For what felt like an eternity, Alaric locked himself in his chambers, sifting through the memories of this new world. He became so engrossed that his servants had to bring dinner directly to his door. A primal will to live allowed Alaric to suppress his fear of the alien environment. He knew, with absolute clarity, that if he was to blend in and avoid suspicion, he needed to absorb as much information as he could, as quickly as possible. Alaric had to admit, the fourth prince’s mind was a barren wasteland. Apart from hazy recollections of carousing with other noble sons, there was nothing of substance. Alaric searched in vain for any valuable information—knowledge of the aristocracy, the kingdom’s political landscape, its relations with neighboring states. As for basic common sense, like the names of cities or the dates of significant events, they were completely alien, bearing no resemblance to the European history he knew. It seemed that, based on these memories, the old Alaric had never stood a chance of inheriting the throne. Perhaps the King of Ironspire had been well aware of this. It would explain why the prince had been exiled to this godforsaken border town; even if he made a complete mess of things here, it would do little to harm the kingdom. When Alaric turned to the memories of his own siblings, what he found was almost tragically comical. The First Prince was a skilled warrior. His second brother was a treacherous schemer. His third sister was a coward, and his younger sister was brilliant. That was the entirety of the former fourth prince’s assessment. Alaric felt a pang of secondhand embarrassment. Over a decade of living alongside them, and the man’s knowledge was reduced to a few pathetic adjectives. What forces they commanded, who their most competent subordinates were, what they excelled at, what their ambitions were… he knew nothing at all. The fourth prince had arrived in this frontier town only three months ago, but the local nobility had already stopped hiding their contempt for him. It was painfully obvious that he lacked any capacity for leadership. Fortunately, when the King had granted Alaric this territory, he had sent along two capable subordinates to provide assistance, ensuring the townspeople wouldn’t suffer too greatly under his inept rule. The next morning, as Alaric awoke, one of his maids, Clara, mentioned repeatedly that the Assistant Minister wished to see him. When it became clear he could put it off no longer, Alaric fell back on the prince’s memories, reaching out to cup the maid’s backside before sending her off to fetch Balthazar, who was waiting in the drawing room. Watching the flushing Clara exit the room, a strange thought occurred to Alaric. Since he had been reincarnated, shouldn’t he have a system or something of the sort? In many of the stories he’d read, that was the standard formula. But no system arrived. So much for the novels. They were all lies, after all. In the drawing room, Balthazar was already pacing restlessly. The moment Alaric appeared, he demanded, “Your Highness, why did you not order the execution yesterday?” “A day sooner, a day later—what’s the difference?” Alaric clapped his hands, signaling the attendants to bring his breakfast. “Sit down, Balthazar.” From the prince's memories, and his own brief assessment, Alaric gathered that the Knight Commander was a direct man who would confront him face to face, even in front of others. The Assistant Minister, however, was more circumspect, preferring to discuss matters in private. In any case, he suspected the loyalty of both men lay with the King, not the fourth prince. “A day later might encourage other witches to appear, Your Highness! This isn’t one of your usual escapades, not in these chaotic times!” Balthazar cautioned. “How can you say that?” Alaric asked, frowning. “I thought you were a man capable of distinguishing superstition from fact.” Balthazar looked utterly bewildered. “What superstitions?” “That a witch is evil, a messenger of the devil,” Alaric answered patiently, as if it were of no consequence. “Isn’t that what the Church teaches? They have no authority here. In fact, it's quite the opposite. Their propaganda claims witches are evil, and though we’ve chosen not to actively participate in their witch hunts, all the people in this territory believe the shameless superstitions they spread.” Balthazar was stunned. “Could… could a witch truly be…” “Indeed evil?” Alaric prompted. “In what way?” The Assistant Minister fell silent, his expression wavering as he tried to determine if the prince was deliberately mocking him. “Your Highness, we can discuss this problem later. I know you dislike the Church, but antagonizing them is counterproductive.” Alaric curled his lip. It seemed uprooting this superstition wouldn't happen overnight. For now, he decided to let it go. When Alaric’s breakfast of toast, fried eggs, and a carafe of milk arrived, he prepared two plates, pushing one toward the assistant minister. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you?” Alaric asked before taking a bite. The maid had told him Balthazar had been waiting outside his chambers since dawn, so it was unlikely he’d had time for a meal. While he intended to imitate the former prince’s lifestyle for now, he also resolved to begin changing their perceptions of him, little by little. The Assistant Minister was the perfect person to start with. A man who feels valued, Alaric thought, is a man who works harder. Taking the initiative had always been the most efficient way to win. Balthazar took the cup of milk Alaric offered but didn’t drink, his anxiety overriding his hunger. “Your Highness, we still have a problem. The guards reported that three days ago, they found a suspected witch camp in the western forest. They must have left in a hurry, because they failed to cover all their traces. A guard found this in the camp.” He took a coin from his pocket and placed it before Alaric. It wasn’t the common currency of the kingdom; at least, according to the prince’s memories, he had never seen one like it. It didn’t even feel like metal. As he took it, he was startled by its warmth. It was not the residual heat of a man’s pocket; this was a sweltering, feverish temperature, like a stone pulled from a hot bath. The minister could not possibly be the source. “What is this?” Alaric asked. “I thought it was just some foul trinket of a witch’s making, but it’s far more serious than that.” Balthazar paused to wipe his forehead. “The pattern imprinted on it is the Devil’s Eye of the Sacred Mountain, the emblem of the Ashen Covenant.” Alaric rubbed the coin’s uneven surface. Fired ceramic, he guessed. He could see the design clearly: the center of the coin depicted a mountain formed by three adjacent triangles, with an eye etched into the central one. The lines were coarse, as if polished by hand. He dredged his memory for the terms ”Devil’s Eye of the Sacred Mountain” and “Ashen Covenant,” but found nothing. It seemed the fourth prince had possessed no interest in the occult. He hadn’t expected Balthazar to know more, but the minister continued, “Your Highness, you have not seen a true witch, so it is understandable that you think their abilities are exaggerated. It is true they can be injured. They bleed, and they are no harder to kill than we are—but that is only for a witch who cannot resist. When they receive the devil’s power, it shortens their lifespan, but it also grants them terrifying strength. Ordinary people cannot hope to match them. Once a witch reaches adulthood, even an army will pay a heavy price to kill her. Their desires become impossible to suppress, and they ultimately degenerate into the devil’s minions. That is why the Church declared a Holy Inquisition. If a woman is even suspected of being a witch, she is to be seized and executed immediately. The King himself has approved this decree. And in fact, the measures have been highly effective. Incidents of witches causing devastation have declined greatly compared to a hundred years ago. The Sacred Mountain, the doorway to hell, is little more than a legend from ancient texts of that era.” Alaric gnawed on his bread, a cynical sneer forming on his lips. Though the histories of this world and his own were vastly different, their trajectories were depressingly similar. The Church here, the Church he knew—both seemed to him the devil’s true minions, the real source of evil. To sentence people to death simply for being different… was that not evil itself? To kill in God’s name was the ultimate perversion. Unaware of Alaric’s thoughts, Balthazar pressed on. “The ancient books record that witches can only find true peace at the Sacred Mountain. There, they would not have to suffer their uncontrollable desires because their magic would have no side effects. There is no doubt in my mind that this so-called Sacred Mountain is the birthplace of evil, an entrance to hell on earth. I believe only hell itself would not punish those who have fallen to the devil’s temptations.” “And the ‘Ashen Covenant’? What is their relationship to this Sacred Mountain?” Alaric asked. Balthazar’s face soured. “In the past, things were simpler. The witches would flee before the Inquisition arrived, and they lived in seclusion. But in recent years, the Ashen Covenant appeared and changed everything. They want to gather all the witches and find the Sacred Mountain. To achieve this, they will even actively lure others into witchcraft. Just last year, in the Port of Clearwater, many babies disappeared. It was rumored to be their doing.”

Chapter 2: You Walked A Barren Mind