He understood some aspects of the situation but felt that verifying his theories wouldn’t hurt.
“So, what do you know about the castle’s structure?” he asked, his voice low and cautious, wary of unseen dangers.
Monica, holding a faintly glowing torch, gave him a brief glance. “Well, it’s… complicated.”
“Break it down,” Karl said dryly.
She glared at him for some time, then said, “The castle operates like a massive battery,” she paused for a bit, adding soon after. “Olmer draws energy from it to stabilize himself enough to carry out his plans.”
Karl held back his questions, opting to listen as she continued.
“We’ve discovered that the castle exists in two overlapping states: one in the physical world and another in the Astra. This duality makes its veil extraordinarily strong—it’s formed from High Astra, tapping directly into that realm. By anchoring the castle in both planes, Olmer can essentially keep it hidden indefinitely.”
Karl nodded in the dim light, his mind racing. If that’s true, how did the School of Thought locate it? Prophetic abilities? If so, why hasn’t divination worked consistently? And why hasn’t the Ministry tracked it down?
“Olmer uses accumulated mana and High Astra energy to subtly influence everyone here,” Monica added. “It’s passive—just being in the castle slowly draws people under his control. But strong willpower or physical pain can push back against it. Once someone is fully taken over, though, resisting becomes nearly impossible.”
As they turned a corner, the world suddenly twisted. What was once the floor became the ceiling, and vice versa. They found themselves walking upside-down. But after so many disorienting shifts, Karl had grown almost indifferent to the sensation.
Monica paused, her expression darkening. “Then, there are the monsters.”
Karl froze momentarily, though the dimness concealed his unease. He steadied himself, focusing on the facts. He already knew the castle was steeped in Astra energy, which inevitably attracted Astra creatures—strange entities like those eerie, balloon-like beings. Still, he had convinced himself they wouldn’t attack unless directly observed. Which was why his glasses remained safely stowed away.
Now, hearing this, he felt a twinge of doubt. Would he have to fight these creatures? And if so, how?
Surprisingly, the prospect felt almost comforting. Perhaps he’d grown tired of fighting humans. Monsters, at least, would be a change. Still, he hoped they weren’t beyond his abilities. After all, he was only an advanced-class sanguine.
“What kind of monsters are we talking about?” Karl asked, keeping his tone light.
Monica hesitated, her expression faltering. “They’re numerous… and grotesque. Each one has unique, twisted powers.”
“What would you say their general strength class is?” Karl pressed, masking his irritation at having to ask.
Monica sighed, slowing her pace. The weak glow of her torch barely illuminated their path. “None of them are weak, that much I know. But I’m not a sanguine, so I can’t give precise classifications. The Grand Helper once mentioned that these creatures are all at least advanced-class, possibly higher.”
Karl stood in place, lost in thought. He summoned the face of the soul and examined the countless flickering lights. Could he gain power here quickly?
There was a strong chance that killing these monsters could yield more significant benefits than hunting members of a noble house. This might be an opportunity to grow stronger.
He would need every advantage if he hoped to confront Olmer and live.
Although the revelation wasn’t shocking, it confirmed much of what he had suspected. Refusing to dwell on the inevitability of his situation, Karl refocused on preparing himself.
He thought briefly of the Mist-faced Man’s blood and sighed. If only he had some grace to spare—then the risks of evolving wouldn’t matter. Yes, Fredrick and Anette had warned against it, but what choice did he have?
The endless corridors seemed to stretch forever. Monica clicked her tongue in frustration, her irritation almost palpable. The castle felt infinite—and perhaps it was. No matter how far they traveled, they never seemed to draw closer to their destination. Karl couldn’t help but wonder how the refugees managed to find food. Given the castle’s nature, it seemed implausible they always made it back safely.
Maybe the Grand Helper had something to do with keeping them alive?
They stopped occasionally in secluded corners to rest. Although Karl didn’t need the breaks, Monica insisted on halting every hour. Each pause tested his patience. Often he pondered killing her here.
Hours later, Karl stood over a mangled corpse, his gaze cold. From his perspective, the body lay on the ceiling. The man, dressed similarly to Monica, stared back with wide eyes filled with terror and despair. Whatever had killed him had pushed him to the brink before finishing him off.
Monica lowered her head, the torchlight dimming further. She exhaled deeply. “That’s Lumian. He’s been missing for a week. So this is what happened to him.”
Karl remained silent, studying her expression. They lingered there because Monica insisted on retrieving the body. She didn’t seem to care that the corpse wasn’t hanging—it was they who were upside-down. Pulling it down felt like trying to lift something off the ground while standing on a rooftop.
It was possible but undeniably tedious.
Eventually, Karl relented and helped, regretting the decision almost immediately. Although he was free from the chains, the castle still subtly drained his energy. He needed to reach the Grand Helper soon and uncover how he had managed to shield himself from the castle’s siphoning effects.
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
After lowering the corpse, Karl rummaged through Lumian’s belongings, ignoring Monica’s disapproval. Sadly, unless he had some use for a sorrowful letter, the dead man carried nothing of value.
Worthless. Karl held back a sigh.
They had ventured deeper into the castle, now standing in a dark, silent chamber. At its center stood a spiral staircase, winding upward to a door embedded in the ceiling. The room was unnervingly quiet, the faint creak of their steps the only sound breaking the stillness.
Without hesitation, they ascended.
The air grew colder with each step, making Karl’s nose itch from the abrupt shift. They passed through a labyrinth of hallways, encountering no signs of life—not even the monsters supposedly roaming these halls. Instead, traces of violence littered their path: shards of broken glass, torn scraps of fabric, and the unmistakable remnants of conflict.
Karl had pieced it together by now. Contrary to his faint hopes, the School of Thought didn’t appear to be holding its ground against the castle’s puppets and monstrosities. I wonder if Louis is still alive. The thought flickered briefly in his mind before he shoved it aside, forcing himself to focus on their immediate surroundings.
He still hoped for at least one survivor—someone useful.
They continued onward, stepping over debris—splintered wood, shattered stone, fragments of glass—until Karl stopped before a door. It was black and unremarkable, yet it drew his attention. After a moment of deliberation, he pushed it open. A wave of frigid air washed over him, seeping through his clothes and into his bones.
It’s getting colder by the minute, Karl thought, his breath forming faint wisps in the freezing air.
Inside, the room was lined with wooden crates stacked neatly along the walls. Some were open, revealing an assortment of food: fruits, bottles of drink, and other supplies that made Karl’s stomach tighten with hunger. After enduring nothing but bone soup, the sight was almost intoxicating.
But a thought gnawed at him: Why did Olmer need so much food?
Suspicion crept in, though he hoped he was overthinking it. If Olmer had an entire group working with him, the situation would drastically change. The presence of food hinted at something larger than just puppets. After all, the puppets had fed him bone soup. Why not this?
For now, he doubted the food was meant for the castle’s thralls. Something didn’t add up.
Monica, however, seemed unconcerned by the mystery. She dove into the crates, grabbing handfuls of food and eating ravenously, as though she hadn’t eaten in days—which, Karl admitted, might be true. Her hunger was understandable, especially if his theory held weight. The puppets didn’t eat. Perhaps starvation was another factor driving her.
Karl observed her for a moment, then hesitantly reached for a piece of food himself.
The storage room was vast, resembling a banquet hall. Tables and chairs were neatly arranged, untouched by the chaos outside. It was strangely pristine, a stark contrast to the destruction elsewhere. That only unsettled Karl further.
He moved toward a long wooden table. Despite its age, it was remarkably well-preserved compared to the wreckage they had passed. Distortion lingered here too; some tables clung to the walls as if they had grown there, while others were affixed to the ceiling. A few chairs floated eerily in the chilled air, suspended in defiance of gravity.
Monica settled across from him, placing the torch between them. Its weak flame struggled against the cold, and Karl doubted it would last much longer.
Soon, it’ll be dark, he thought, biting into a black apple. Its flavor was surprisingly sweet and fresh, a stark contrast to the bland monotony of bone soup. Or perhaps he was exaggerating its taste, given his desperate hunger. Either way, he didn’t care.
Karl ate in silence, occasionally returning to the crates for more. The more he ate, the hungrier he seemed to become. It confirmed what he had suspected: the bone soup was far from sufficient, leaving his body craving proper sustenance.
Monica, meanwhile, ate with abandon, shoving food into her mouth with a lack of restraint that Karl found repulsive. She barely chewed, consuming as though driven by sheer desperation. He watched her for a while, his disgust mounting, before shutting his eyes.
The simple act of staying awake felt exhausting. Rest was necessary, and with Monica still eating, she was in no position to protest keeping watch. Without a word, Karl crossed his arms on the table and closed his eyes.
Gods knew given all that he had endured, this was something he was owed.
----------------------------------------
Aurelian, former legionnaire of the Chaos Hunters, spun deftly between the two thugs. Their heads slid cleanly from their necks, tumbling to the ground with a muted thud, followed by a spray of dark, warm blood. The bodies crumpled lifelessly onto the cold, unyielding stone floor.
With four efficient slashes, Aurelian’s mist blade severed the hinges and latch of the grand hall door. The Order of Newmans was surprisingly wealthy for an evil faction. Amused, he allowed himself a brief thought: Of course, my faction—the Knights of Disordered Order—outclassed this pitiful rabble in strength, wealth, and power.
He felt a swell of pride for his group.
Planting his foot firmly, he drove the door inward with a crashing kick. It flew open, the heavy wood slamming into the stone floor with a resounding echo before sliding further into the room.
The small hall was teeming with figures—grotesque beings of various shapes and deformities. Spiked heads, single glaring eyes, grotesquely elongated tongues, and bone protrusions distorted their bodies. They were a vile collection of inhuman creatures.
For Order! he thought as he surged forward, his glass-like blade poised to bring swift judgment.
Chaos erupted. Screams and shouts filled the air, mingled with frantic cries of defiance. Aurelian vaulted onto a nearby table littered with iron scraps and potion bottles—evidence of their work crafting soul bombs. That was his mission: to retrieve those things in abundance.
Every so often, a Newman charged at him, attempting to gain the upper hand. They relied on disorienting tricks that sometimes made the floor seem to flip beneath his feet, but such deceptions were useless against his resolve. With cold precision, he struck them down, one by one.
He felt proud—proud of his skill, his purpose, his unwavering resolve.
Why?
Leaping from table to table, he wielded his blade like an instrument of divine order, slicing through the chaos that surrounded him.
“Ambush him!” bellowed a particularly burly Newman. At his command, others snapped to attention, their palms glowing as they unleashed beams of green light.
Aurelian dodged with practiced agility, his blade cutting down anyone foolish enough to cross his path. He pressed onward, unwavering. His goal was clear: acquire the soul bombs and bring order to these wretched beings.
Near him, several Newmans attempted to flee, but he refused to let such filth escape. With a casual swipe of his blade, their blood sprayed into the air, cascading like dust in sunlight.
Ahead, a Newman raised his hand, conjuring a crackling ball of fire that radiated dangerous, destructive energy. The man grinned wickedly as the flames danced above his head.
Aurelian’s brow furrowed, though his grip on his weapon remained steady. He dashed forward just as the Newman hurled the flaming projectile.
Feeling the pained surge of mana drain through his body, Aurelian dissolved into mist, his ethereal form rising as the fireball sailed harmlessly beneath him. It struck the wall behind him, but instead of erupting in a powerful explosion, the flames fizzled and vanished.
For a fleeting moment, Aurelian hesitated, stunned. Then realization dawned. An illusion.
Displeased with himself for being momentarily deceived, he resolved to make amends.
I will rectify this mistake with his blood.
He reformed his body, though his left hand remained partially in its misty state. His blade descended in a swift arc, aiming to cleave through the fire-wielder. But as the sword struck, the Newman dissolved into mist, vanishing at the point of contact.
Aurelian frowned deeply. Using my own tricks against me?