Kel kept his expression as friendly and innocent as possible while the guards led him out of the castle.

  Every step felt like walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers. One wrong glance, one misstep, and the whole courtyard would turn against him. Judging by the crests on their uniforms, they were soldiers of King Mnogomir from Arden, the eastern kingdom. Among them, a mage marked by the Tower walked silently, the one responsible for the bindings that suppressed his mana and limited his movements.

  He could have torn them apart in an instant. But why make a scene? Better to look weary, helpless even, than draw attention he didn’t want. Dialing down his mana core to a near-invisible glow, he relaxed just enough to pass as a tired adventurer.

  The courtyard was chaos incarnate. Warriors, knights, and Tower mages bustled everywhere. And, of course, adventurers. Now, he had to rethink his plan on the fly.

  The guards didn’t speak. They led him to the holding area for suspicious individuals, placing him among minor assistants, unlucky adventurers, and anyone deemed a threat. Kel scanned the crowd carefully. No servants of the Dark Archmage here – traces of dark mana were nearly impossible to hide. Most of these people were small fry, perhaps underlings of minor assistants, or adventurers who had just had the misfortune of being caught in the wrong place.

  That meant… no one considered him a real threat. He relaxed, briefly. And then, predictably, got bored.

  He felt the simmering power in his veins, the knowledge in his mind. A real problem could only come from the Hero Squad. Even that wasn’t insurmountable. The rest were trivial obstacles. If he got tired, he could escape. The difference in power was enormous – almost comical.

  Kel thought again. “But why did the Archmage choose to run?” The question echoed in his head. Why flee if your servants could hold the line? He shook it off and opened his inventory to distract himself. Receipts from nine continental capitals, property documents in two free cities. The foresight of the Archmage impressed him more with every passing second. Maybe, just maybe, he’d start feeling a little warmth toward the man who indirectly put him in this ridiculous situation.

  Kel thought again.

  “But why did the Archmage choose to run?”

  But why did the Archmage run?” he thought, unable to answer. He shook his head and opened his inventory to distract himself. Receipts from nine continental capitals, documents for property in two free cities. The foresight of the Archmage impressed him more with each passing second. Perhaps, just perhaps, he’d start feeling a little warmth toward the man who had indirectly put him in this ridiculous situation.

  People were being escorted out one by one. No one returned. Their eyes exchanged uneasy glances; magic literally bound them hand and foot. Kel returned to his inventory, reaching the potions, when guards came for him.

  At a corner of the courtyard, a table stacked with papers and scrolls caught his eye. Behind it sat a scribe, quill moving frantically. Standing beside her was a tall man with a burn scar across his right cheek and gray hair. Kel recognized him instantly: Marquis Almas, Captain of the Royal Guard, sworn enemy of the Dark Archmage.

  Five years ago, a servant carried the spark of the Archmage’s Terror Flare into Almas’s home. Returning too late, he found only ashes and bodies. Almas had sworn that no servant of the Archmage would escape punishment–and he kept that oath with terrifying precision.

  He had made it his personal mission to personally interrogate every prisoner from the castle, regardless of rank.

  “We caught this one in the castle too,” the mage guard said, nodding toward Kel.

  Almas’s eyes pierced him. Kel forced a friendly smile.

  The Archmage’s foresight made things easier. Every servant had worn lavish robes with insignias, obviously designed to intimidate and flaunt power, but with one flaw – they were incredibly recognizable. The Captain might not be fooled by clothes alone, but these little details were enough to ease Kel’s task.

  “Why were you in the castle?” Almas asked, skipping the formalities of a name or rank.

  Kel had rehearsed this moment. “I’m just a simple adventurer. Barely passed the Copper rank trials. Not very skilled. Not very lucky. And then – what a stroke of chance! Storming the Archmage’s castle! Imagine the points that’ll get me in the Guild rankings.”

  “The commander forbade adventurers until the warriors cleared the castle,” Almas said.

  “Which commander?” Kel asked innocently.

  Almas’s face darkened. Perfect.

  The Alliance Army was a mess. Nine kingdoms, two free cities. Every ruler feared giving full authority to another. They formed a Council of Commanders, but agreement was rare. Without Aigon’s squad, Kel thought, the army would probably have slaughtered itself before reaching the castle. In-game, he had run four quests just to coordinate these commanders and prevent total chaos. Life imitating game mechanics, perhaps.

  ***

  “You’re a bold young man.”

  The next prisoner didn’t look any different from the dozen or so treasure-seekers they had caught sneaking into the castle – adventurers hoping to grab loot and run before anyone noticed. A predictable lot, really, each one trembling under the watchful eyes of the Royal Guard. But something about this one… drew Almas’s attention.

  A magical scan revealed nothing–no dark mana, only faint traces of residual magic from artifacts. True servants of the Archmage radiated immense dark power.

  Only the Archmage himself could have concealed it, and Almas had seen that head severed with his own eyes. He’d wanted to spit on the corpse, but realized it wouldn’t make him feel any better. Not now. Probably never.

  The prisoner’s bag contained only cheap healing potions, a tattered notebook, a pencil, and a few coins. No weapons. Just… ordinary.

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  And yet… something about him unsettled Almas. No fear. No guilt. No panic. Every other intruder trembled; this one looked like he was deciding whether to have tea or inspect the tower. As if he could end the questioning whenever he pleased, without consequence. That calm – almost arrogant – demeanor was wrong.

  “I didn’t steal anything,” the guy said simply. “I’m not a marauder.”

  “Good,” Almas thought. Marauders were hanged.

  A strange sensation crept up Almas’s spine. Despite all signs pointing to caution, the guy inspired something unexpected. Respect. A flicker of recognition, like meeting a long-lost friend after decades.

  “Had no intention of stealing anything,” the guy repeated.

  Almas considered it carefully. Perhaps the guy’s words weren’t lies at all. Perhaps he truly was just… ambitious, chasing guild points, climbing ranks, earning fame. Nothing wrong with that. A born marquis, a captain of the Royal Guard even, had no right to judge the desire for a better life.

  “Excuse me, Marquis Almas,” the Arden guard said. “May I step away?”

  Almas noted that he didn’t call him captain. Interesting.

  In his own kingdom, such familiarity would have been unthinkable. But this wasn’t an official matter–it was a personal request. That explained it.

  It didn’t bother him. Let petty disputes over rank and respect happen elsewhere. He had far bigger concerns.

  “For what purpose?” Almas asked, raising a brow.

  “Lady Elga requested me,” the guard said. “She wanted to deliver something but could not leave the wounded Sir Aigon herself.”

  “For what purpose?” Almas asked, raising a brow.

  “Lady Elga asked for me personally,” the guard replied. “She wished to deliver something, but she couldn’t leave Sir Aigon’s side. He’d been wounded in the assault, and his condition was still unstable.”

  “What?!”

  The detained guy exclaimed, his face a mask of disbelief.

  No one answered him.

  “Go,” Almas said, dismissing the guard.

  “Excuse me,” the guy spoke again. “Aigon… was he hurt?”

  “Yes,” Almas admitted, almost to his own surprise. “The Archmage managed to wound him. Not fatally, but still a wound.”

  Almas didn’t want to admit it, but worry gnawed at him. Years of shared battles. Countless ordeals endured together.

  And yet, at their first meeting, he’d wanted nothing more than to rip that arrogant brat’s ears off. Funny how life worked.

  “That explains it,” he realized, a strange sense of familiarity stirring in his chest. “This boy… he reminds me of Aigon. Back when he was young.”

  Aigon’s ears had survived those days intact.

  This one would leave without punishment as well.

  “Scribe,” Almas snapped.

  He didn’t get a chance to say anything else.

  A deep, grinding roar rolled through the castle as a violent tremor shook the ground beneath their feet. Shouts echoed from every direction.

  One of the towers – still riddled with the Archmage’s traps–was collapsing.

  Stone twisted and buckled as it fell, the massive structure warping unnaturally, as if the rock itself had turned soft. Walls sagged and flowed downward, molten in motion, like wax melting under a raging flame.

  Our people are in there.

  Horror slammed into Almas’s chest. His breath caught as instinct took over.

  Before he could bark an order, the detained adventurer stepped forward.

  Too calm.

  He raised a single hand.

  “How did he –?!” Almas gasped, his instincts screaming danger.

  Mana surged.

  A wave.

  The collapsing tower froze mid-fall, suspended in the air as if caught by an invisible giant’s grip. Cracks halted. Falling stone hung motionless. Dust drifted lazily, glittering in the light like frozen snow.

  Silence crashed down harder than the noise had.

  Soldiers stared, mouths agape. Knights froze mid-step. Even the scribe remained perfectly still, pen hovering above parchment, eyes sharp and unblinking.

  Almas slowly turned his head.

  First to the tower.

  Then back to the boy.

  The adventurer shifted awkwardly under the weight of their stares, then offered an almost sheepish smile. He reached up and brushed his hair away from his eyes–an unconscious, familiar gesture.

  ***

  If someone ever wrote a book about him, it would probably be titled The Adventures of an Idiot in a World of Magic.

  Kel almost managed to pull it off. He could see it clearly – the way Captain Almas was about to wave him off, to let him disappear without a fuss. Almost. And then… the tower. How could he have forgotten about it?

  The Archmage’s castle was a masterpiece of traps, puzzles, and arcane nonsense. One of the main reasons it had to be destroyed was because no ordinary mage – or soldier – could safely navigate it. The Tower’s mages had long since decided it was easier to blow it up than try to untangle every riddle and contraption. The commanders wanted to continue exploring, of course. So many secrets, so many treasures, still unrecovered. But the Tower’s leadership refused to risk more lives, and average mages and soldiers simply lacked the skill.

  The decision to destroy the castle had been made under pressure from the top. Officially, to protect lives and erase the traitor’s crimes. Unofficially? To ensure no ambitious king, noble, or adventurer could sneak in for personal gain. Sometimes, kings weren’t much smarter than reckless adventurers.

  Kel didn’t hesitate. He saved the people inside with barely a flicker of mana. A brief spin of the head, then normalcy returned. The Archmage’s knowledge explained the momentary dizziness

  Almas’s expression was hard to read. Kel knew from experience that resting a hand on a sword hilt usually meant “I could end you right now, and it would be messy.” The scabbard itself was etched with protective runes, shielded by powerful artifacts. Could withstand a dragon? Maybe. Could withstand Kel? Not a chance.

  “A simple adventurer, then?” Almas asked.

  “A simple adventurer, then?” Almas asked.

  “The real deal,” Kel said. “I just go looking for trouble.” He didn’t say the last part aloud.

  Kel’s mind raced. Could he do something subtle? Maybe a sleeping spell across the camp? That would probably knock out the warriors. Tower mages, though… they had strong defenses. Too risky. Taking them down might require heavy magic – and he wasn’t in the mood to leave anyone permanently unconscious. Too many variables. Too many potential casualties.

  Another problem: he was already recognized by sight. Unleashing any magic and making a run for it would be like shouting, “I’m the enemy!” One thing was living quietly, mastering his powers step by step. Another entirely was acting as the vessel of a traitor hunted across the continent.

  Kel shook his head. Of course, there was the simpler, more brilliant solution: slaughter everyone and leave no witnesses. He suppressed a grin. Horrible thoughts. For now… subtle diplomacy would have to do.

  “Who says none of the adventurers use mana?” Kel tried reasoning.

  “Some do,” Almas admitted. “Enough to light a fire or find a lost cow.” Harsh, but true.

  Around them, chaos. People ran toward the frozen tower; others fled. The scribe remained vigilant.

  Kel thought wildly: Confess everything? Another world? Ritual? Shared adventures? Impossible. He was the vessel of the traitor’s power. Friendship wouldn’t save him. Bloodshed awaited.

  There had to be a way out… without bloodshed.

  Then came a voice:

  “Kel! Keeeel!”

  A small figure came running, sobbing and shouting. Kel turned. How did they know his name?

  The child barreled past Almas and threw themselves at Kel. His chest tightened. Great… I’m in trouble again.

  “I knew you weren’t dead! They told me, but I didn’t believe them! I had to find you! Brother… I missed you so much!”

  Kel hesitated. The words he wanted to speak burned on his tongue: Your brother really did die. Instead, he hugged the child, unsure what to do.

  Finally, the child lifted their head. Dark hair unevenly cut, a thin, tired face… a girl, about thirteen. The same eyes from the mirror, only brighter. She wiped her tears and glared at Almas.

  “Why did you detain my brother? He’s a hero who tried to save our town! Defied the Dark Archmage’s servants! And you torment him? Heartless monster!”

  Almas raised an eyebrow.

  Kel’s mouth opened… then closed.

  Fuck.