While Blake sat slumped against the door, his mind spun through worst-case scenarios like shuffling cards in a rigged deck.
If they find out I'm not really Blake Dunzel—if that divine test had gone differently—what then?
Escape? From people who could teleport entire execution chambers into existence with a word? From a woman who commanded knights like chess pieces and smiled like a predator sizing up prey? From a Chief Inquisitor who casually joked about displaying severed heads at festivals?
His fingers pressed harder against his throat. The warm mana core below his navel pulsed with anxious energy, but what good was a bit of cultivation progress against people who could apparently rewrite reality?
I'd be dead before I reached the door. They'd—
A sharp knock shattered his spiraling thoughts.
"Young master!" A knight's voice, muffled through the heavy wood. "You're requested in the main hall. Lady Ferolina wishes to speak with you."
Blake's blood turned to ice water. Ferolina. That name alone conjured the memory—her sitting in the inn, that strange playful smile curving her lips. The smile of a cat that had just spotted a particularly amusing mouse. The smile that had preceded him being dragged away by armored knights into the night.
Goosebumps erupted across his skin, a wave of cold prickling from his neck down his spine, spreading across his arms. His body remembered the danger even as his mind tried to rationalize it.
"Also," the knight continued, "someone named Pabel has arrived. He's asking to see you."
Pabel.
The name hit Blake like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. Relief flooded through him so suddenly his eyes stung with unexpected tears.
Pabel. The scarred veteran who'd stood between him and death. Who'd fought with desperate skill against overwhelming numbers. Who'd given him a horse and directions and bought him time with his own blood. Someone who was entirely, completely on his side—sworn to protect him, paid to keep him alive.
Blake's throat tightened. All the fear, the exhaustion, the accumulated trauma of days spent running and hiding and nearly dying crashed over him at once. Tears welled up properly now, blurring his vision.
Someone who actually cares if I live or die. Someone who's not testing me or suspecting me or—
He pushed himself up from the floor, legs still shaky, and reached for the door handle.
Then the system window exploded across his vision in blazing crimson.
[URGENT QUEST: RUN AWAY]
Target: Pabel
Reward: 10 Stat Points, +5 Gold
Fail Condition: Torture to Death
Blake froze, hand suspended inches from the handle.
What.
His mind went completely blank, thoughts scattering like startled birds.
What do you mean "run away"?! From Pabel?! He fought with his life on the line for me! Why would I have a problem with—
Another knock, harder this time. "Young master? Are you alright in there?"
Blake shook his head violently, trying to clear the confusion. This doesn't make sense. Pabel is the ONE person I can trust in this nightmare world. The system must be glitching. Another error like when it couldn't figure out my hybrid cultivation. It has to be wrong.
"Coming!" he called out, voice cracking slightly.
He opened the door. The knight stood waiting, expression neutral but expectant.
Blake followed him down the corridor, mind racing. Pabel is a guard who has to save me. Literally his job description. Why would there be a problem?
They descended the stairs, passed through the entrance hall with its dust-covered furniture and grime-obscured portraits. Each step felt automatic, body moving while his thoughts churned.
The system's never been wrong before. Even when it was sarcastic, even when it gave me impossible quests, it was never actually WRONG about—
A sudden realization hit him like a fist to the gut.
Oh.
Oh no.
I'm not the real Blake Dunzel.
His feet stopped moving. The knight ahead glanced back. "Young master?"
"Sorry, just—nervous," Blake managed, forcing his legs to resume walking.
But his mind was screaming now. Pabel knows Blake Dunzel. The REAL Blake. Has probably served the family for years. Knows his mannerisms, his voice, his preferences, his—
"Oh shit," Blake whispered aloud.
The knight glanced back again but said nothing.
If Pabel recognizes that I'm not actually Blake—that I'm someone else wearing his face, speaking with a different voice, moving differently—even memory loss won't explain that. You don't forget how to BE yourself. Your basic personality doesn't just vanish because you hit your head.
But wait. He paused at the entrance to the main hall, one hand on the doorframe. It fooled Aldric. It fooled Ferolina. They bought the memory loss excuse.
It'll work. It has to work. I'll just... be confident. Act like I belong. Nobility is all about confidence anyway, right?
And besides—the thought crystallized with almost manic brightness—I'm going to be the queen's groom. Her chosen one. Her prophesied consort. They HAVE to be careful with me now. They can't just execute the queen's future husband over minor inconsistencies.
His confidence, fragile and desperate, built itself on foundations of pure wishful thinking.
Right. I'm basically royalty-adjacent now. They'll have to show me respect. Watch what they say around me. If I become king eventually—which, let's be honest, sounds amazing—they'll need to stay on my good side.
Blake straightened his stolen commoner clothes as best he could, lifted his chin, and strode into the hall with manufactured confidence.
The scene before him was intimate and formal at once. Three figures sat around a small section of the long table—Ferolina in her white cloak with crimson crest, Aldric slightly to her side still wearing his battle-worn armor, and across from them a man Blake recognized from the memories of forest ambush, A loyal soldier.
Pabel. Older than most soldiers, that jagged scar cutting down his weathered face, eyes that had seen too many battles. He sat stiffly, clearly uncomfortable in the presence of Inquisitors. Two empty chairs waited beside him.
Behind Ferolina, Sir Gareth stood like a tower—no, like a turret. Ready to shoot at orders. Alert. Dangerous.
Food had been laid out on the table—simple fare, but more than Blake had seen in days. Bread, cheese, some kind of meat pie, fruit.
Blake's stomach growled traitorously.
"Hey everyone," he said, voice carrying false cheer as he approached. "Let's just move right away. You too, Pabel." He offered what he hoped was a warm smile, the kind a nobleman would give a loyal servant. "We're on demand now, right? Queen's orders and all that. Let's get started."
He dropped into the chair beside Pabel with deliberately casual ease, reaching immediately for the nearest pie. His fingers closed around it, brought it to his mouth, and bit down without hesitation.
Delicious. Actual food. Warm and savory and—
"Young master Blake," Pabel's voice cut through his food-focused bliss. Deep with emotion. Heavy with shame.
Blake glanced over, still chewing.
Pabel's expression was anguished. "I'm sorry that you had to go through all that inconvenience because of my incompetence." His scarred hands clenched on the table. "I should have protected you better. Should have anticipated the ambush. Should have—" His voice cracked. "I'm just... I'm really very happy that you're safe."
The man's face was gloomy, ashamed, carrying the weight of perceived failure like a physical burden.
Something in Blake's chest twisted. This man actually cares.
"It's okay," Blake said around a mouthful of pie, words muffled. "All's well if the ending is well, right?"
He reached for another piece, stuffing it into his mouth before he'd finished the first. Hunger overrode manners. He'd barely eaten in days, and his body was demanding calories to fuel his new cultivation.
Pabel watched him eat, expression shifting from shame to confusion to something else. Something uncertain.
"Young master," he said slowly, carefully. "You don't like klum-berries, though. You're eating a pie made of it."
Blake's hand, reaching for a third piece, froze mid-motion.
"Master, is there something wrong?" Pabel's voice carried growing concern. "You seem to have changed somehow."
The temperature in the hall plummeted.
Ferolina's red eyes snapped to Blake with predatory focus. Aldric's casual posture vanished, replaced by coiled tension. Even Gareth shifted behind them, hand drifting toward his sword.
The atmosphere changed in a single heartbeat—from cordial meeting to interrogation chamber.
Blake's mind went blank. Klum-berries? What the hell are klum-berries?!
Then the system window exploded across his vision in panic-red.
[URGENT QUEST UPDATED]
Objective: Get Out Of Danger Somehow
Reward: 10 Stat Points, +5 Gold
Fail Condition: DEATH
The word DEATH pulsed like a warning klaxon.
Blake's thoughts slammed back into focus. What Pabel just said—Blake Dunzel doesn't like klum-berries—and I just ate an entire pie made of them without hesitation or complaint—
Sweat formed on his forehead. Actual beads of cold terror rolling down his temples.
He stopped chewing. The food in his mouth turned to ash.
Ferolina leaned forward slightly. "Blake?" Her voice was silk over steel. "Is something wrong?"
Aldric's hand rested on his sword hilt. Casual. Ready.
Pabel's confusion was giving way to suspicion. His eyes narrowed, studying Blake's face like a puzzle that didn't quite fit together.
Blake's mind raced through options at lightspeed. Explain? Deflect? Run? Fight? Each option led to immediate death.
Then inspiration born of pure panic struck.
His eyes rolled back. His body went limp.
THUD.
Blake pitched forward, face-first toward the table, body sliding off the chair with boneless grace. He hit the floor hard, cheek pressed against cold stone, one arm bent awkwardly beneath him.
Perfect. Play dead. When in doubt, lose consciousness. It's worked before.
"Young master!" Pabel's chair scraped violently as he shot to his feet. Heavy boots thundered across the floor. Strong hands grabbed Blake's shoulders, rolling him onto his back. "What happened?! Are there injuries he hasn't been treated for?!"
Pabel's voice rose with genuine panic as he turned on the Inquisitors. "What's his condition? Why did he just collapse?!"
Through barely-cracked eyelids, Blake could see Aldric standing, moving closer with measured calm.
"Peace, soldier," the Chief Inquisitor said with practiced authority. "The boy took a head injury during the attack. He's been experiencing occasional episodes—memory loss, confusion, sudden unconsciousness."
"A head injury?!" Pabel's hands moved to Blake's skull, fingers probing gently for wounds. "Why wasn't I informed immediately?! This is—"
"He's been examined," Ferolina interrupted smoothly, though Blake could hear the calculation in her voice. "The injury isn't life-threatening, but it's affecting his behavior. Explaining the memory gaps, the personality changes you've noticed."
"Memory loss..." Pabel repeated, voice heavy with understanding and new concern. "That would explain why he didn't recognize the berries. Why he seems different."
"Exactly, What it seems to be" Aldric said. "Don't worry. Once we reach the capital, the royal palace healers will tend to him. They have resources we lack here. Magic that can repair even brain injuries if caught in time."
Pabel looked down at Blake's "unconscious" form, expression torn between relief and worry. "He'll recover? Fully?"
"The palace healers are the finest in the kingdom," Aldric assured him. "If anyone can restore his memories, they can."
Blake lay perfectly still, controlling his breathing, keeping his face slack. Inside, his mind screamed.
Did it work? Did they buy it? Or are they just playing along until they can execute me properly?!
The system window pulsed at the edge of his closed-eye vision.
[Quest Status: In Progress]
[Current Survival Odds: 47%]
[Recommendation: Continue Playing Dead]
[Note: You're getting concerningly good at this]
Pabel's scarred hand touched Blake's forehead gently, almost fatherly. "Hold on, young master. We'll get you home. We'll get you healed."
Above Blake's prone form, three sets of eyes met.
Ferolina's gaze held questions. Aldric's held suspicion barely restrained. And Pabel's held only concern.
But underneath the table, out of sight, Ferolina's hand made a subtle gesture.
Gareth's shadow shifted.
And Blake, lying on cold stone with a mouthful of half-chewed klum-berry pie and terror coating his tongue, knew with absolute certainty:
This wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
He shouted at himself inwardly, ' why did i not trust my gut instinct , even the system warned me to run away ' he sobbed not letting a voice out , just think about the situation he is in.