The iron gates of the Dunzel estate groaned open like the jaws of some slumbering beast stirring from centuries of sleep. Blake pressed his face against the carriage bars, eyes hollow, watching as the procession entered the family grounds he had never truly known.
The estate sprawled before him—a gray stone manor squatting atop a low hill, its architecture brutal in its practicality. No ornate towers, no delicate spires. Just thick walls, narrow windows, and a main hall whose chimneys belched no smoke. The surrounding grounds were overgrown, untamed hedges clawing toward the pathways like grasping hands. Servant quarters flanked the main building, their shutters hanging crooked, paint peeling in long strips that curled like dead skin.
This is supposed to be my home? Blake's stomach churned. It looks like a tomb where even ghosts would file complaints about the lack of maintenance.
One of the shackled hooligans beside him let out a low whistle. "Well, ain't this a cheerful place. I've seen plague houses with better curb appeal."
"Shut it," another prisoner hissed, but Blake found himself nodding in agreement. At least the criminals had reasonable standards.
The carriage jerked to a halt in the circular courtyard. Ferolina dismounted with fluid grace, her white stallion snorting mist into the evening air. Her crimson-crested knights formed ranks, boots striking cobblestones in perfect unison—a sound like war drums echoing against the manor's facade.
The carriage door was yanked open. Rough hands hauled Blake out alongside the other prisoners. They stumbled onto the stones, legs weak from hours of confinement.
Blake's knees buckled. He caught himself with his palms, scraped skin stinging as gravel bit into flesh. The system window still hovered at the edge of his vision, that cursed [ACCEPT] button pulsing with patient mockery.
"Careful there, boy" one knight said, though his tone suggested he'd rather Blake face-plant properly next time.
Not yet, Blake thought again, teeth clenched as he pushed himself upright. Not in front of them. Can't let them see me talking to invisible game menus. That's how you get labeled the 'mad noble heir' in chapter two.
"Separate them," Ferolina commanded, her voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. "The criminals to the holding cells. The boy..." Her red eyes fixed on Blake with an intensity that made his skin crawl. "Bring him to the manor. I want to know why every cutthroat wants him dead."
Blake's mouth opened before his brain caught up. "You know, I've been wondering that myself! Maybe we could compare notes? Like a murder mystery book club, but with actual murder?"
The knights exchanged glances. Ferolina's expression remained carved from ice.
"Sir Gareth," she said slowly, "did the young master just suggest we form a book club about his own assassination attempts?"
The burly knight holding Blake's left arm cleared his throat. "I... believe so, Ms. Ferolina."
"Interesting." Her lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Take him inside. Clearly, the trauma has affected his mind."
Two knights seized Blake under his arms, lifting him bodily from the ground. His feet dragged across the courtyard as they hauled him toward the manor's entrance. The hooligans shouted protests, their voices fading as they were herded toward the estate's lower dungeons.
"For what it's worth," one of them yelled, "this family really needs to hire a groundskeeper!"
"Noted!" Blake called back weakly.
The manor doors opened with a reluctant creak. Inside, darkness swallowed the fading daylight. No candles burned in the sconces. No servants rushed to greet their young master's return. The entrance hall stretched before them—a vast, cold space where their footsteps echoed like stones dropped into empty wells.
Dust sheets covered furniture Blake couldn't remember. Portraits lined the walls, faces obscured by grime and shadow. One painting hung askew, its subject's eyes seeming to follow him as the knights dragged him deeper into the building.
"So," Blake ventured, trying to ignore how his voice cracked, "does anyone actually live here, or did my family just decide to maintain a really expensive haunted house?" murmured to himself.
As if summoned by their arrival, an old man with an eye patch stepped out from the shadows near the gate. His gait was steady despite his years, his one good eye sharp and assessing as it moved between them.
"Are you with the Chief Inquisitor?" he asked, his voice gravelly but controlled.
Sir Gareth inclined his head. "We are. My men and I require lodging for the night."
The old man nodded, the faintest trace of recognition crossing his weathered face. "Aye, I was told to expect you. Name's Corren—a new hand, assigned to tend the outer hall." He paused, glancing toward the distant corridor that curved deeper into the compound.
With a small gesture, he motioned for them to follow. His limp was subtle but noticeable, the kind that spoke of old wounds rather than frailty. As he led them down the dimly lit passage, the sound of boots on stone echoed softly, mingling with the faint whisper of wind through the cracked shutters.
They ascended a staircase, each step groaning beneath their weight. The wood was old, warped, protesting every burden. Second floor. Third. Blake lost count. His head throbbed, vision swimming with exhaustion and lingering trauma. The images from Redfront flickered behind his eyelids every time he blinked—corpses, blood, that child's empty eyes.
"This way, sir," Corren said, stopping before a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bands. "It's not the main quarters, but it's clean and quiet. You'll have privacy here. Not much to look at, but it'll keep the cold out and the walls solid."
Gareth gave a curt nod. "That will do."
Corren inclined his head respectfully, his tone softening just slightly. "If you need anything—food, firewood, just send a word for me."
"Baron Mathiel, resides in the capital. Baroness passed three years ago. The estate has been... minimally staffed."
"Minimally as in...?" , Sir Gareth prompted.
"Two groundskeepers who quit last month." Corren replied.
Blake's laugh came out slightly hysterical. "Fantastic. So I'm the sole occupant of a creepy abandoned mansion. This is fine. This is absolutely fine. Next, you'll tell me the basement has mysterious scratching sounds."
"Actually—" corren began.
"Don't," Blake interrupted. "Please don't finish that sentence. I'm begging you."
The old man's single eye lingered a moment longer, as if weighing something unspoken, before he turned and disappeared back down the corridor, his steps fading into the hush of the outer hall.
He stumbled, catching himself against a dust-covered desk. The room was sparse—a bed with a thin mattress, a wardrobe with one door hanging loose, a single window with bars across it. Moonlight filtered through, casting prison-stripe shadows across the floor.
"Your quarters" Sir Gareth said, and this time there was something almost apologetic in his tone. "Ms. Ferolina's orders. Until we understand the situation."
The humor drained from his voice. "How many... how many died at Redfront?"
Silence answered him. Heavy. Suffocating.
Sir Gareth finally spoke, his voice softer than before. "All of them. Every soul."
Blake's throat closed. He stopped trying to make jokes.
"Wait—do I at least get dinner?!" he called out.
Blake turned, mouth opening to protest, but the door slammed shut. The lock turned. Footsteps retreated down the corridor.
Silence.
"...I'll take that as a no."
Blake sank onto the bed, springs squealing like tortured mice. For a long moment, he simply sat there, hands trembling, mind blank. Then the shaking spread—shoulders, chest, legs. His whole body convulsed with the weight of everything that had happened.
I saved an old man. Just one old man. And for that... for that, Truck-Kun sends me here. To this nightmare.
A broken laugh escaped his throat. "Some protagonist I turned out to be. Can't ride a horse. Got robbed by a possibly-imaginary old woman. Recruited a High Inquisitor as a waitress. And now I'm locked in my own ancestral home like a stray dog." He glared at the ceiling. "If this is the 'Obsidian Package,' I'd hate to see what Basic looked like!"
The system window flickered, and new text appeared.
[User mood: Deteriorating]
[Recommendation: Accept pending quest to improve survival odds]
[Reminder: Sarcasm will not defeat assassins]
"Oh, NOW you have commentary?" Blake hissed at the translucent screen. "Where were you when that horse was dragging me through half the kingdom? Where were you when I got robbed? Were you taking a coffee break?"
[System does not consume coffee]
[System is always active]
[User simply wasn't asking the right questions]
"I HATE YOU SO MUCH."
[Noted. Would you like to file a formal complaint?]
[Warning: Complaint department currently experiencing delays of 500-1000 business years]
Despite everything, Blake felt a strangled laugh bubble up. Even his supernatural cheat system was mocking him. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
His eyes drifted back to the actual quest notification.
[URGENT QUEST – FOUNDATION]
Objective: Increase expertise in the Vaultegg Mana Technique
Reward: Vaultegg's Amulet, +10 Gold
Fail Condition: Death
That last line. Always that last line. Death.
Blake stared at the [ACCEPT] button. Every survival instinct screamed warnings—stories he'd read where cultivation techniques backfired, where mana channels exploded, where practitioners burned from the inside out.
But what choice did he have?
Assassins hunted him. The queen's prophecy marked him as either savior or destroyer. Ferolina suspected him of dark dealings. And he had nothing—no allies, no skills, no understanding of this world beyond fragmented memories of a spoiled brat who'd gotten everyone killed.
"Alright, System," Blake muttered, raising his finger. "If this kills me, I'm haunting you specifically. Hope you like ghost complaints."
[System cannot be haunted]
[Proceed at your own risk]
[Good luck]
Those last two words somehow felt genuine. Blake's finger pressed [ACCEPT].
The system window exploded into light.
Pain lanced through his skull like someone had replaced his brain with molten iron. Blake's mouth opened in a silent scream, back arching, every muscle locking rigid. The world dissolved into searing whiteness.
Knowledge flooded in—violent as a dam bursting. Diagrams of the human body, mana channels mapped in intricate detail, breathing patterns that defied natural rhythm. The Vaultegg Technique unfolded in his mind like an ancient scroll being forcibly unrolled, each section more complex than the last.
His body moved without consent. His lungs emptied in a violent exhale, then pulled in air with desperate hunger. Something else came with it—an energy he'd never felt before, invisible yet tangible, sliding into his chest like cold silk.
His veins lit up from within. Blake looked down at his arms and saw faint blue lines tracing beneath his skin, pulsing with each heartbeat. It burned—not with heat, but with pressure, like his blood vessels were suddenly too small for what flowed through them.
Then came the second wave.
Something ancient and furious stirred in the deepest part of his being, roused by the sudden influx of power. The demon fragment. It rose like a shark sensing blood, drawn to the mana coursing through his newly awakened channels.
Oh no—
The presence lunged. Blake's body convulsed, spine bending backward at an impossible angle. His mouth opened, and this time the scream found voice—raw and animal, tearing from his throat.
Two forces collided inside him. Mana technique and demon fragment, fighting for dominance. His skin rippled, veins bulging, heart hammering so hard it threatened to burst through his ribs.
Then Hwi-seong's consciousness—the third soul inhabiting this broken body—surged forward with desperate instinct. Not to fight. Not to dominate. But to mediate. Like a referee throwing himself between two rabid dogs, his essence wedged itself between technique and demon, absorbing the collision's impact.
The three forces spiraled together—human technique, demonic corruption, otherworldly soul—braiding into something that should not exist. Something new.
Blake's body went limp, collapsing sideways onto the bed. Sweat soaked through his clothes, pooling beneath him. Each breath felt like broken glass dragging through his lungs.
But he was alive.
The system window flickered back, text scrolling with visible confusion.
[WARNING: Anomalous Cultivation Detected]
[...What did you just do?]
[Vaultegg Technique Foundation: 8%]
[Unknown Variable Interference Detected]
[Mana Channels: Stable... Unstable... ??? ]
[Recalibrating...]
[New Status: HYBRID CULTIVATION - Origin Unknown]
[System Note: This shouldn't be possible]
[System Note: Please stop breaking reality]
Blake stared at the words through blurred vision, too exhausted to even laugh. "Sorry," he wheezed. "Next time... I'll try... breaking reality... more politely..."
Outside his barred window, night had fully fallen. In the courtyard below, Ferolina stood speaking with her second-in-command.
"Did you hear that scream?" Sir Gareth asked quietly.
Ferolina's gaze lifted toward Blake's window, eyes narrowing. "Yes. Something's wrong with that boy."
"Should we check on him?"
"Give him an hour. If he survives whatever he's doing to himself, then we'll talk."
Blake didn't hear them. He'd already surrendered to unconsciousness, body claiming desperately needed rest.
But in the depths of his merged soul, three entities stirred—no longer fighting, but not yet at peace.
The world's prophecy had proclaimed Blake Dunzel would either raise the empire to glory or burn it to ashes.
What it hadn't predicted was that he would do both—because he was no longer entirely human.
And somewhere in his fractured consciousness, Hwi-seong's final coherent thought before sleep took him was: I really hope there's breakfast in the morning.