Two years had passed since Caelan rescued the last of the Five Calamities, marking the fourth year of his correspondence with Seraphina. Only six years remained until the original story was set to begin. Count Devereux was dead. The official cause was heart failure. Anyone within the Count’s household, however—or indeed, anyone with a lick of sense—knew the truth. It was a drug overdose. In a demise befitting a world of dark fantasy, Count Devereux had met his end. No one mourned him. The servants and retainers received the news with a placid, almost serene acceptance. This came as no surprise; the Count had been a broken man for years, spiraling into a final, desperate decline fueled by narcotics. It would have been more shocking if he had survived. His life had been a wasteland of indulgence, squandered on women and drugs. Not a single noble offered condolences upon his passing. This apathy extended to his two surviving sons. The eldest, Leontius, had seen this outcome on the horizon long ago and remained indifferent. He seemed more preoccupied with his ongoing conflict against the Cobalt Moon organization, constantly in discussion with the retainers loyal to him, than with his father’s death. Caelan felt much the same. His father had always turned a blind eye while the eldest and second sons tormented him. In fact, since taking over this body, Caelan had never exchanged a single word with the Count. Their relationship was one of mutual, silent neglect. And so, the Count’s death passed without a single tear shed, a quiet and unlamented affair. A week later, the Devereux family remained without a new head. A long-standing tradition dictated that a successor would not be named in the same year the previous one died. In truth, nothing changed. For as long as Caelan had inhabited this body, Count Devereux had done nothing. The retainers ran the estate, lining their own pockets in the vacuum of leadership. And during that time, Caelan… “Young Master, I must say, it’s truly astonishing.” “What is?” “…To reach the 2nd tier in just two years? Without a master, without ever setting foot in the Collegium Arcanum… Is that even a normal rate of progress?” Caelan had been learning magic for self-defense. Though it’s only half-baked, he thought. He gazed at the three small, crackling spheres spinning in his palm before letting them dissipate with a soft sigh. Talent is a good thing to have, but still… Two years ago, Caelan had been overjoyed to discover his aptitude for magic. In the world of Maledictum, magic was a gift, a power one could only wield if born with the necessary talent. And Caelan’s talent was exceptional. It typically took a mage four years to reach the 2nd tier. That he had achieved it in half the time, entirely self-taught, was remarkable. While he wasn't a world-shaking prodigy, he possessed a rare, raw talent that allowed him to grow strong on his own. Even he could feel it. His ability to control mana with surgical precision was far superior to that of others. The trick he’d just performed—levitating three orbs of electricity and making them orbit his palm—was useless in a fight, but it was a feat of control only possible for those with the most delicate command of their mana. …If only my mana core were bigger. This was why Caelan considered his talent “half-baked.” His natural mana core was much smaller than average. Not just small—it was pitifully so. While it was possible to expand one’s core through training, Caelan’s was so profoundly undersized that even the most rigorous regimen offered little hope of meaningful growth. A mana core was like one’s physical stature, an attribute determined at birth. I do have one method, if it comes to that… As Caelan licked his lips, lost in thought, Gareth’s voice broke the silence. “Young Master, what are your plans now?” “What do you mean?” “Well, next year, the first son—no, I mean, the Eldest Young Master will become the head of the family, won’t he?” Gareth quickly corrected himself, having almost slipped into old, dismissive habits. Caelan understood the question perfectly. “I’ll leave.” “…You’re planning to leave the estate?” “Not entirely. Just take up a lesser post.” “Lesser… You mean in Rodmill?” At Gareth’s question, Caelan nodded. “That’s right.” Rodmill. It was a village about a four-day journey south of Palion, the heart of the Count’s territory. While under the family’s control, it was a moderately prosperous town, largely left to its own devices. “I plan to move there.” “…But why?” Gareth asked, his confusion plain. He might not understand, but for Caelan, this was the final piece of his plan. From the very beginning, his goal had been simple: rescue the Five Calamities, alter the bleak future, and live out his life in comfort as a minor noble in a world where the Sovereign Kingdoms didn't fall to ruin. In that regard, Rodmill is the perfect choice. First, it contained a mansion that had belonged to the 3rd Count Devereux. Second, the village was stable enough that Leontius, the soon-to-be Count, would have no reason to pay it any mind before his own eventual demise. Third, its distance—four days’ travel—would keep Caelan far from the main stage when the original story’s hero began his quest for justice and retribution. In short, moving to Rodmill meant the successful completion of his grand plan. Finding it tiresome to explain all this, he offered Gareth a simple reply. “Everything has its time.” “…Young Master, that’s what you always say when you don’t feel like explaining.” Caelan offered no response to Gareth’s accurate observation. “Since we’re on the topic,” he said, changing the subject, “let’s start packing.” He began preparing for the journey to Rodmill. One month later, Leontius, eldest son of the Devereux family and leader of the underworld organization Avarice, watched his younger brother’s carriage depart the estate, a single knight in its escort. He stood in contemplation. What should I do with him? The question was whether to kill Caelan or not. Honestly, Leontius had never considered Caelan much of a threat. It had been that way since childhood. The late Torvin had always been a snarling rival, baring his fangs for the succession, but Caelan had been a ghost, head always bowed, forever trying to stay out of the way. He’d changed a little in recent years, but his deferential attitude remained. Even now, he was voluntarily moving to the outskirts to avoid treading on Leontius’s toes. “Hmm…” Originally, Leontius had planned to quietly dispose of Caelan with a drug overdose, around the same time as their father’s death. But since Caelan had chosen to exile himself to Rodmill, there was no longer any need. The boy had willingly stepped aside, showing no intention of becoming an enemy. There was no reason to kill him. And yet, Leontius hesitated. Ironically, there was no grand reason for his indecision. He didn’t fear Caelan would build a power base in the countryside and challenge him. Nor was he disgusted by Caelan’s subservience. In truth, Leontius had never felt an ounce of familial affection for Caelan, or for anyone in the Count’s family. The simple, unvarnished reason Leontius was debating murder was that Caelan annoyed him. A month ago, when Caelan had come to him, head bowed, declaring his intent to move to Rodmill, something about the gesture had rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps it was because he’d just learned that one of Avarice’s branches had failed to meet its quota, leaving him in a foul mood. Whatever the cause, Caelan’s life now hung by that thin, arbitrary thread. “Alban.” “Yes.” “Follow that carriage. Quietly.” In that single moment, Caelan’s fate was sealed. From Leontius’s perspective, he was a creature to be disposed of on a whim. And so, the order was given. But a voice from behind him spoke, unexpectedly. “…You mean to kill him?” “…?” Leontius felt a flicker of confusion. The young man standing there had proven his worth two years ago and, after numerous trials, had become one of Leontius’s most trusted subordinates. He was not one to question an order. When Leontius gave a command, he obeyed. Without question, without hesitation. “Do you think I have any sentiment for family—" Leontius began to speak, assuming a misunderstanding, a slight frown creasing his brow. Stab! “…?” The words caught in his throat. Instead of a rebuke, a wet, choking sound escaped him as blood filled his mouth. He coughed, a spray of crimson misting the air. His face contorted in shock, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. Still uncomprehending, Leontius looked down. A sword was embedded in his chest, its point piercing his heart. “B-Betrayal…” Rage began to burn in his eyes, but the man who had stabbed him replied with cold indifference. “This isn’t betrayal. I was never loyal to you in the first place.” “W-What are you… saying…?” “I was simply waiting for you to give this order.” At that sentence, the anger and confusion on Leontius’s face curdled into dawning horror. A single image flashed through his mind. The face of Caelan, third son of the Count’s family. But he still couldn’t understand. Alban—no, Damian—had been at his side for over two years. Leontius had trusted him completely, even allowing him to guard his back for more than a year. Damian could have killed him at any time. His disbelieving eyes met Damian’s, silently pleading for an explanation. Damian finally offered one. “We do not act without orders. We are merely the sword of our master, moving only as he wields us. That is our creed, the unbreakable rule taught to us by the Red Moon. But—” Crack! “Gaah!” “—when someone tries to harm the Argent Sovereign, our swords move on their own.” Shlick. “That is the only reason you were allowed to live this long.” With that, Leontius collapsed. His face hit the dirt, but his eyes, still burning with impotent rage, fixed on his killer as he struggled to speak. “My… men… they… won’t—” “Don’t worry. The moment you gave that order, Avarice was already being dismantled across the continent.” Damian, a member of the Cobalt Moon organization and one of Seraphina’s direct subordinates, continued, his voice devoid of emotion. “…It’s a pity. The Argent Sovereign gave you a chance.” With those final words, Damian turned and walked away. Leontius never understood their meaning. He died moments later. A cold, ignoble death. Three days after arriving in Rodmill, Caelan was summoned back to the Count Devereux’s estate. The reason was the death of Leontius, the eldest son and heir. Following his sudden, inexplicable demise, Caelan—who had been leisurely toasting bread over a fire in a remote corner of the mansion due to a lack of available servants—was hastily called back to the capital. By then, a new title was already being whispered about him in hushed tones: The Hidden Power of the Count’s Family.

Chapter 5: A Death Unmourned