

  This time, his gaze shifted.

  From fiery rage to a piercing cold stare—the look of an apex predator eyeing a trapped rabbit.

  "You..." he hissed, stepping closer.

  My slave guards tried to move forward, but Tristan merely glanced at them.

  The pressure of his aura—pure Killing Intent—froze them in place, their knees trembling violently against the magic of the contract binding them.

  Tristan stopped right beside my carriage. His scar-covered face was now level with mine.

  "I ran from the north to here without rest for days," he said, his voice low and terrifying.

  "Just to stop this madness. To stop those foolish old men from giving a 'vow' to some snot-nosed brat like you."

  He gripped the side of my carriage.

  The thick wooden frame crumbled under his fingers like crackers.

  "Do you know what you've done, boy? Do you think becoming a Vow Knight is a game?"

  "I... I had no choice..." I stammered.

  "There's always a choice!" Tristan cut me off.

  "Dying is better than becoming a vessel for an Entity!"

  He looked me up and down, assessing the 'quality' of my body.

  "Grandmaster... we train our bodies and souls for decades.

  We forge ourselves into steel so we don't shatter when Gods whisper.

  But you?" Tristan shook his head slowly, his eyes showing a mix of disgust and pity.

  "You're just a glass cup forced to contain molten lava."

  "How pathetic."

  Those words hit me harder than any physical blow.

  He wasn't angry at me.

  He pitied me.

  In his eyes, I wasn't a hero, not a knight.

  I was a walking corpse.

  Tristan straightened himself, towering once more.

  "Listen, Little Knight. The die is cast. Yardorh has already bound you. If I killed you now, I'd only free you from suffering—but that would violate my vow not to harm the people."

  He turned, staring at the road stretching toward the forest.

  "Go. Complete that Vow to Yardorh as fast as you can. Because every second you're bound to that vow without the body of a Grandmaster, your soul will erode."

  He began walking away, but paused momentarily without turning.

  "And remember one thing... If one day you lose your sanity and become a monster because you couldn't bear that burden... make sure you're far from me.

  Because if I see you lose your humanity..."

  He glanced back slightly, a horrific grin appearing on his face.

  "...I'll tear that vow right out of your chest."

  BOOM!

  Tristan leaped, the ground where he stood exploding. He shot away—not toward the Capital again, but vanishing toward the mountains—leaving me still trembling violently amidst the forest's eerie silence.