Time seemed to slow down as their gazes intersected.
As soon as Tom gazed into those cold, alabaster-white eyes, a wave of terror washed down his spine. It had been naive of him to think that he and Aleph would be able to surmount any challenge in the Nameless District simply because they were more powerful than the norm. No, he had failed to consider that there could be other monsters lurking in the forlorn district, possibly in hiding after finding themselves on the wrong side of Syrelore Kingdom’s authorities— much like Aleph had been.
His reaction was driven by instinct as his senses went haywire. He wasn’t sure if teaming up with Aleph was enough to best the dungeoneer before him and even if they won, Tom wasn’t certain if their victory would be an unscathed one.
There was only one option left to him.
[Active Shroud- Maya.]
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He awoke with a blaring headache.
A groan escaped his lips as he forced himself to sit up, his right hand immediately reaching for his forehead, in an attempt to mollify the raging pain.
Where was he?
His gaze swept over the dingy room that he found himself in, a cheap cloth and wool bedroll the only thing shielding him from the cold, hard wooden floor beneath him.
A barely adorned wooden shack that he had no recollection of ever encountering, let alone residing in served as his accommodation.
Wait-
Who was he?
“Aaah!” He involuntarily cried out as overwhelming pain flooded his senses. There was an inkling of resistance mired within the torrential agony that voraciously consumed all in its wake, almost as if his personality, his very sense of being was being overwritten by another, far more imposing being.
“Who am I?” he asked again and this time, he received an answer.
If the Noble House of Nottrakon were considered the sovereign rulers of the Syrelore Kingdom, then he would happen to be the prince.
The Fourth Prince of the Syrelore Kingdom, Zirel Covan Nottrakon.
Zirel couldn’t exactly tell when the subtle shift in mannerisms had begun to influence him, as he instinctively found himself straightening his back and roughly fixing his uncombed hair the best he could. Years spent in the Nottrakon family estate had taught him not to give others the opportunity to point flaws in his dressing sense or mannerisms, not his spiteful brothers, who hated him almost as much as he hated them back and certainly not the conniving maids, their loyalty sworn only to the King.
Covan Nottrakon I, the most powerful individual in the entire Syrelore Kingdom and the rightful King-Sovereign of its lands was a man that Zirei had seen only thrice in his life.
Though the memory was fuzzy, one did not forget the King’s attendance on his first name-day.
The second time? His mother’s funeral, a closed-off affair attended only by direct relatives and a few close friends of the family.
The third time though, was when the indifference he felt towards his father finally turned to rage. Family tradition, he had called it. When Covan Nottrakon I had ascended to the throne, he had slain his three siblings to prove himself worthy of the coveted seat. The head of the family and the ruler of the farcical Syrelore Kingdom had chosen to continue the customary practice, only forbidding his heirs from pointing their daggers at each other’s throats.
So to say, as long as there was no casualty as a result of sibling infighting, the King would not interfere.
Even the Nottrakon Cohort, the family’s personal elite guard, was free to ally with any of the princes and princesses as they saw fit. His first brother wielded his sly tongue with greater skill than he did sword, so it was no surprise that most of the Elite Guard had crowded around him.
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His sister, the second oldest among the siblings, had chosen to master her abilities, to the point where she was simply too valuable an asset for the Nottrakon Family to consider disposing off. Vengeful as his oldest brother may be, it was his calm, level-headed persona that had drawn the Elite Guard to him— the stability and the continued hegemony of the Nottrakon Family was the goal he espoused in public and to that end, his sister, who displayed little interest in politics, was much more valuable at his side rather than against.
A ceasefire between the two likeliest of candidates meant that his third sibling, his older brother, had chosen to yield to his first brother and serve at his side.
While not quite a coward, his third brother wasn’t willing to die for the throne.
Zirel’s situation though, was a bit more unique. Any political connections or value that he might have had before had died with the untimely passing of his mother. As for his own skill as a combatant, he was a good deal weaker than his sister.
He could beat an Elite Guard in combat, yes— but his Soul Card wasn’t the most powerful one out there once you figured out how it worked.
Or atleast, that’s what his siblings thought.
His mother had made him promise not to use his Soul Card’s second ability and for good reason.
The relentless harassment and suppression that he faced by his older brothers while his heartless sister turned a blind eye to his plight was what finally cemented his decision to leave.
They saw no immediate value in him, but they were also afraid of his potential—- and they were wise to be afraid, because he was still a scion of the Noble Nottrakon House.
Zirel didn’t hate his siblings, no— he hated the entire Noble House and it’s barbaric traditions.
So he had chosen to leave.
The Nottrakon Estate, unlike most other Noble Estates, wasn’t actually located in Renovia. Considering that their wealth alone surpassed the combined resources of all the other Noble Houses in Renovia, it was hardly surprising to have made such a decision. Similarly, Noble Scions of Nottrakon did not study at the Academy— no, there was no need for such rudimentary education when the family’s tutors could impart much more specialized and valuable knowledge.
So, when Zirel had chosen to flee his house, he had chosen Renovia’s Nameless District. He didn’t plan to stay there for long, only a few months. It was the closest access point that he had for a dungeon and the phantasmal beasts down there were powerful enough to help him level quickly.
Quickly enough for him to become powerful enough to leave the country—- to head to the one tower that stood above all.
To leave the meaningless, petty politics of this realm behind and compete amongst the true frontrunners of this world— to achieve ascension.
Except things had ended up going drastically wrong.
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Pain flooded his mind as he tried to recall further. A different type of pain than the one he had experienced earlier, a distinctly emotional pain.
He remembered arriving in the district. The wonderment he had felt at arriving in a place where no one knew or cared about his status. The vivid, unfettered display of character, of thoughts and emotions without zealously guarding them, without being afraid of judgment or of showing weakness had left him dazzled, breathless.
To think there was a whole district where people boldly spoke of their dreams and ambitions and then staked their lives on it, people who spoke with such candor as they invited him to join their party without concealing some ulterior motive— for a brief moment, Zirel had forgotten about his worries and allowed himself to drop his guard as he adventured with the trio.
That had been a mistake.
He had only known them for three weeks— each of his party members coming from humble beginnings, equipped with only common cards. Yet he had enjoyed their company more than the years spent in the ostentatiously decorated castle he had spent almost the entirety of his life in. They were weaker than him by a fair margin, but with him as the vanguard they rapidly cleared area after area in the Zelez dungeon.
After the third week, with the drops they had accumulated from the dungeoneering, his party was beginning to play more than just a supportive role.
But his older brother couldn’t just leave him alone.
He didn’t interfere personally, of course.
No, he had just dispatched three Elite Guards to find him and then disrupt whatever it was that he was up to.
They had been observing him from the shadows, as he played the role of a novice dungeoneer. As his guard was down, for the first time in years.
They couldn’t touch him, let alone think of killing him. To do so was to forfeit his elder brother’s chances at succession, not even counting that they would be signing their own death warrants.
But it seemed like his growth had alarmed them and by extension, alarmed his brother.
Scheming and devious as his elder brother was, Zirel didn’t expect him to go that far.
He hadn’t expected the Elite Guards to kill the members of his party— all commoners— in an ambush.
That was how his first ever dungeoneering party disbanded— with every member except him, dead.