Everything went off without a hitch.
In fact, not even Blake had anticipated the sheer scale of Ophelia's magical power. That boundless surge of mana had not only fully materialized her physical form—it had even recreated the exact dress she'd worn in her memories, stitch for stitch. This kind of power to create something from nothing was a feat Blake had only ever witnessed among the most powerful archmages in the land. He'd never imagined a young woman like Ophelia would possess such extraordinary talent.
But Blake said nothing of the sort. Instead, he stood back, a look of quiet satisfaction on his face, as he admired the sight before him.
The girl was slumped back in her chair, gasping for breath, her slender, graceful legs pressed tightly together. Her hands were clasped over her chest, which rose and fell in rapid, enticing heaves, a faint flush tinting her delicate, lovely cheeks. Even her porcelain-white skin glowed with an alluring pink hue, and her enchanting sapphire eyes had lost all focus, gazing blankly up at the ceiling above.
Just this one scene alone was more than enough to make Blake feel that every bit of effort had been well worth it.
To anyone who didn't know the truth, the sight would have sparked all sorts of salacious imaginings—and even those who *did* know the truth would probably have drawn much the same conclusion.
"Wh-What's happening to me…?"
Ophelia's breath came in soft, ragged gasps as she finally emerged from that daze of indescribable bliss. She twitched her small, cute nose, inhaling the crisp, clean air, and stared at the flickering torchlight before her. A warm, comforting sensation wrapped around her body, making her feel as if she were curled up in a cozy inn rather than a dusty, abandoned castle well. And, most importantly, Ophelia could *feel* it—a tiny, fiery presence deep within her chest, pulsing gently and radiating an incomparable aura of life.
"How does it feel to be *alive* again?"
Blake's voice jolted Ophelia out of her half-conscious state. She scrambled upright, hastily smoothing out her dress and tidying her hair. Though this physical body felt far less free and unencumbered than her spectral form, to Ophelia, it was pure perfection. She never wanted to go back to the loneliness, the terror, the cold emptiness of being a ghost again. This tangible, solid body was everything she'd ever hoped for.
"It's… it's wonderful, Mr. Blake," Ophelia said, her voice soft and a little shy—and who could blame her? Even though she'd followed Blake's instructions purely on instinct, the experience had been so overwhelming, so intimate. For all her scholarly knowledge and unshakable resolve, Ophelia was still just a young girl at heart.
"Now, you have the form of a human—but this isn't a *true* human body," Blake explained, placing a cup of hot black tea on the table in front of her. Ophelia picked it up immediately, handling it as carefully as if it were a priceless treasure. She ran her fingers along the warm ceramic rim, savoring the heat seeping into her skin, then took a small, tentative sip. To a girl who hadn't tasted anything, hadn't *felt* anything in over thirty years, it was the most delicious drink she'd ever had. But she didn't allow herself to get lost in the pleasure. Ophelia was sharp enough to catch the unspoken implication in Blake's words, and she looked up at him, waiting for him to elaborate.
"I think you've already figured out that you're not truly human—not yet, anyway," Blake continued, gesturing toward her chest. Ophelia's first instinct was to cross her arms over her breasts again, but fortunately, Blake had no intention of "reaching inside" her this time. And Ophelia herself knew perfectly well that the warm, steady pulse she felt in her chest wasn't coming from a heart.
"I've forged a condensed core within your soul," Blake explained, his eyes fixed on hers. "Using that core as a foundation, I wove your immense magical power into this human-like form. On the surface, it looks and feels exactly like a human body—it has warmth, it has a pulse. But unlike a real human body, it won't grow or age naturally. Instead, it will change and adapt according to your will."
"Of course, this body *can* digest food if you want it to—but honestly, you don't *need* to eat. All you have to do is learn how to meditate, to ensure your magical power never runs dry, and your body will remain perfectly stable. However… if your magic ever grows too weak, this form will start to crumble. And if that happens…" Blake paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "You'll revert back to your spectral form."
"But I'm not a mage," Ophelia said quickly, zeroing in on the critical point of Blake's explanation. "I don't know how to meditate…"
"And I can't teach you," Blake shrugged. "Like I said, I'm a knight, not a mage. I don't pretend to understand all those weird, esoteric mage tricks. So I can't give you any advice on that front. But what I *can* tell you is this—you don't know any spells, which means you have no way to actively expend your magic. With the absurdly massive reserves of Ethereal Magic Power you possess right now? I'd say you could maintain this form for a good ten or twenty years without even trying."
Ophelia said nothing in response, but the way her eyes darted back and forth made it clear that the former princess had already resolved to seek out a mage to pester with questions about meditation.
"Now, then—let's get to the real heart of our deal, Miss Ophelia," Blake said, his tone shifting to one of business-like seriousness.
At his words, Ophelia sat up straight, her expression turning calm and resolute as she met his gaze, setting down the teacup she'd been toying with.
"I understand perfectly, Mr. Blake," she said firmly. "You've given me a new body, a second chance to experience the joy of living in this world. And in return, I will serve you faithfully. I swear on my name and my honor—I will follow you forever, until the day I… cease to exist."
Ophelia had almost said "until the day I die," but she'd caught herself just in time. After all, strictly speaking, she was already dead.
"Perfect," Blake said, a triumphant smile spreading across his face. And for the first time, Ophelia finally saw the glint of a schemer who'd just pulled off a masterstroke in his eyes.
"Now, let me fill you in on the situation we're facing," Blake said, launching into a clear, concise explanation. He told her everything—from the story of the body he now inhabited, to the countless difficulties plaguing their tiny fief. In truth, he'd already sorted through all this information and analyzed it thoroughly long before he'd found Ophelia; he'd just been waiting for the right person to help him solve these problems.
When Blake finished his explanation, Ophelia's eyes widened in genuine surprise. She stared at him blankly for a long moment before finally finding her voice.
"Mr. Blake—if I've understood you correctly—all we have is this castle… and a tiny village that barely brings in a hundred gold coins a month in taxes? And this fief is nothing more than a Lord's Fief, with no real authority over the surrounding lands? And you don't have a single servant or subordinate to your name?"
"Now I have *you*," Blake corrected her with a grin. "And those wandering spirits. And in a few days, I might be able to recruit some people from the village."
"But that's still nowhere near enough!" Ophelia exclaimed, clearly seeing the gravity of their situation. "Mr. Blake, I don't know what you're planning—but from where I stand, trying to build something meaningful here, using this castle as your base? It'll be an uphill battle of *epic* proportions!"
"The greater the challenge, the sweeter the taste of victory when we overcome it," Blake replied, spreading his hands in a gesture of easy confidence. "I imagine this kind of problem is quite a departure from the political intrigues you dealt with in the royal capital, Princess. Don't tell me you're already thinking of giving up?"
"Please don't tease me like that, Mr. Blake," Ophelia said, raising one delicate eyebrow and fixing him with a confident smile of her own. "Compared to outmaneuvering scheming nobles and navigating the cutthroat politics of the royal court? This little 'challenge' is child's play."
"Good," Blake said, standing up and offering her his hand. "Then starting today—you're my adjutant. How does that sound? Are you satisfied with this arrangement?"
"Leave it all to me," Ophelia said, placing her hand in his. His palm was broad and warm, a comforting anchor in the uncertain future that lay ahead. "I won't let you down, Mr. Blake."