The knight, clad in heavy armor with a height exceeding two meters and broad shoulders, had his face hidden behind the grillwork on the front of his helmet. Draped in a cloak that covered his head and shoulders, the knight stood upright with his sword stabbed into the ground.
Araki Yuma looked at his hands and his clothes. He was wearing his attorney robe. The surroundings were blanketed in white, and apart from the towering knight before him, there was nothing else.
"Who are you?" he asked.
The knight's deep, powerful voice didn't come from behind his helmet but echoed directly inside Araki's mind.
"A mere servant of the Goddess of Wisdom."
Araki stepped sideways to look behind the knight but saw nothing.
"What are we doing here?"
The knight answered, "Fulfilling my duty."
"And what about me?"
The knight said nothing. As Araki tried to understand what was happening, he began biting his thumbnail.
"This must be a dream. Or maybe a trial to gain another blessing. If the only thing here is this knight, then I either need to defeat him or ask the right questions."
Araki gathered his thoughts and approached the knight.
"What is your duty?"
"To protect the faithful," the knight replied.
"Protect them from what?"
The knight slightly raised his head and motioned behind Araki with his chin. Araki turned around and saw a faint dark speck in the middle of the whiteness. Then the knight spoke again.
"From blindness born of wisdom."
When Araki turned to look over his right shoulder at the knight, he found the massive sword right in front of his face.
He gasped and shot up from bed, drenched in sweat. Breathing heavily, he stood on the armchair where he had placed his books. Still dressed, Rosweld's terrified expression was met with a chuckle from the muscular woman.
"Looks like you've seen death. Or are your ancestors haunting your dreams because you gave up their last estate without a fight?"
Rosweld stepped down from the chair. "I didn't do anything wrong."
He removed the borrowed nightwear, dressed in his shirt and trousers, and just as he finished putting on his shoes, someone entered.
He stood straight, one barefoot planted firmly.
"What is it, Kathia?"
Kathia wore a white cropped tank top and tight leather pants.
"I asked you to vacate the room. It's already midday. Don't you think your visit has lasted long enough?"
With a sigh, Rosweld slipped on his other shoe and picked up his books. "You sure talk a lot of nonsense."
He walked past Kathia with an indifferent air and exited Sizzling Breaths, heading off in a random direction. Without turning around, he asked the muscular woman, "I need to get home. Which way?"
Ignoring Rosweld's harsh tone, the woman replied, "Go through the East Gate. If you follow the trail, you'll be home by evening."
"Good," Rosweld muttered and navigated his way through the streets to the East Gate. He exited on foot, ignored a few passing carriages, and began walking along the path.
The muscular woman, seemingly indifferent, broke the silence. "So, even you can get angry."
"I'm not angry. I just want to get home. Tomorrow is my last day in the mansion. By midnight, it will officially belong to Lady Olivia."
"That's true," she said. "Where do you plan to stay afterward?"
"Even if I'm someone with a ruined reputation, no one in the city has bothered me. Of course, I know that's thanks to you. But the best way to rebuild that reputation is to go to the one place that accepts everyone."
The woman frowned at his words. "The church?"
Rosweld exclaimed with excitement, "Exactly! I'll become a devotee first, then a bishop!"
Although she was stunned for a few seconds, she eventually burst into a deep, heartfelt laugh, clutching her stomach.
"What? Hahaha! You... a bishop? Hahahaha!"
Rosweld sighed, shaking his head. "Believe it or not, if I say I'll do it, then I will."
...
The sun set, and the moon lit up the night in full glory.
Four white carriages with golden edges moved along the path in a convoy. Atop each carriage fluttered a white banner adorned with a crimson lion head. A man watched from the cliffs above as the carriages entered the canyon. He wore a tattered-sleeved, patched-up jacket, exposing his arms and chest, and his shaved sides contrasted with the long hair flowing down his back.
Crossing his muscular arms, the man turned to the armed, ragged men behind him.
"Do as the wizard said. Embed the stones on the rocks."
The bandits nailed cone-shaped, purple, multi-faceted stones into the rocks with hammers. Despite their jewel-like appearance, these stones had a more sinister use.
The bandit leader, bare-chested under his black sleeveless jacket, grinned with a wide, bony face, but his yellowed teeth and menacing presence ruined the smile.
"We got the money and free supplies too," he growled. "Hurry up! They're getting close. When I signal, push the rocks down."
Without a word, the bandits hastened their work. When the carriages reached the desired location, the leader shouted, "Now!"
The rocks were rolled off the cliff, crashing down toward the carriages. As they fell, thin threads of magical light shot upward from the tip of each banner pole. These struck the falling rocks, shattering them. Yet, the fragments kept falling until, four meters away, they turned to dust within a magical barrier that enveloped the carriages.
While this happened, the purple dust particles descended slowly. When they touched the embedded purple stones, the stones glowed for a second before bursting into magic circles covered in arcane runes.
The tops of the carriages were now cloaked in violet magic circles—and something began to emerge from within them.
...
After walking all day, Rosweld knelt before the mansion that would soon no longer be his. He wiped the sweat from his brow and temples, though his entire body was drenched.
"I need a bath."
The muscular woman said, "Yes. But did you drain the tub after filling it with water?"
Rosweld sighed and shook his head. "No. I forgot. It was too much effort, so I left it."
She shrugged. "I warned you."
"I know, I know. But a simple rinse to freshen up should be enough."
"You're going to get into that tub?"
"I'll wash in the well," Rosweld said, entering the mansion.
He grabbed a clean shirt and pants from the room where he had previously taken his father's clothes, then found a clean pair of undergarments.
"Bathing outside with cold water doesn't sound ideal, but there's no other option."
Unable to find a towel, he headed straight to the well. Dropping his clothes on the overgrown grass, he stripped and poured bucket after bucket of cold water over himself.
"Brr! Cold..." he shivered, but continued anyway. Eventually, he convinced himself he was clean and dressed in his damp clothes.
"Time to warm myself inside."
He went to the bathroom, activated the mechanism to heat the tub, and waited.
"The steam will warm the room and dry my hair. Not ideal. Too much steam will rot the ceiling. But who cares? This place will burn tonight."
Once the heat was too much, he shut the heating mechanism and exited, glancing around.
"I should pack a bag."
He returned to the study and lit a second gas lamp.
"Let's light this first."
He then looked for a bag in the room with his father's clothes and found a patched-up leather one behind the door. Stuffing it with clothes, he tightened the drawstring. Though more of a sack, the sewn-on straps allowed it to be carried like a backpack.
Before leaving, he tore apart the neatly made bed, rummaging through the sheets and blanket. In the pillow, he heard a rustle and found a sealed envelope with a sword emblem and green-inked words on the back:
Cezzar. Keepsake. Do not open.
Rosweld furrowed his brow. "A code? The letters overlap. Did the writer rush? But who?"
He searched the room but found nothing. When he suspected the handwriting might be his father's, a sharp pain pierced his temples, and he fell to his knees.
A rush of images: a man at a desk, shelves of books behind him. A short poem in sloppy handwriting. Blood pooling under the door. A hanged woman's body.
Fear, panic, dread tangled in his heart. Tears streamed down Araki Yuma's face, though the emotions were Rosweld White's.
When the images faded, the room felt more familiar. He didn't remember everything, but he was certain now—someone had been murdered in this mansion.
Comparing the handwriting on the envelope to the poem, he confirmed their similarity.
"The 'y' and 'g' are nearly identical. The 'e', 'n', and 'l' are too close together. I'm sure it's Father's writing. But I need more information before acting."
He tucked the envelope into his waistband, covered it with his shirt, and continued searching. He went upstairs, where the weight in his chest made it difficult to breathe. Still, he pushed through the resistance.
Upstairs, only the gas lamp in his hand lit the way. He could go straight toward a closed door or to the right along a balcony that overlooked the mansion's interior. He chose the balcony and took his first step...