(Third POV)
Where the fortress city of Roa, capital of the Fittoa region, once stood proud and unyielding, now lay only crumbled ruins and a vast, desolate expanse of grass. The region was but a hollow shadow of its former self, its population reduced to a mere fraction. The losses were so staggering they defied measurement.
Some had survived the catastrophe that ravaged the land, but many had perished, and others had yet to return. The devastation was beyond comprehension. A refugee camp had sprung up amid the ruins, offering only the barest necessities.
Conditions were dire, and while whispers of reconstruction stirred some hope, the grim reality remained: restoring the city and its once-thriving lands could take decades—if the conditions themselves could improve.
On a crumbling wall, a list of the fallen had been scrawled and posted. Each day, more names were added. Beside them, survivors left messages, clinging to the hope that lost loved ones might see them and reunite.
Paul Greyrat, newly appointed captain of the Fittoa Rescue Team, stood among the weary survivors. His team was set to depart for Millishion in two days, where he planned to plead for financial aid from Claire Latreia—Zenith's mother. He had little confidence in persuading her, but a flicker of hope remained: the possibility of enlisting his son's help. It was a fragile hope, but it kept him moving forward.
He pinned a letter to the wall, scanning the other messages around him, each name and note weighing heavily upon his heart. The sheer number of the presumed deceased was staggering. Yet he forced aside despair, focusing on the mission ahead as he left board.
"I wonder if the others will see it," he murmured, his thoughts drifting to his former party members.
They had every reason to resent him. His decision to leave had led to the group's eventual disbandment, but he wouldn't blame them for ignoring him now. Maturity grown over the years had clarified their anger.
'I just have to hope they'll do it for Zenith,' he thought. 'She was the one they all liked.'
"Hey, scumbag knight."
His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a sharp voice laced with contempt.
Paul spun toward the sound, but before he could react, a fist smashed into his face. The impact sent him stumbling backward.
Instinct kicked in. He rolled to the ground, drawing himself into a low stance, one hand gripping his sword hilt. His eyes locked onto his assailant, widening in shock.
The figure was draped in dark attire—a wide-brimmed black hat with a V-shaped crown adorned with three feathers: green, blue, and red. A dark grey mantle, jet-black gauntlets, and an equally shadowy waistcoat secured with a chain belt made up the rest of the ensemble. Rugged boots completed the look, but it was the mask that stood out most: black with narrow rectangular eye slits, revealing no trace of the wearer's gaze. He exuded an aura of menace and mystery.
In one hand, the masked figure held Paul's letter, inspecting it with apparent disinterest.
"Hmm… No, this won't do," the figure muttered before tearing the letter in half and letting the pieces drift to the ground.
Paul's stomach twisted as he watched his carefully written message—the lifeline he had hoped would reach his family—destroyed so easily. Fury surged through him, and without a second thought, he drew his sword and charged.
The blade never struck its mark. Before he could react, the figure stepped forward with inhuman speed, driving a fist into Paul's solar plexus. The blow knocked the air from his lungs, and he collapsed to his knees, gasping.
Paul's head snapped to the side as the masked figure's fist collided with his jaw, sending him staggering. He barely had time to steady himself before another blow came—a brutal knee to his ribs that knocked the wind from his lungs.
Gritting his teeth through the pain, Paul twisted with the impact, rolling backward and drawing his sword in one smooth motion. His instincts screamed at him—this man was dangerous. The way he moved, the sheer speed and precision, it wasn't normal.
Paul exhaled sharply, gripping his sword with both hands.
"Alright, bastard," he muttered. "If you wanted a fight, all you had to do was ask."
He surged forward, swinging his blade in a vicious arc.
The masked man didn't dodge—he stepped in. With almost effortless precision, he deflected the strike with the back of his gauntlet, the steel barely grazing him. Paul pressed the attack, launching a rapid flurry of slashes. But each time, the masked figure evaded or parried with minimal movement, as if he had seen each strike before it even happened.
Paul growled in frustration. He switched tactics. Feinting left, he suddenly pivoted and aimed a horizontal slash toward the figure's midsection.
This time, he hit something solid.
For a brief moment, Paul felt resistance, a flicker of triumph—then it vanished. His blade passed through empty air as if the man had become smoke.
Before Paul could process what had happened, an elbow crashed into his back, sending him sprawling forward. He hit the ground hard, barely managing to roll to his feet. His breathing was ragged, his muscles tensed.
'Shit. Am I already getting into my years? And this guy. This isn't just skill. This is something else entirely.'
The masked figure stood still, his head tilting slightly as if assessing Paul's worth.
Paul's grip on his sword tightened. He dug his feet into the dirt and lunged, pouring every ounce of strength into a downward strike, a [Longsword of Silence] meant to cleave straight through his opponent.
But the masked figure moved again—faster than Paul could track.
A sharp impact struck his wrist mid-swing. His fingers numbed instantly, his sword slipping from his grasp. Before he could react, a crushing force slammed into his sternum.
Paul's world blurred.
His body lifted off the ground, propelled backward as though struck by a battering ram. He barely registered the gasps from the crowd as he crashed into a pile of debris, pain exploding through his back.
Dazed, he struggled to rise, only to feel an overwhelming weight pin him down.
The masked figure stood over him, a boot pressing firmly against his chest.
"W-Who the hell are you?" Paul rasped, glaring up at his attacker while weakly gripping the man's leg.
The figure crouched, keeping his boot planted firmly. Behind the slits of his mask, his gaze seemed to pierce straight through him.
Reaching beneath his mantle, he produced a transparent orb containing a small white cinder floating in its center.
"I am the one who will give you the power to save your son, Rudeus."
"What? Save him?" Paul said, baffled by the unexpected mention of his son's name.
"You're a fool to think he's safe out there. And you will soon see why."
He was about to lower the orb onto Paul when a sudden scream rang out, causing him to pause.
"Daddy!"
"No, don't go over there!"
Alphonse, the Boreas family's butler, held back Norn, who struggled fiercely to escape his grasp and rush to her father's side.
'Damn it,' the masked figure scoffed internally. 'I wanted to avoid doing this in front of her. Oh well. This world runs on a timer anyway.'
During the internal debate, Paul seized the moment, lifting his upper body and swinging a punch toward the figure's abdomen. His fist met no solid flesh—only a viscous, shifting substance.
Before he could react, the masked man grabbed his other wrist.
"Too slow," he said flatly.
"Listen closely," the figure said. "Every three days, I will send a spirit to challenge you. When you defeat it, a bracelet will appear. Put it on, and your injuries will disappear as if they never happened. This will be your training schedule until I come back."
"What are you talking ab—"
Before Paul could finish his sentence, the figure pressed the orb against his chest. The shell shattered, and the cinder inside erupted into white flames, engulfing both of his arms.
The masked figure released his grip, watching as Paul convulsed, a new connection forcibly forged within his soul.
Paul's mind reeled as visions flooded his consciousness. He saw flashes of Rudeus' battle against the alpha Black Dragon—each moment vivid, yet fragmented, like a film skipping between frames. He watched, helpless, as the beast's talons slashed his eye from the perspective of his son.
When the torment finally ended, the flames subsided, leaving Paul half-conscious, strands of white hair now streaking through his brown.
"Well… that could have turned out worse," Kagami murmured, half anticipating connecting Paul to Rudeus' cursed power would be less painful. However, in the main timeline, Hitogami's dream communication method was used as a bridge to ease the process, which no one but him could use.
The gathered crowd stared in horror. Some soldiers brandished weapons, but most were untrained civilians, paralyzed by fear.
"I just knocked out the strongest person here," Kagami remarked, stepping forward. "Do you really think numbers will change your chances against me?"
The crowd hesitated. Those who had stood in his path quickly moved aside.
Alphonse, though terrified, positioned himself in front of Norn, shielding her. But the girl was less compliant. She broke free from his grasp, running toward her father—
Only to collide headfirst into Kagami's side.
"Ah!"
He caught her before she hit the ground. Helping her back to her feet, he slipped a green bracelet into her hand.
"Put this on his wrist. It might help."
Without another word, he turned away, his focus shifting to the one who now stood in his path.
Once next to the butler, he spoke in a low but steady voice.
"In a month or two, I will come back with means to restore the region faster and a better funding source to prevent the fortune from the Boreas family from being emptied. In return, I expect you to decline any offer coming from Prime Minister Darius Silva Ganius."
The masked figure stood still, waiting for Alphonse's response. The air was thick with tension. Alphonse tightened his grip on his weapon, conflicted. After a long moment, he finally spoke.
"Why should we decline it?" Alphonse asked.
"You know damn well what that fat pig is gonna demand. I hope you haven't forgotten what the previous butler did."
Alphonse understood the figure very well. He knew the details of the kidnapping three years ago and who the culprit was, but he also knew it was too dangerous to investigate further.
"I can't promise that until you actually provide us with what you have promised me," the butler said reluctantly. "Until then, I will have to consider what is best for the region and accept any aid coming from the capital."
The figure nodded, tipping his hat at Alphonse. "Good thinking, butler. Then I will see it to hasten my delivery. See you soon."
Then turned and vanished into the distance, disappearing into the shadows.
Alphonse exhaled, looking down at Norn, who knelt beside Paul's unconscious form. She carefully placed the green bracelet on his wrist, and the healing magic flowed through him, soothing his wounds.
Paul's eyes fluttered open. "What happened?" he groaned.
Norn smiled in relief. "You're okay now, Daddy."
Paul felt the warmth of the Magic fade the pain away, and his body slowly healed from the item's light that soon disappeared, the bracelet crumbling into dust.
Despite the confusion, he managed a weak smile at Norn. "Thank you…"
She nodded, her tears just barely held back. "You're safe, Daddy."
Still in a dace, Paul felt a renewed sense of confusion—the masked man and the vision that refused to leave his mind.
But what kept bugging him after was what the masked man meant when he said Rudues needed saving instead.
His hopes of his son's aid dwindling away, giving him reason to rethink the contents of the note he had written before.
'Who is he? And... where are you... Rudy?'
***
The following days passed without further complications or the masked figure's reappearance, enabling Paul's team to proceed as planned.
As the masked man said, man-shaped spirits came after Paul every three days. They always came in solo, switched between the three swordsmanship schools, and dropped the aforementioned healing items for the knight to use.
Slowly but surely, the knight learned and soon enough reached Saint rank in all three styles, making the following fights take it up a notch in terms of difficulty.
After the incident in Fittoa, rumors of the gold and silver King Dragon rod by the shadowy figure began spreading from the east of the Central continent.
Word of both rumors hasn't come across yet to give people the idea that both figures are the same people.
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