I was peacefully dozing, one arm around Ada, when the bedroom doors creaked open and the head of the street kid I'd met in the attic poked through the gap.
"The Lord's coming! And he's furious!" the boy hissed, then vanished down the corridor.
"Thanks," I whispered after him, already fumbling around for my pants.
Didn't make it in time.
The doors slammed open, and my grandfather stormed into the room. He froze at the sight, jaw opening and closing like a fish out of water.
"This... THIS IS BEYOND UNACCEPTABLE! Randall Condor, in a single day, you've disappointed me more than in all the years combined! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! Do you not understand THE FATE OF OUR HOUSE DEPENDS ON YOUR ACTIONS?! WHAT KIND OF MINDLESS FOOL ROLLS AROUND WITH A MAID WHEN HE SHOULD BE IN THE INFIRMARY RECOVERING?!"
His shout made the whole room shake. Poor Ada dove under the blanket, terrified.
"The cots there are uncomfortable. And I've recovered. What's the problem?"
"The problem?! You! You behave like some landless swineherd! I had hoped your pitiful excuse for a brain would grasp the gravity of the situation, but no! I swear, if it weren't for that damned royal decree, I'd strangle you right here and now! Enough! I swear on our House, my soul, and my life, if you fail the king's commission, I'll use every last coin and favor we have left to drag you out of whatever hole you crawl into and make you suffer. That's my word."
Wow. The old man was losing it.
He wouldn't dare lay a finger on me — he still needed me. But Ada? She might not be so lucky.
"Alright. Then I swear on our House, my soul, and my life, if you so much as touch Ada, I'll raise such hell the king himself will ride down here and level our castle."
"Ada? What Ada?" the Count blinked, confused.
I pointed at the maid huddled under the blanket.
"Bah! Merlin take her! You've lost your mind, throwing oaths around over something so trivial?"
"It's not trivial."
"Enough! Shut up! Get dressed and report to the watchtower," he barked before slamming the already-broken door on his way out.
I gave Ada a quick kiss and resumed my search for my pants.
Where the hell did I throw them?
***
Our castle already towered several hundred meters above the city, but the watchtower was the highest point of all. I was slightly winded by the time I reached the top of the narrow spiral staircase.
"Finally. The moon's hidden behind clouds. Now's the perfect time," the old man said wearily. He stood beside an opening in the wall, beyond which stretched a long stone ledge.
This looked... familiar.
Was there a haystack down below, maybe?
He stepped aside and pulled a hidden lever. A portion of the tower wall slid open, revealing several strange outfits covered in feathers. The Count picked the least ragged one and dragged it out. Once fully spread, it looked like a mascot costume: feathered cloak, plague doctor–style mask, and wings mounted on what seemed like a steel frame.
Seriously?
Throughout history, people have tried to fly by simply strapping wings to their arms. Never worked. Time and again, those hopeful pioneers went splat. It wasn't until the 20th century that some Frenchman invented a suit that actually let you glide like a flying squirrel. But even then, landing without breaking every bone required either a parachute or insane luck.
I had some flight experience, sure. But where the hell was the parachute on this medieval wingsuit parody?
And damn, it looked ridiculous.
"Put it on. And leave the scabbard. Every extra gram counts."
Why I'd brought an empty scabbard in the first place, I had no idea. Habit, probably.
I squeezed into the outfit, not easy. The steel framework was inscribed with runes and embedded with several crystal capacitors, but I had no clue how it was supposed to work. Artifactology was never Randall's strong suit.
"Doesn't look too reliable," I said, flapping the wings experimentally.
"Our House's founder designed and enchanted these suits for emergency evacuations. They're family relics. Try not to wreck it."
"No problem."
"Tch. I don't like your tone."
The old man pulled a small steel box from his pocket and handed it to me.
"Here. Another family relic. A Frost Rune. Try not to die for nothing. And don't open it unless absolutely necessary. It'll break the concealment. You really want every bandit in the Wild Lands hunting you for that rune?"
"Fine. No problem."
"You are a problem. Lose that rune, and I'll..."
"Strangle me?"
"Disinherit you!"
I just shrugged. Not exactly a terrifying threat.
"Why do I bother...? The suit should get you past the city limits without splattering. Once you land, stash the suit and head for Baron Clemen's lands."
He tossed me a pouch heavy with gold.
"You'll need this. Buy a horse and some weapons. But not near the city. If the marquis finds out you've escaped, he'll send hunters. Stay off the roads. Better to lose a few days than get caught. Wait, you're actually listening to me?"
"Well, for once you're making sense."
"You deserve a whipping for your attitude. Anyway. Remember all that? Good. Now go."
A cold wind howled across the ledge. The city below was plunged into darkness. Only scattered torches and wick lanterns lit the streets, a sharp contrast to modern cities that never sleep.
I bounced on my heels, checking the gear.
"Don't worry. The Founder enchanted these suits with total idiots in mind. Even you shouldn't manage to kill yourself. Just pray to the One you don't land inside the city. Try to make it at least to the outskirts. Ugh... I can feel it in my bones. You're going to screw this up again. Some flea-ridden goblins will gut you, or you'll fall off your horse and break your neck. Just watch."
I rolled my eyes. There he goes again with his doomsday rant.
But then the old man's expression suddenly turned suspicious.
"By the way, Randall. Where's your horse? He's not in the stables."
Time to make my exit.
Before the geezer could start grilling me with more questions, I leapt from the ledge and picked up speed. Wings spread wide, I caught the air current and soared upward.
"I'm not human anymore. I'm goddamn Batman!" I yelled into the mask, though the wind tore the words away instantly.
Despite its archaic appearance, the suit handled much better than I expected. My magic sense told me the power reserves were slowly draining into the runework. No clue how long they'd last, but I'd make the most of it. I caught an updraft and gained a few more meters. The city outskirts were already rushing by beneath me.
At this rate, maybe I'd make it all the way to Baron Clemen's lands.
Or maybe not.
No matter how hard I tried to ride the air currents, I kept losing altitude. Still, I had an idea to fix that.
Hard to concentrate mid-flight, but I managed. I began melting down every piece of metal I had, merging it all into one mass. Shirt buttons turned to tiny clips to keep my clothes from flying off. Belt buckle, cufflinks... I needed every scrap.
The resulting lump was still too small, so I weakened the metal framework of the suit just a bit, carefully avoiding the runed sections.
There. Better.
I shaped the metal into a propeller and spun it using my magic.
Now I wasn't Batman. I was a damn Carlson. Ha! Great. If anyone sees this, I'll be a laughingstock.
Maybe the old man was right. I probably am nuts. But I didn't care how ridiculous I looked. As long as it worked, I was golden. And it did. I stopped losing altitude. In fact, I was climbing.
Huh. If the propeller ran off my magic reserves, and those kept slowly refilling over time, did I just invent a perpetual motion machine?
Something to think about later... Not like I had anything better to do mid-flight.
***
Once, when Randall was still a kid, the old man took him to a reception at Count Veno's estate.
By aristocratic standards, it was a dull evening. A few tame duels between vassals, a couple of servants flogged to death, wine, dancing, political small talk. The host, Count Veno, kept hovering around Baroness Bathory, who wore a scandalously revealing outfit.
She wasn't the highest-ranked noble there, but her stunning looks gave her more influence than any baroness had a right to. Even counts thought twice before contradicting her. And why wouldn't they? Rumor had it she had connections not just among counts and marquises, but dukes too.
With delicate fingers, she poked a piece of fish and let it drop to the floor, barely touching her lips.
"Ugh. This jellied fish is revolting!" she wrinkled her adorable nose. "Have the cook executed. Immediately."
"E-er... Perhaps a flogging would suffice? He's quite good at desserts..."
The Baroness fixed the Count with such a scathing look, he choked on his own spit.
"I-I meant to say, how would Your Grace prefer to have him executed?"
"Gut him like this fish. Let him feel the same suffering I endured from his disgusting cooking."
What struck Randall wasn't the execution itself. He'd seen worse. What stunned him was what she said later, when the dessert was served.
"Oh, now this is truly exquisite. What a pity, Count, that you didn't stand your ground. I'm terribly disappointed..."
Vile, dangerous creature.
Over the years, her beauty had faded, and her character had grown even more monstrous.
Why was I remembering her now?
Ah. Because her opulent manor, glass mosaics glittering in the sunrise, was rapidly approaching.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't hold altitude. I wasn't a plane. I was barely fifty meters off the ground. My mana reserve wasn't empty, but I'd need it on the ground. The suit's crystals were nearly drained too.
I could push myself to the limit and try to fly past her estate entirely. But should I?
The next region was my destination: Baron Clemen's lands.
And arriving there with a half-empty reserve? Not smart.
Damn it.
The image of the butchered cook flashed before my eyes, headless, legs tied ("to make him more fishlike")."
Screw that deranged hag.
I spun the propeller harder and gained just enough altitude. To hell with it. I'd take my chances with the Baron instead.
Villages and fields slipped by below. Here and there, peasants were already working the land. When they saw me, they dropped their tools and fell to their knees.
Finally, someone who found this costume intimidating instead of ridiculous. They probably thought I was some monster or a mighty sorcerer. Honestly? That warmed my heart. I was starting to accept that I looked more like a scarecrow than a hero.
The Baroness's territory finally ended. Time to land.
Except... in the distance, I saw an unusually large group of peasants gathered, and their clothing was odd. All in green?
The suit suddenly jolted, and a shrill chime rang out behind me.
One of the power crystals had shattered.
Startled, I lost control of the propeller, and off it flew, spiraling up into the sky.
Damn it!
I dropped into an uncontrollable dive. Some magic still worked in the suit. I could feel waves of air warping around me, softening the fall. But it wasn't enough.
I smashed into the treetops like a cannonball, somehow avoiding being pulped by the thick branches. The mask ripped from my face. One wing caught on a branch, yanking me sideways and nearly tearing my arm off. A few more crashes through lower branches, and I ended up dangling eight meters above the ground, firmly stuck by the wing.
Great.
My arm throbbed like hell, probably dislocated, and the branches hadn't exactly been gentle on the rest of me either. But hey, nothing seemed broken. Let's call it a successful landing!
Especially since the locals I'd spotted earlier were already rushing toward me.
Except their skin was green, not their clothes. And their faces... sweet mother of gods. Compared to them, Tolkien's orcs were cover models. Goblins.
A dozen of the hideous freaks swarmed around the tree, waving crude spears. From the air, I'd seen hundreds more. A full raid?
One of the nasty little things nocked an arrow to a primitive bow. I reached for my Source to deflect the shot, but the magic couldn't latch on.
The arrow zipped past my head and thudded into the tree trunk. The wooden shaft quivered, its rough fletching brushing my cheek. I glanced at the tip.
Bone. Of course. Damn it, this just got serious.
Sorry, Grandpa. I'm not bringing this suit back.
I yanked all the remaining metal from the suit's frame and dove, flinging razor-sharp shards down into the goblins as I fell. The ground slammed into me, stunning me for a second.
Blinding pain shot through my side. One of the little bastards had taken advantage of that moment to ram a spear deep into my ribs, at least a hand's length in.
Blood blurred my vision.
....
***
Goblin corpses lay scattered around me, torn to shreds. One severed arm still clutched a spear. A ripped-out heart twitched on the bloody grass. The matching body, chest gaping, convulsed in rhythm.
Only one goblin remained. He knelt in the dirt, weapon discarded, babbling in his broken tongue. Swearing loyalty? Begging for mercy?
I tore his head off in one fluid motion and sank my will into his now-unshielded soul.
Disgusting little soul. Nothing but the urge to dominate the weak and screw anything that moves. Tasted like old boot leather and had the nutritional value of tree bark. Repulsive, but I needed to heal.
I chewed through his memories, ignoring the endless loops of murder and rape. Hmm.
I'd been right. It was a raid. A force of several hundred split into multiple groups, each targeting a different village. One led by the nominal chieftain, a hobgoblin born of a captured peasant woman. The other? A shaman.
Goblin mages were rare and supposedly quite tasty.
Decision made. I was going after the shaman. His soul would restore my strength. And strangely, I wanted to save the villagers. Weird. But I never denied myself whims, no matter how irrational.
For some reason, I wiped my clawed hands on the beheaded corpse, then jogged out of the forest.
On the first road I came across, leading toward one of the villages, I was intercepted by a squad of highly suspicious guards.
Their faces were hidden beneath deep-hooded cloaks, despite the clear daylight. Under the cloaks, I could smell metal and sulfur. Armor. But something about them was oddly familiar.
The group closed in, cackling and sneering. Some twitched convulsively. Even through the cloaks, I could see it. They reeked of bloodlust and sick amusement.
I assumed a casual stance. No point flexing early. Surprise was more effective.
The commander's eyes glowed crimson under the hood, and his deep voice rumbled:
"The Master demands your presence, Randall Condor." The tone was mocking. Disrespectful.
That name. It sounded familiar. Pretty sure it was mine.
I'd consider eating this loser to learn more, but their bodies reeked of the Abyss. Worse, they were Warriors, the opposite of sweet, juicy Mages. Eating them would be like chewing a cactus. Worse than goblins.
"Come quietly, or we'll break every bone in your body," one hissed. The others howled in support.
I stepped up to the commander and peered beneath his hood. The rest were nothing, barely stronger than humans.
But this one was worth attention.
"Who did you say your master was?" I asked, tilting my head birdlike.
"The Great Master, Clemen Brute," he answered, but his tone was no longer mocking. It had grown cautious. He sensed I wasn't human.
"Wrong." I grabbed his throat. Claws pierced flesh. "I am your master!"
Our eyes locked. Blood ran down his neck. For a long moment, he stared into the Abyss, testing his will. Then he lowered his gaze and knelt.
"Hail, Lord. What are your orders?"
The others fell silent and followed suit. Demons always respected hierarchy.
I hesitated a moment. Strangely, sending them to defend the second village felt right.
Rationally, I should've ordered them to butcher the villagers and consume their souls, strengthen my new minions.
But I didn't want to. So I didn't.
"Head southwest. Exterminate the goblins and bring me their chieftain's head. Do not harm the villagers, or you'll face my wrath."
***
Goblins may be vaguely humanoid, but they're rats. Disgusting, weak, small, but frighteningly fast-breeding. They can mate with anything, spawning countless subspecies, a favorite subject of study for chimera specialists.
They're stupid, but not mindless. Their shamans are as intelligent as an average human. You can try to negotiate with a goblin... though it always ends in betrayal.
Because at the end of the day, they're vile, sadistic creatures who live only to kill, eat, and breed.
Which means there's only one solution: extermination.
Not sure why I even started thinking about their sapience. Whether they're "people" or not — they're parasites.
The locals clearly agreed. Young and old alike grabbed anything they could find and fought for their lives. A stocky man was swinging an axe with wild fury, but there were just too many goblins. Their crude spears were already stained with blood. One goblin screeched and thrashed, impaled on a pitchfork — just death spasms now. Behind the pitchfork-wielder stood a boy clutching a long dagger. The attack had been sudden, but people here, on the border with the Wild Lands, were no strangers to violence.
Houses were burning. Goblins hadn't hesitated to toss a few torches onto the thatched roofs. Smoke, chaos, and screams were everywhere.
Perfect cover for me to carve a path through their ranks, ripping apart anything that stood between me and the raid leader.
I inhaled the scent of blood and corrected course.
Dinner was close.
The shaman's squad had stopped in the middle of the village street.
The withered yellow skin of the old goblin was marked with crude magical runes. He stood with eyes closed, waving a staff, clearly casting something. He was guarded by a few hulking monsters, larger and fatter than normal goblins. Gray-skinned, wearing crude armor woven from vine cords, and wielding real axes, not sticks.
Hobgoblins. Elite warriors of goblin tribes. As strong as trained human fighters. A serious threat to any village.
To me? Just meat.
The guards died before they even knew they were under attack.
I snapped the neck of the last one and hurled the heavy corpse straight at the shaman. The boarlike body exploded in a splash of gore when it intercepted a goblin spell, but I was already in striking range.
His rune-covered skin began to smoke. The shaman had realized he wasn't getting out alive. Time to make his death count. But it was too late. He'd wasted too much time trying to hex me.
One lightning-fast strike shattered half his skull. Mana burst free, spraying wild energy into the air. His staff, set with a crude crystal, fell from his limp fingers.
A mage's soul. Finally, a meal worthy of restoring my strength.
Time for a feast.
...But something was wrong.
The shaman's soul didn't whet my appetite. Why?
Why didn't I want to eat it?
Something was off. Was that hesitation even mine?
I felt myself slipping, and with the last of my will, I tore off a chunk of the goblin's essence...
***
The blood-haze lifted.
My mouth tasted of mushroom brew and goblin chants. My arms were soaked in blood. Every muscle ached, but my side was whole again. Just a rip in the cloak marked where the wound had been.
I coughed. My eyes watered from the smoke.
I felt like crap, but I couldn't waste another second.
The question that had haunted me since the castle finally had an answer.
The demon had been summoned.
And I needed to deal with that. Fast.
I hadn't let it feed, but that bought me only a brief reprieve.
It had to be sealed.
Legs barely working, I staggered to the shaman's corpse and yanked the crystal from his staff.
Crap quality, but better than nothing.
His blood would help too. I began sketching a ritual circle in the dirt.
A peasant with a water bucket rounded the corner, saw me, and turned right back around. Smart man. No need to get in my way.
Admittedly, this wasn't the best place. First time I'd ever had to perform a ritual in the middle of a burning village. But it had to be done.
The circle was ready, but my only power source was the crappy crystal. Damn. If only I had a few goblins left. But the survivors had already fled.
"Master, your command is fulfilled."
The hobgoblin's severed head landed at my feet, nearly smearing the blood-drawn lines.
"Damn it! Watch it! Stand guard. Keep the locals away from me."
The possessed squad captain hesitated. He couldn't sense the monster inside me anymore.
"I disguised myself," I explained. "You and your men, keep pretending to serve your previous master. Don't let him suspect anything."
Instinct screamed at me. I couldn't let the demon know I needed anything. Need implied weakness. The more a demon has to adapt to the world, the fewer rights it has to command others.
The captain nodded, pulled up his hood, and took position. His squad fanned out, securing the street.
Good.
No one would interrupt me now.
Time to begin the sealing ritual.
Let's just hope I survive it.
***
Interlude
Count Condor stood at the parlor window, wine glass in hand, gazing out over the city.
Lately, he'd found himself relaxing this way more often than usual. His nerves were frayed. Too much had changed in just a few short days. Too many problems had emerged the moment the veil of routine was torn away.
He never imagined his worthless grandson had so thoroughly neglected the family. For the Count, raised in the traditions of his forebears, the House was inseparable from life itself. And yet, that little brat had practically sworn to destroy everything... over a filthy maid!
Unthinkable.
The Lord knew he bore some blame. He'd neglected the boy's upbringing, turned a blind eye to the drinking, the forbidden arts. Pff. Let the pup believe he'd fooled his grandfather — Count Condor was no fool. He knew full well that the Inquisition didn't take an interest in nobles without reason.
The fact they had no proof was enough to deflect suspicion, but for the Count, the attention alone was proof.
He sipped the wine. A fine vintage, bottled back when his daughter was still alive.
He turned away from the window. The night had made him sentimental.
Still... the boy might be unprepared, but that was his own doing. The Count had weighed the risks and made a bet.
The bet had failed.
Now, in the next round, his position was worse. But Randall wasn't as hopeless as he seemed. Stubbornness, the ability to stand his ground, not a bad foundation for an heir. All that remained was to teach him one simple truth: a mage is nothing without a House. Maybe then the boy would finally get his act together.
But that was just a fantasy, until the Decree was fulfilled.
The king's commission was the crucible. In it, his hothouse flower of a grandson would either burn to ash or be tempered into steel.
If Randall succeeded, House Condor would rise anew and reclaim its rightful place in society.
But the Count wasn't the only one hoping for that outcome.
The scent of change had reached the jackals, and they were lifting their heads.
Even now, a letter sat on the desk in his study. He hadn't opened it. Didn't need to. Just seeing the sender's name was enough to know what it contained.
Vague platitudes. Subtle probing.
Like duelists circling before the strike, the schemers were circling his family.
One could not rise without opposition. There would always be those who saw a House's resurgence as a threat. Who'd demand a cut, or come collecting old debts...
But there would also be those who found it advantageous. Who might become temporary allies.
While his grandson fought on the front lines, he would fight here — in drawing rooms and correspondence.
The Count drained his glass in a single gulp and strode toward his study.
Time to compose a reply.
The first of many.
The Great Game had begun anew, and it was time to place his bets.
And pray they wouldn't fail him again.