The next few weeks were a blur in Zirel’s mind. He had only known his party members for such a brief period, the length of their sojourn together lasting less than a month. The Elite Guards had definitely intended to send a message, but they had not dared to even touch a hair on his head until now.
The dungeoneers that had comprised his party had neither rank nor status to shield them. The children of simple, ordinary folk from the countryside that had staked all they held familiar to set out in pursuit of their dreams, to seek power and one day attain ascension had found themselves slaughtered at the sword of those they wished to become.
Why?
Why did they have to suffer for the internal disputes of the Nottrakon family?
The answer was as simple as it was bitter— in the eyes of the Elite Guard, nameless vagrants lacking even a shred of noble blood were a dime a dozen. Their disappearances would not even provoke an inquiry, for it was common for entire parties to get wiped in the Zelez Dungeon. Even if Zirel was to provide evidence for the crime that had occurred, what did it matter when the Nottrakon family was the law?
In the eyes of his brother, those without status were worth less than the air they breathed. He did wish to send a message, yes. But he didn’t want to antagonize him, didn’t want to make a sworn enemy out of his own blood lineage— not until he safely ascended to the throne.
It took Zirel three weeks to understand the nature of the emotions that coursed through his entire being.
During that time, the three Elite Guards had supplanted themselves in the place of his deceased party members. Not to aid Zirel, no. They didn’t actually interfere in his battles, at least not directly.
They would move when the battle neared its conclusion and then steal his hard fought kills. Not all, but just enough to halve what his leveling speed ought to have been. It was a brazen humiliation unworthy of a prince, designed to either make him give up and return to the Nottrakon Family Estate, where the first prince could easily monitor his activities or lash out and attack the Elite Guards, the consequences of which would have been a severe reprimand from his father, the King,
He had been outmaneuvered.
Every move he made, his first brother had a counter ready for him.
Finally though, he had reached his limit.
Zirel had been angry before. He had been angry at the sheer lack of emotion his father had displayed when his mother passed. Their marriage might have been a political one, but that stony face that seemed to be devoid of any emotion as he gazed upon mother’s coffin filled him with anger each time he thought about it.
But this was different.
This was rage.
“Enough,” he had said, as he stopped in the middle of his tracks.
He watched as the Elite guards that had been flanking him in an inverted triangle formation perked up at his words.
“Are you finally ready to go home, Prince Zirel?” One of the Elite Guards, a tall mountain of a man that went by the name Rannok, asked.
“No,” Zirel had calmly replied. He had never killed anyone before, but the ease he felt at having firmed his resolve felt like…. It felt deserving of the designation assigned to him by the Syrelore Kingdom.
Prince.
“But I have reached a decision,” Zirel’s tone had turned cold, his gaze sharp as he took a few steps back in rapid succession to create distance between him and the Elite Guards.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“Prince -,” A lanky man called out as he took a testing step forward. Comfortably shielded in elegantly crafted leather armor that was further reinforced with the inky-black scales of a Netherite Beast, the crossbow wielding Elite Guard seemed unfazed at the idea of facing the fourth prince’s wrath.
“Enough. You have done enough,” Zirel had bellowed, the fury in his voice palpable. In his right hand, held in a reverse grip, was his uncommon ranked artifact, [Blade of Necrosis]. The Elite Guards were aware of its properties, as they were careful not to make eye contact with him directly.
But that didn’t matter.
Even if they saw it coming….
“Come,” Zirel’s words were spoken barely above a whisper. For a moment, there was no response. Then, a translucent, almost ghastly blade flickered into existence, gradually gaining definition. In the end, a simple, unadorned white short-sword had phased into reality, with Zirel’s left hand firmly wrapped around his hilt.
“Prince Zirel,” Rannok intoned, his voice laden with a clear warning. “Assaulting a member of the Family Guard is considered a serious crime.”
Even after issuing the warning though, Rannok made no move to de-escalate the situation. Instead, he assumed a defensive stance with his greatsword held before him, clearly welcoming Zirel to try and attack him.
Assaulting a member of the Family Guard was a serious crime and it was sure to destroy his reputation in the eyes of the King—- exactly the response his first brother had been scheming for.
Yet Zirel charged anyway.
In a clash between an unassuming white short-sword and a greatsword artifact, the former seemed little more than the tantrum of an arrogant prince, the disparity such that the two other Elite Guards were content to watch the spectacle unfold.
[Phantom Blade]
When the two blades collided, there was no resistance to be found.
Zirel’s blade reverted to its phantom form as it swept past the greatsword held defensively before Rannok, continuing on its downward arc unfettered.
The greatsword, much like Rannok’s right leg, remained unscathed as the phantom blade passed through it.
There was no blood, no loud cry in abject pain and yet, Rannok collapsed onto one knee nonetheless.
There was no hesitation in Zirel’s movements as his phantom blade flicked across Rannok’s neck, causing the intimidating man to fall backwards; his expression paling as he desperately gasped for air.
Then, Zirel plunged his [Blade of Necrosis] into the prone guard’s neck and this time, it was a gush of infected blood that spilled out.
----------------------------------------
The memory he had been reflecting upon finally snapped Zirel from his reverie.
“The headache…,” he groaned, as the pain intensified. Then he realized that his hands were trembling, clearly shaken by the recollection.
Why?
He had been completely calm when he had slaughtered all three of the guards, avenging his fallen party members. He had been unfazed when he had forged communiques to his brother in their name, using the communication artifact he had extracted from one of the guard’s corpses, to ensure that his beloved first brother remained gleefully aware that his plan had completely fallen apart.
That all was as expected.
A sudden urge to look upon his Soul Card prodded at his mind, though he once again could not make sense of it.
He wanted to know more— about a card that he had wielded his entire life?
Ignoring the why, Zirel ceded to his own request— seeing no harm in succumbing to the odd craving.
Reaching inside his chest, his very soul, he received what he had sought.
[Card Name: The Spectre
Rank: Uncommon (Mezzanine)
Level: 12
Description:
Ability:
1. Eye of The Spectre: Allows the wielder to passively detect any malicious intent directed towards them in a thirty meter radius. Successfully making eye contact with the target directing malice towards the wielder triggers [Eye of the Spectre], slowing the perception of time for the wielder and speeding it up for the target for the succeeding 360 seconds.
SP Cost is triggered only when actively using Eye of the Spectre.
2.Phantom Blade: Manifest a Phantom Blade that exists in the metaphysical realm, allowing the wielder’s blade to pass through any solid surfaces and inflict paralysis on any organic matter that its surface comes into contact with. Paralysis inflicted by the Phantom Blade lasts for 15 hours.
SP Cost is Variable.]