Blake leaned back in his chair, studying the girl before him with a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes.
At first glance, she seemed even younger than the body he currently inhabited. Her pale purple hair cascaded down to her waist like a sheet of fine silk, parted neatly by a simple white ribbon that framed a delicate, lovely face. Her sapphire-blue eyes sparkled like polished gemstones, and her soft cherry-pink lips curved into a gentle, sweet smile. She wore a white off-the-shoulder dress that clung perfectly to her slender, graceful figure, paired with elbow-length gloves that covered her delicate hands and arms. White cloth boots lent her an air of youthful vivacity, while the black cloak trimmed with gold thread draped over her shoulders added a touch of scholarly elegance.
By any standard, she was a breathtakingly beautiful girl—but to Blake, her appearance held a deeper, more intriguing significance.
If his memory served him right—not the memory of his own soul, but that of the body he'd taken over—he *knew* that name. After all, no citizen of a kingdom could possibly be unaware of the name of the royal family member who ruled over them.
"If I'm not mistaken, I've heard that name before," Blake said casually, picking up his teacup and fixing the girl with a steady gaze. "Ophelia West—that's the name of our kingdom's First Princess, isn't it?"
"…"
The girl didn't answer, but her expression dimmed noticeably, a shadow of sorrow clouding her bright eyes.
"I *was*," she whispered, her voice thick with regret, grief, and a pain that seemed to have lingered for centuries. "But now… I am not."
Blake didn't have much information about the princess, only what he'd gleaned from the original owner's memories. She had been born in the fifteenth month of the Year of Falling Petals, and was one of the most beloved members of the West royal family—not just for her unparalleled beauty and melodious singing voice, but also for her remarkable political acumen, which had earned her the respect and admiration of the nobility. But as the old saying went, the heavens were jealous of genius. On her sixteenth birthday, the princess had suddenly succumbed to a mysterious illness and passed away, sending shockwaves through the entire West Kingdom… and that had been thirty years ago.
The original owner, Felix, had heard the story from his parents. As minor nobles themselves, they'd deemed it essential to know the ins and outs of the royal family, even if such knowledge served no practical purpose for their small fief. They'd often told Felix that he should strive to be as intelligent, capable, and virtuous as the late princess.
Out of respect for the royal family, no one had dared to spread rumors about her death—but now it was clear that her supposed "sudden illness" had been anything but natural.
Even without Ophelia saying a word, Blake was certain: she had been murdered.
The assassination of a kingdom's First Princess was no trivial matter—it was an act that could shake the very foundations of a nation.
"Who was the killer?" Blake cut straight to the chase. He knew perfectly well that the culprit couldn't have been any of the nobles who'd occupied the castle before him. If it had been, their entire families would have been executed and their lands confiscated. The royal family would never have let them walk away unscathed.
But that only made things more puzzling. The "sudden illness" excuse was a common tactic used to deceive the general public, but it would never fool the royal court or the nobility—especially not when the deceased was as widely respected and admired as Princess Ophelia. Her death was far too significant to be brushed off as a mere tragedy. Someone *must* have questioned the official story. After all, while the royal family held the reins of power, the nobility were no weaklings. The death of the First Princess was a matter of utmost importance to everyone in the kingdom.
Yet when Blake asked the question, Ophelia only shook her head slowly, her expression clouded with sorrow, refusing to answer.
"Very well. Let me rephrase," Blake said, not pressing the issue. It was her business, after all—and he had more pressing matters of his own to attend to. "What do you plan to do now?"
"What do I plan to do?" The girl blinked in surprise, looking up at him with confusion and bewilderment in her eyes.
It was hardly surprising. She had been dead for over thirty years. If Blake hadn't appeared, she would have been doomed to wander eternity as an Arcane Wraith—a mindless, soulless killing machine for whom time held no meaning. But now that she had regained her sanity, she could no longer live the way she had before. Yet she was also acutely aware that she was now a ghost, not a human being. What future could a specter like her possibly hope for?
"I don't know…" Ophelia murmured after a moment, shaking her head gently and lowering her gaze to the floor. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I can't even begin to imagine what I *could* do."
"In that case, why not make a deal with me?" Blake set his teacup back down on the table, his eyes locking onto Ophelia's. The girl fell silent, waiting for him to continue.
"I can help you regain a physical form—not a human body, mind you, but a tangible, corporeal shape that will allow you to live like a human being. I think that's more than enough, don't you? In exchange, I want you to serve me. What do you say to that?"
"Are you a mage?" At these words, Ophelia's face lit up with genuine surprise for the first time. She studied the young man before her—who looked barely older than herself—with curiosity, seeing no trace of the typical mage's aura about him.
"No," Blake replied with a smile, shaking his head and dismissing her guess. "I'm a knight. But that's irrelevant. What matters is your answer."
Blake noticed that Ophelia was looking at him without the slightest hint of shyness or hesitation—a detail that only confirmed the veracity of the rumors he'd heard. The princess truly possessed the poise and dignity befitting royalty. Unlike those sheltered young ladies who would have blushed and averted their eyes, she maintained her composure perfectly, her self-control nothing short of remarkable. After all, she had managed to suppress the feral, berserk instincts of an Arcane Wraith the moment she laid eyes on a human being—a feat that was more than enough to pique Blake's interest. In fact, he couldn't help but wonder if he himself would have been able to maintain such calm if he'd been trapped in a similar spectral form.
"You need me," Ophelia said, her sapphire eyes glinting with intelligence.
"That's correct," Blake admitted without hesitation.
"But you're just a minor lord," Ophelia countered, a faint, confident smile tugging at her lips. "And I was a royal princess—the First Princess."
"*You were*. *You once were*. But now, you are not," Blake retorted, refusing to back down. He gazed openly at her beautiful face, his eyes filled with unashamed appreciation. After all, beautiful women were always a pleasure to look at—and a beautiful, *intelligent* woman was even more so.
"You're right," Ophelia said, her voice steady. There was no trace of dejection, sorrow, or resignation in her tone—only quiet resolve as she nodded firmly. "Now, I am just an ordinary person… and I know that every exchange requires a price. Right now, I have no leverage to bargain with, so I can think of no reason to refuse your offer. I never want to go back to the way I was before—the fear, the emptiness, the agony of losing my mind to chaos. I would rather face an unknown and uncertain future than return to that form…"
As she spoke, a flicker of unyielding determination shone in her eyes.
"After all, this is the path I have chosen."
"Excellent," Blake said with a satisfied nod. He stood up and walked over to where the girl floated in the air. Ophelia watched him approach with a mix of curiosity and unease, a hint of fluster crossing her face for the first time.
"What are you going to do? Don't you need a magic circle or some kind of incantation?" she asked, her voice a little shaky.
"I told you—I'm a knight, not a mage," Blake replied, his lips curving into an elegant, confident smile that exuded pride. "No need for those complicated preparations. I have a much simpler way to help you form a physical body…" He paused, noticing the confused look in Ophelia's eyes. "You possess immense Ethereal Magic Power, a power that never left your soul even after you died. But I've never heard that you were a mage. Is that true?"
"I'm not a mage," Ophelia shook her head, equally confused. "I don't even know what Ethereal Magic Power is… I just feel a powerful force deep within my soul, a force I never sensed when I was alive."
"It might have something to do with your transformation into an Arcane Wraith," Blake mused. Her intense lingering attachment, combined with her untamed magical power, had bound her soul to the mortal realm—and perhaps that was what had awakened the dormant Ethereal Magic Power within her. It was just a guess, of course, but Blake was inclined to believe her. If the princess had shown any aptitude for Ethereal Magic during her lifetime, the mages would have treated her like a rare treasure, cosseting her and protecting her at all costs. She would never have ended up murdered in such a remote, desolate place.
"But you don't need to figure that out right now," Blake said, brushing the matter aside and continuing. "I assume you can wield this power with some degree of proficiency. What I'm going to do next is forge a core within your soul. All you need to do is focus your energy and fill that core to the brim. I don't suppose that will be too difficult for you?"
"I understand," Ophelia replied, nodding quickly, though her expression remained a little stiff as she watched Blake draw closer. At her words, Blake's lips twisted into a strange, knowing smile—and then he reached out, his hand moving straight toward her chest.
"—!"
Even though she knew she was nothing more than a spectral form, impossible for a mortal to touch, Ophelia's first instinct was to cross her arms over her chest and shrink back in alarm. But Blake didn't stop. His hand slid effortlessly past her arms, through her chest, and deep into the very core of her being.
To Blake, the soul before him was just that—a soul. Despite its tangible, human-like appearance, reaching out to touch it was no different from reaching into thin air. So once he'd confirmed that he'd found the source of her magical power, he closed his eyes.
"*Doom*," Blake whispered.
At the sound of that single word, the light in the room dimmed abruptly. A surge of immense, terrifying power began to swirl around the palm of his right hand, coiling tighter and tighter as it condensed and transformed.
To Ophelia, however, the experience was something else entirely.
It was the first time in her life that a man had "entered" her body—and the sensation filled her with a mixture of panic, embarrassment, and a faint, unfamiliar flutter of shyness. But then, a warm, comforting heat began to spread through her soul, a pleasant tingling sensation that washed over her like a gentle wave. That warmth quickly grew into a blazing, fiery current that surged through her entire being, and as it coursed through her, Ophelia felt her form growing more and more solid, more *real*. She bit her lip tightly, struggling to hold back any sound that might escape—but she couldn't stop what was happening to her. Then, she felt a sudden, sharp contraction deep within her core, followed by an explosive burst of overwhelming, scorching power that threatened to shatter the last of her composure.
"Now!" Blake's voice rang out, clear and commanding.