[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
Congratulations, you have successfully completed
Your [Spiral Edge] has increased by [2%].
Your [Spiral Time] has increased by [1 second. Max per day 1].
Your [Spiral Mind] has decreased in [Focus].
Your [Spiral Form] has increased by [1].
Your [Dark Spiral] has increased by [ 2% per use. 5 seconds. Max per day 0].
Daylan collapsed to the ground, his body drenched in sweat as he panted heavily. It had been three days since their alliance, and he had already read through hundreds of books. Running on barely an hour of sleep each night, he fueled himself with coffee, pushing his body past its limits.
Astara and Medora had little to report.
Despite speaking with several people, no one seemed to know anything about the men in black. Still, Daylan knew this was only the beginning. He was eager to get out there and uncover the truth himself—but for now, he stuck to the plan: read, train, and prepare.
Lately, Daylan's system had been assigning him random tasks, each one pushing him to train for hours on end—until his body nearly gave out. And with each passing day, the difficulty only increased. But he wasn't one to complain. It was making him stronger, and that was all that mattered.
He lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling.
My physical performance increases by 16% with each repeated activity.
I can rewind time for up to 10 seconds, four times a day.
It takes only 5 seconds to read someone's mind.
I can create up to five objects per day.
Dark Spiral consumes 14% of my emotions with each use. I can activate it four times a day, and each use lasts 20 seconds.
And yet, I'm still intermediate?
He sighed in disappointment and rose to his feet. Grabbing his uniform, he made his way toward the library. But before he could get close, Astara and Medora approached him.
"We have a meeting at the conference hall."
Since his arrival at the monastery, this was the first time he had heard of a meeting being called.
"A meeting?"
Astara and Medora walked past him.
"Yeah," Astara said over her shoulder, "the captain and his lieutenant colonels are coming to give a speech."
"Really?"
Daylan stood still as they walked off. He had never seen the captain or his colonels before, so this was the perfect opportunity to learn more about the Honor Chivalry itself. Still, he didn't want to sit idly. He slipped into the library, grabbed a random book, and made his way to the conference hall.
When he arrived, he noticed a seat had been saved for him. He quickened his pace and took his place.
He leaned toward Astara, seated to his right. "What are they here for?" he asked in a low voice.
Astara remained calmly seated. "I have a brief idea, but we will find out once they arrive."
Before long, they entered the hall, their immense presence sweeping over the room like a wave. Daylan's eyes widened in shock—their aura was at least three times stronger than Lieutenant Bruce's, yet they carried themselves with surprising cheerfulness.
They were all dressed in pristine white uniforms, but the captain stood out. He wore a red overcoat fastened with a black belt, and four golden medals gleamed on his left side. His dark hair was neatly brushed back, and his piercing blue eyes scanned the crowd with a smile playing on his lips.
The two lieutenant colonels followed close behind. The girl, with wind-tossed white hair, smiled gently and waved at a few members of the chivalry. In contrast, the boy remained silent, his expression stern as he stood completely still—radiating discipline and leaving no room for informalities.
Daylan leaned toward Astara. "They look my age, so how are they Captain and Lieutenant Colonels? I mean Lieutenant Bruce is far older." He murmured.
Astara shot him a lazy look. "Because they're stronger than him, duh…"
Daylan sat upright. Stronger, huh?
He smirked and glanced at the book he'd grabbed at random—Soldier, Poet, King.
The title sparked something in him, reminding him of a story he'd once written in his previous world. His grin deepened as he opened to the first page.
Just as he began reading, Lieutenant Bruce entered and took his place behind the captain. The speech began.
Daylan had no intention of putting the book down—but he couldn't ignore them completely either.
The captain began by praising their performance in the tournament, then called Astara to the lectern—for a reason Daylan didn't catch, too engrossed in the book in his hands.
The story told of three misfits who boldly called themselves the Soldier, the Poet, and the King, despite having no real claim to those titles. They were widely known as the Fools. Lacking skill, influence, and direction, they set off on a quest to become the best in the world. People laughed at them, and looked down on them—but the trio pressed on.
From Honor City to the Royal Capital, they carved out a name for themselves, not as heroes or legends, but as the Fools—a title spoken with both amusement and strange affection. Their journey was seen as a running joke, their failures entertaining enough that people tolerated their existence.
In the end, they died together from poisoning—remembered not as the Soldier, the Poet, or the King… but as the Divines' greatest fools.
By the time Daylan finished reading, the conference had ended—and in truth, he'd barely heard a word of it. But the story left a smile on his face.
He glanced at the three of them—himself, Medora, and Astara.
Soldier, Poet, King.
The titles fit them far too well.
He smirked to himself.
We're going to finish what the world thinks the Fools couldn't…
But to me, they already achieved everything they set out to do.
As the others began leaving the hall, Astara remained by the captain's side, while Medora sat quietly next to him.
Daylan leaned toward her. "I'll meet you at the library," he said softly.
Then he rose to his feet and made his way out of the hall, heading for his room.
The moment he entered his room, he dropped onto the bed, and then sat upright, closing his eyes to calm his mind. He needed clarity—focus.
Slowly, he began visualizing three distinct masks.
This idea of impersonating the Soldier, the Poet, and the King—it wasn't just a gimmick. It needed to be taken seriously.
Among the three, it was clear: the King was seen as the leader. And that's exactly what Daylan wanted the world to believe.
But the Poet… the Poet held the true power.
Immortal through ideas, their words outlived even the sharpest blade. The poet inspired, manipulated, united, and divided—nations shifted through language alone. While the Soldier wielded the sword and the King issued commands, the Poet orchestrated from the shadows with quiet strategy.
In truth, he planned for Astara to be seen as the leader once their journey began—the King in the eyes of the world.
Before long, his visualization was complete—and three white masks materialized in his mind.
The Soldier's mask bore the portrait of Medora's sword etched across the left eye.
The Poet's had a delicate feather sweeping across the right eye.
And the King's was marked with a thorny crown carved boldly into the forehead.
Daylan glanced at himself, a bit surprised by how energetic he still felt—even after creating three items.
Without wasting a moment, he grabbed the masks and headed straight for the library.
Upon arrival, he spotted Medora and Astara chatting casually, each sipping on a cup of coffee.
The moment he stepped in, he tossed them their masks without a word.
Medora glanced at her mask. "What's this for?"
"How sweet! I knew you'd catch on right away," Medora said with a grin, turning the mask over in her hands.
"Let me guess, you want us to be the Fools… you know they are the Fools, right?" Astara said, turning to Daylan.
Daylan sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "Yeah… and I doubt the people in black—or the church—would hesitate to call us fools for dreaming this big."
He turned to Astara, his gaze steady.
"Do you really think they were fools? They had a dream—to be great. And now their story is known by many. They lived in luxury before they were poisoned. And even in death, they're remembered."
He paused. "So tell me—does that sound like fools to you?"
Astara slipped her mask on, adjusting it carefully.
"It's not a bad idea," she said, her voice calm behind the porcelain. "We get to hide our faces, after all."
Medora slipped her mask on and tilted her head. "Won't this fall off mid-fight?" she asked, half teasing.
Then her tone shifted slightly. "Also… care to explain? I've never heard of these so-called Fools."
"We're not necessarily the Fools," Daylan said, leaning back slightly. "But if people want to call us that, let them."
He held up a hand, gesturing between them. "The Soldier, the Poet, and the King—that's the better way to see it."
A small smirk tugged at his lips. "In my story, each of them could single-handedly take down a city."
"And don't worry," Daylan added, glancing at Medora. "It won't come off—unless you take it off yourself."
Medora smirked. "Cool… I am the Soldier, huh?"
Astara cleared her throat, seizing the moment. "We need to talk."