It's here!
Blake didn't so much as flinch at the sudden ambush. He tossed aside the dying torch and drew the longsword at his waist in one fluid motion, the blade slicing a graceful arc through the air as it struck at the threat behind him.
His strike met nothing but empty darkness—but through the Nightsteel blade, Blake instantly felt the solid, tangible presence lurking in the void.
The shadows all around him coiled inward, then recoiled as if struck, melting and merging into a hazy, indistinct humanoid form.
A shaft of pale moonlight filtered down through the well's opening, casting a faint glow over the darkness below. By that meager light, Blake could finally make out the figure before him. Its body was wreathed in roiling black mist, two bright crimson pinpricks glowing where its eyes should be—burning with an unbridled, murderous rage. Beyond those glowing points, it had no discernible features. A guttural snarl erupted from its misty form, sending a faint tingle of numbness creeping up Blake's spine.
An **Arcane Wraith!**
Recognition flickered across Blake's face, and he raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise.
Arcane Wraiths were the corrupted spirits of mages who'd died with immense magical power still swirling within their souls. They were extraordinarily rare. After all, mages—especially powerful ones—had countless ways to cheat death. Even if they *did* meet an untimely end, their souls rarely lingered in the mortal realm. Instead, they dissipated, their essence returning to the world as pure mana. In his long life, Blake had only encountered three such wraiths. Unlike living mages, Arcane Wraiths couldn't weave intricate, varied spells—but they were saturated with raw, unbridled magical energy. Ordinary weapons were useless against them; even enchanted blades forged to slay spirits would be drastically weakened by the sheer force of their arcane aura.
But that wasn't what made Arcane Wraiths truly terrifying. Stripped of all sanity and reason by their transformation, they existed solely to destroy—*everything*. Any living thing that crossed their path would be annihilated without mercy, without hesitation, without regard for cost or consequence.
Imagine facing a madman armed with a nuclear bomb who didn't care if it went off—and you'd understand the sheer dread of confronting an Arcane Wraith. If it unleashed its full power, not even this ancient castle would be left standing.
No choice but to get serious.
Blake's expression turned cold and sharp. He flipped the sword in his hand, and a faint blue light began to glow along the intricate patterns etched into the blade—dim, flickering, and weak.
A Nightsteel sword that hadn't been properly awakened could do no more than this.
Stung by the sword's aura, the Arcane Wraith locked onto Blake as its prey. It let out a deafening roar and lunged at him, its misty arms outstretched.
*Clang!*
Blake swung his sword to meet the attack, barely parrying the wraith's thick, incorporeal limbs. If this had been an ordinary steel blade, it would've passed right through the wraith's form, useless against the spirit's ethereal body. Only Nightsteel's unique properties allowed him to land a solid hit.
Yet even as their weapons clashed, Blake felt a flicker of confusion.
The wraith's strength was far weaker than he'd expected. It was brimming with magical energy and murderous intent, yes—but its physical power was surprisingly lacking. In his past encounters with Arcane Wraiths, the fights had always been brutal stalemates, neither side gaining the upper hand. But now… Blake could *feel* it. This wraith was weaker than the ones he'd faced before. Weak enough that he might actually be able to overpower it.
Could it be… *unripe*? A young wraith that hadn't fully matured yet?
Blake didn't let his guard down, even as the thought crossed his mind. Arcane Wraiths were mindless, instinct-driven killing machines—but who knew what twisted instincts guided this one? He immediately stepped back, putting distance between himself and the wraith. But the shadowy figure wasn't about to give up. It roared again and lunged forward, only to be blocked by Blake's sword once more, unable to breach his defenses.
After several fruitless exchanges, the wraith grew visibly frustrated. Its snarls took on a note of agitated desperation—and that was when Blake felt it. The Ethereal Power hanging thick in the air began to converge on the wraith's form, flowing into it like a river. As the energy flooded its body, the wraith's misty silhouette swelled, growing denser and more solid, radiating a far more potent aura of power.
So that's how it is!
Blake instantly grasped the truth—and acted. He didn't wait for the wraith to finish gathering power and strike first. Instead, he took two quick steps forward, launching an offensive of his own.
*Hiss—!*
The well shaft was narrow; two steps brought Blake right up to the wraith's side. Caught off guard by the sudden counterattack, the wraith let out an annoyed shriek, its shadowy arms darting forward like spears, aiming to pierce Blake's chest.
But the wraith's attack never landed.
Blake's sword traced a brilliant blue arc through the air, slamming into the wraith's arms with enough force to redirect their trajectory. He followed through with a swift horizontal slash, then drove the blade straight into the center of the wraith's misty body.
This was the true nature of combat against spirits—a clash of soul energies, not physical strength.
Struck by the Nightsteel blade, the wraith erupted in a frenzy of rage. It flailed its arms wildly, trying to throw Blake back. But Blake had anticipated this reaction. He leaped backward, narrowly dodging the wraith's counterattack, then raised his sword to block another incoming strike, fending it off with ease.
Just as Blake's blade met the wraith's attack, the shadowy figure suddenly froze. It took two stumbling steps backward, its crimson eyes flaring with an intense, almost frantic light. It raised its hands, clutching its head as if in agony.
Blake held his sword at the ready, guarding his body as he studied the wraith with cautious curiosity.
Then—something completely unexpected happened.
The wraith stopped moving. It lifted its head, and a hoarse, raspy voice—*a real voice*, not just a snarl—echoed from its misty form.
"W-Who… who are you…?"
It can talk?
Blake was more confused than ever. But after a moment's hesitation, he decided to answer.
"Greetings. My name is Blake. Blake Felix."
He sheathed his sword and let a suave, amiable smile spread across his face. If this wraith could speak, then maybe communication was possible. True, none of the Arcane Wraiths he'd encountered before had possessed the ability to talk—but there was a first time for everything, wasn't there?
"Y-You… you… you…"
The wraith seemed to shrink back at the sight of Blake's relaxed posture, its form trembling as if caught in the grip of some terrible, fragmented memory. It let out a low whimper, as if struggling to piece together a thought.
"Y-You are… human…?"
"Last I checked, yes." Blake shrugged, then fixed the wraith with a steady gaze. "And who are you?"
"I… I… I…"
Blake's question sent the wraith into another fit of agitation. It waved its thin, shadowy arms wildly, clutching its head and then releasing it over and over again, as if the very act of remembering its own identity was an agonizing struggle.
"My… my… my…"
Its movements grew faster, more erratic, as if it was searching for something—something it couldn't find. It was trying so hard to answer Blake's question, but the words eluded it, slipping through its grasp like sand.
Blake didn't press further. He simply stood there, watching the wraith in silence, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt. A disoriented Arcane Wraith posed no threat to him right now; he could destroy it with a single strike if he wanted to. But he held back. A talking, semi-sane Arcane Wraith was a rarity beyond compare. It wouldn't hurt to observe a little longer before making a move. After all—even if it attacked again, Blake was more than confident in his ability to take it down.
"My n-name… my name… my name is…"
The wraith's form began to shake violently, the Ethereal Power swirling around it contracting and condensing. Then—its trembling stopped. It lifted its head, its crimson eyes locking directly onto Blake's, burning with a sudden, crystalline clarity.
A clear, melodious voice—*a girl's voice*, soft and sweet—rang out through the well shaft, replacing the wraith's earlier raspy snarls.
"My name is… Ophelia West."
As the words left her lips, the roiling black mist that had formed her body exploded outward in a burst of silvery light.
When the light faded, a girl's figure stood in its place. She looked at Blake quietly, her eyes shining with a bright, lucid glow.
"This… this is my name."