The sun rose steadily over Châteauclair, casting warm golden light over the sprawling capital. The sounds of merchants setting up stalls, children laughing in the streets, and the distant clang of blacksmiths at work echoed throughout the city.
Vergil and Freya stepped out of the Gilded Roar inn, their eyes scanning the bustling streets filled with adventurers, merchants, and townsfolk. Today's goal was clear — to find a suitable location to establish Vergil's medical practice.
"This city is more lively than I expected," Freya said, her wolf-like ears twitching as she took in the myriad sounds of Châteauclair. Her golden eyes moved constantly, watching the people and the environment like a predator observing prey. (So many different kinds of people… human, dwarf, elf, even a few beastmen like me. This city really is a gathering place for all sorts.)
Vergil adjusted the collar of his simple noble-style coat. The dark-blue fabric with subtle silver linings gave him the appearance of a low-ranking noble or perhaps a wealthy merchant.
(Not too extravagant. Just enough to blend in but still command respect.)
"Stay sharp," Vergil said calmly, his eyes scanning the crowd. His gaze wasn't idle; he observed how people walked, talked, and interacted. He noted their postures, their gestures, and even the way guards glanced at specific people longer than others.
(Information is everywhere if you know where to look. This place is full of opportunity — and danger.)
The two wandered from the adventurer's district toward the residential zones where ordinary citizens lived. The difference was noticeable. The roads were less crowded, the air cleaner, and the people calmer. Children played, elderly citizens sat on porches chatting, and shopkeepers displayed their wares in modest but well-kept stalls.
"This place feels a lot more peaceful," Freya said, her tail swishing lazily behind her.
"For now," Vergil replied, his gaze flicking toward a passing patrol of city guards.
(No walls, no strict borders between the poor and the wealthy. But the unseen boundaries are still there. The power of wealth and status creates lines far stronger than any stone wall.)
Vergil's eyes moved toward a busier street where the wealthier merchant district lay. The difference was stark — finely-dressed nobles and merchants strolled through the area, their servants carrying boxes or following behind like shadows. Stores displayed elegant fabrics, finely crafted jewelry, and exotic imports from distant lands. (This is the border where power shifts. Too far toward the noble district, and I'll draw too much attention. Too far toward the common district, and I'll only attract small-time clients. I need to be in between.)
As they explored this "border" region, Vergil's eyes locked on a three-story building with a sign hanging out front that read "FOR SALE." The structure was clean but slightly weathered, and the faded red roof tiles gave it a rustic charm. Not too flashy. It's well-positioned — close to both the noble and common districts. Perfect.
He approached the front door and knocked. Moments later, an older man, perhaps in his sixties, opened it. He wore plain gray robes, his posture slightly hunched but his eyes sharp. His gaze flickered between Vergil and Freya with mild curiosity.
"Can I help you, sir?" the old man asked, his tone polite but weary.
"I'm interested in purchasing this building," Vergil said, his voice calm but firm. (Start with confidence. Show strength, not hesitation.)
The old man raised an eyebrow. "You're interested in this place, huh? I suppose you noticed the sign. I'm a doctor, you see, but I'm retiring. My son became a commander in the palace guard, so I'll be living with him from now on. A lot of memories in this old place… but it's time to move on."
Vergil nodded slowly. "I'm a doctor as well. This location is perfect for me."
The old man's eyes lit up with interest. (A fellow doctor, is he? He looks young, but there's something about him…) "A doctor, you say? Then you'll appreciate the equipment I'm leaving behind. The first floor is the reception and treatment area. The second and third floors are living spaces. There's even a basement that I used as a storage room, but it's sturdy and quiet if you ever need it for something else."
(Quiet, underground, and soundproof... Vergil's eyes narrowed slightly. This place is even better than I expected.)
"I'm willing to buy the property as is," Vergil said. "But the price must be reasonable."
The old man rubbed his beard thoughtfully, his gaze scrutinizing Vergil. He doesn't look desperate. He's calm, deliberate… but I'm no fool. This is a buyer who knows how to negotiate.
"I had offers before," the old man said, crossing his arms. "But I turned them down because they wanted to tear the place apart and turn it into something else. I'd rather this place remain a clinic. Since you're a doctor, I'll give you a fair price — 50 gold."
Freya's eyes widened. "50 gold?! Isn't that a bit steep for an old place like this?"
Vergil raised a hand to stop Freya from talking further. He didn't argue. Don't challenge his price. Instead, control the flow of the negotiation.
"Fifty, huh?" Vergil smiled faintly. "I can respect a doctor who values his legacy. But you know as well as I do that maintaining that equipment isn't cheap. I'll give you 35 gold, and you can walk away today with the knowledge that your clinic will still serve this city."
The old man's eyes twitched. He wanted to counter, but he hesitated. (35 gold… That's more than enough for me to live comfortably with my son. And he's a doctor, not some merchant turning this place into a tavern.)
"...Alright," the old man sighed. "You've got a deal, Doctor."
They shook hands. Moments later, Vergil handed over the 35 gold coins, and the old doctor packed his last few personal belongings. Just as he finished, a tall, armored man with a sharp face and commanding presence arrived — the doctor's son, a commander of the palace guards.
The old man smiled. "Take care of this place, young doctor. May it serve you well."
Vergil's eyes met the commander's briefly, but neither man spoke. A son in the palace guard could be a threat or an opportunity. I'll remember his face.
Once the old doctor and his son left, Vergil stood in the center of the clinic. His eyes scanned the clean floors, the empty patient chairs, the small storage shelves, and finally, the basement door. Freya watched him in silence.
"Looks like you got a good deal," Freya said, her tail swaying in curiosity.
Vergil moved to the basement door and pulled it open. A narrow staircase led into the dark. Cool, dry air wafted up, carrying the faint smell of stone and earth. He descended slowly, his eyes scanning every detail of the underground space. It was sturdy, well-built, and soundproof.
(Perfect.)
His fingers brushed the stone walls, feeling the cool, rough texture. I can train Freya here. No one will hear her screams when she fails. No one will hear anything that happens down here.
Freya peered down at him from the top of the stairs, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What are you thinking, Vergil?"
Vergil glanced up at her, his blue-sky eyes like chips of ice. "That this place is better than I expected."
Freya tilted her head, her wolf ears twitching. (I knew it… He's not just planning to be a doctor here. There's something more to him. There always is.)
Later that night, Vergil sat at his new desk, his fingers lightly tapping on the wooden surface. The faint light of a single candle illuminated his face. He stared at his reflection in the window, his gaze distant.
(This place will be the base of my operations. From here, I'll gather information, treat nobles and commoners alike, and expand my network of influence. The basement will serve as a training ground for Freya and a place to conduct "business" in secret.)
His fingers stopped tapping. His eyes narrowed as a faint grin formed on his lips.
(The Brotherhood of Shadows begins here.)
In the next room, Freya lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her ears twitched with every creak of the floorboards. (He's planning something. I can feel it. But… I'm not afraid. Her gaze hardened. If he teaches me, I'll learn. No matter what it takes.)
Her tail swished once, then stilled.
The dim glow of magical runes illuminated the cold, stone walls of the underground chamber. The air was heavy with the scent of earth and metal. This was no ordinary basement anymore — it was a sanctuary of shadows, a hidden domain where only silence reigned.
Vergil stood at the center, his blue-sky eyes glowing faintly as he wove his magic into reality. His hands moved with slow precision, each motion deliberate as blue runic symbols hovered in the air, shifting and turning like gears in a grand machine.
Training grounds, armory, archive, tactical war room — I'll need them all. His eyes darted toward the walls. Every movement, every strike, every tactic... all recorded. This place will be the heart of my Brotherhood.
The stone floor rumbled softly as the first section of the chamber reshaped itself. Rows of weapon racks emerged from the ground, neatly arranged along one side of the room. Shelves slid out from the wall, each one ready to hold scrolls, notes, and recon reports. A circular table formed at the center, its surface smooth like glass but strong as steel. A place to review tactics and missions.
At the far end of the chamber, something different emerged. A training ground. The stone walls shifted, forming obstacles — moving poles, swinging weights, and rotating platforms. No assassin can succeed without mastering unpredictability.
Vergil's eyes narrowed in satisfaction. "It's taking shape."
Next, he focused his magic to forge a weapon. He extended his hand, and a swirl of blue energy coalesced into molten metal. Sparks of light flickered like fireflies as the raw material began to shift form. Slowly, it took shape — a dagger. Its blade was a smooth, matte black, reflecting no light. Its edge was sharp enough to carve stone, and the core was made of magically-reinforced titanium. The handle was wrapped in black leather for a perfect grip. Light. Deadly. Precise.
He spun the dagger in his hand, feeling its balance. "Perfect."
But Vergil wasn't done. He looked at his black light armor, hanging on a nearby rack. (This armor has served me well, but it's time for something more versatile.)
His eyes glowed with intensity as he activated his magic once more. Pieces of enchanted metal floated around him, merging into plates of smooth, lightweight armor. The new armor was pitch black, yet sleek, fitting his form like a second skin. Every plate was reinforced with layered titanium and mana-forged fibers, offering both protection and flexibility. No wasted weight. No unnecessary flash. This was an assassin's armor, meant to disappear into the shadows.
"No excess. No flaws." He flexed his fingers, feeling the smooth, silent glide of the armor's joints. (With this, I won't just disappear into the shadows — I am the shadow.)
Vergil stepped onto the training field, eyes sharp, focused. He tapped the runic controls on the wall, activating the obstacles. The room whirred to life. Poles swung randomly from the walls, stone platforms shifted positions, and mechanical dummies with wooden limbs spun unpredictably.
Without hesitation, Vergil dashed forward. His movements were a blur of speed and precision.
He ducked under a swinging pole, twisted his body mid-air to avoid a thrusting spear, and, with a spin, slashed through a moving target with his dagger. The pieces of the target fell to the ground with a dull thud.
He pressed a rune, increasing the speed of the moving obstacles. Poles swung faster. The dummies moved in erratic patterns. The platforms rose and fell unpredictably.
"Faster." His breath was steady, his movements sharper than before. He leapt, twisted, and spun between obstacles. His dagger flashed with every step. His focus was absolute. (Faster. Stronger. Quicker.)
Upstairs, in the sleeping quarters, Freya's wolf-like ears twitched. The faint clanging sound echoed through the stone floor beneath her bed. What is that noise? She sat up, her golden eyes narrowed in confusion. Her tail swayed slowly behind her as she got up to investigate.
Carefully, she moved toward the basement door, her footsteps silent. Her hand hovered over the handle. (Is he training?) Slowly, she cracked the door open, letting the faint blue glow spill out.
Her eyes widened as she saw him.
Vergil moved like a storm of shadows. His black armor blended with the dim light, his form shifting in and out of sight as he dashed from target to target. Every strike with his dagger was precise, every dodge was calculated. He twisted through the air, his cloak trailing behind him like a phantom. Not a single movement was wasted. (Fast… he's so fast.)
Her heart pounded in her chest. (I can't even follow him. This isn't normal.)
Her fingers tightened around the doorframe as she watched with awe. She'd seen soldiers train before. She'd even seen elite beastman warriors practice their techniques. But this? This was different. He's not training his body alone. He's training his mind, his instincts, his reflexes.
Vergil jumped from one moving platform to another, flipped backward to avoid a spike, then spun mid-air, his dagger striking a dummy in the neck. The "dummy" crumbled as its head snapped off and fell to the ground.
Freya's breath caught in her throat. He's not a doctor… He's something else entirely.
But her slight gasp was enough.
Vergil stopped.
The training dummies froze. The room went still. The only sound was the faint dripping of water in the distance. Slowly, Vergil turned his head, his sharp eyes locking onto her position.
"I know you're there, Freya." His voice was calm but commanding, like the edge of a blade resting on one's neck.
Her ears shot up in shock. "E-Eh…?" Her heart skipped a beat, and she instinctively stepped back, feeling like a child caught sneaking sweets from a kitchen.
Vergil's gaze remained cold but steady. He wiped the sweat from his brow, his breathing perfectly controlled. He walked slowly toward her, his eyes fixed on hers.
"What you just saw was the basics." He stopped just a few feet away, towering over her. His eyes were sharp, like a predator gazing at prey. "Tomorrow night, your training begins."
Her breath caught in her throat. She stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest. He's serious. No, he's dead serious. Her gaze hardened. "Training, huh…?"
Vergil turned away, his black cloak trailing behind him as he ascended the stairs. "Rest while you can, Freya. Your nights won't be so peaceful from now on."
Her eyes narrowed as her lips curled into a grin. (I was waiting for this.) She stepped forward, her golden eyes shining in the dim glow of the basement. (If he thinks I'll break, he's wrong. I'm a Wulfern. We don't break. We evolve.)
That night, Freya lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling. Her ears twitched with every faint sound from below. Her mind replayed the scene of Vergil's training — the speed, the precision, the deadly calm of his movements.
(He's not just fast. He's perfect. Her hand clenched the blanket. If that's the "basics," then what will I become if I master it?)
Her heartbeat quickened. Excitement surged in her chest, but there was also fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of failure. But she crushed that feeling in an instant. (I won't fail. I won't stop.)
Her eyes glowed faintly in the darkness. (If this is what it takes to stand by his side, then I'll endure it.)
The soft glow of morning sunlight poured through the clinic's windows, casting a warm golden hue on the freshly polished wooden floors. The faint scent of herbs and ointments filled the air, a sign that preparations were complete. The sign hanging outside the clinic read:
"Dr. Vergil Ragnaros — Medical Practice Open to All."
It was simple yet elegant, and the name "Dr. Vergil Ragnaros" was enough to catch the attention of adventurers and nobles alike. Word of Vergil's skill as both a healer and a tactician had spread like wildfire. His work at the Blue Fangs Inn had already garnered him a reputation. Adventurers who had seen his combat prowess and his precise medical care spoke highly of him.
Freya, wearing a simple gray tunic and pants, stood beside him, her wolf-like ears twitching as she glanced at the line forming outside the door. Her golden eyes darted between the adventurers and a few nobles who had arrived in luxurious carriages. Her tail swayed nervously. (Adventurers are one thing, but nobles?) She glanced at Vergil, who was adjusting his gloves, his expression calm and unreadable as always.
"You're serious about this, huh?" Freya muttered, folding her arms.
"It's necessary." Vergil tugged on his gloves, his blue-sky eyes sharp and focused. "If we're to establish a foothold in this city, we need influence. Adventurers bring information. Nobles bring power." He glanced at Freya. "You'll need to learn to deal with both."
Freya tilted her head. "And how do you expect me to deal with nobles? They're picky and think they're better than everyone else."
"They are picky, yes," Vergil replied, stepping toward her. "But you'll treat them the same way you treat an armed adventurer with a dagger at your back — with calm precision. You don't flinch, you don't show weakness, and you never raise your voice." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "It's not just about strength, Freya. Power isn't always physical. Sometimes, it's in words, silence, and control."
Freya's ears twitched as she took in his words. (Power without force... control without violence.) Her eyes narrowed in thought. "Fine. Teach me, then."
Vergil gave her a small nod. "Watch, listen, and learn. The world isn't just swords and claws. The battlefield of the mind is just as deadly."
The first adventurer entered the clinic — a swordsman with his arm in a sling. He sat on the examination table, grumbling about his injury. Freya watched as Vergil calmly approached, examining the arm with steady hands. He prodded the injured area, noting the swordsman's winces.
"Fractured radius," Vergil said coolly. "It'll heal, but you'll need a splint." He glanced at Freya. "Get the splint from the second cabinet."
Freya's ears perked up as she moved quickly to the cabinet, scanning the shelves. (Splint... splint...) Her eyes darted across the various tools and supplies. Her eyes caught sight of a long, flat piece of wood lined with cloth. This one. She brought it over, and Vergil took it without a word, immediately securing the man's arm in place.
"It'll feel stiff, but that's the point. Avoid using it for a week, or it'll get worse," Vergil instructed, his tone firm but clear.
The adventurer nodded, clearly relieved. He glanced at Freya, his eyes lingering on her wolf-like ears. "You his assistant?"
Freya's tail twitched, but she remained calm, recalling Vergil's words. (Calm. Don't flinch.)"Yes. I'm learning under him."
"Hah, good luck with that. He's got that scary 'all-knowing' look." The man laughed, wincing as the splint pressed against his arm.
"He's not wrong," Freya muttered as she glanced at Vergil. (All-knowing, huh? That does fit him.)
By midday, the nobles arrived. Two carriages with golden crests pulled up outside the clinic, catching the attention of passersby. Lavishly dressed men and women stepped out, their gazes sharp as they examined the modest yet well-kept establishment.
Freya's eyes narrowed. (They look like they own the whole world.) Her ears flattened for a moment, but she straightened her posture. Calm. Don't flinch.
Vergil greeted them at the door with a small bow, his face devoid of emotion but polite enough to avoid insult. "Welcome, honored guests. Please step inside."
One of the noblewomen raised an eyebrow. "You're the doctor?"
"I am," Vergil replied smoothly. His eyes met hers directly, unblinking. "Dr. Vergil Ragnaros. I've treated warriors, adventurers, and even imperial knights. Your health will be no different."
The woman blinked, taken aback for a moment, but she nodded. "Hmph, very well. Do not disappoint me."
Freya observed everything — Vergil's stance, his tone, the way his eyes never faltered. (He treats them the same as adventurers... calm, sharp, and always in control.)
The nobles sat on cushioned chairs, waiting for their turn. Freya stood beside them, feeling their gazes on her ears and tail. She heard whispers.
"A beastman assistant? How quaint."
"I've never seen one so calm. Usually, they're wild."
Her tail twitched, but she remembered Vergil's words. (Control.) Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she remained still, like a predator lying in wait. (Keep talking. You'll learn soon enough that a wolf only bares its fangs when necessary.)
The doors to the clinic closed at sunset. The final patient left with a pouch of medicine, and Vergil locked the front door.
"Time for your real lessons," Vergil said, walking toward the basement. His eyes met Freya's. "Come."
Freya followed him down the stone steps. The underground chamber now felt different. The warmth of the clinic above had been replaced by cold silence. The glow of rune lights flickered along the walls. The training ground had been reset, its moving poles and dummies ready.
Vergil stood in front of her, his gaze sharp. "Today, you'll learn five things — combat, medicine, philosophy, strategy, and psychology." He tossed her a training dagger, which she caught mid-air.
Her eyes narrowed. "That's a lot for one night."
"You'll manage," Vergil replied, his voice colder now. "If you fail, you won't die. But you'll wish you did."
The training began.
On combat training Vergil moved first. His attacks were swift, precise, and unrelenting. Freya barely had time to react as he came at her with the dagger. She blocked with her own, sparks flying as metal clashed. Her heart raced as her instincts screamed at her to retreat.
"Don't think. Move." Vergil's voice echoed through the chamber as he spun and struck again. "Your instincts are good, but your mind is holding you back. Let it go."
Her movements became faster, sharper. She ducked under a swinging pole, then blocked a strike from Vergil. She swiped at him, her blade missing by an inch.
On medical training Vergil placed a mannequin before her, complete with markings on vital points. "Strike here, and they die. Strike here, and they sleep." He pointed to the neck, heart, and pressure points. "Now, memorize it."
He placed a quill and paper in her hands. "Draw it. Every organ. Every artery."
On Strategy and Philosophic training Vergil moved chess pieces on a small board. "Every move you make, every action, must have purpose. Even if you kill a man, it must be for something greater than the kill. There is 3 main deal when we assassin work, First is do not kill people who not involving with the matter, second is made your own judgment before you do it, and the third execute it and mean it. We assassin is a doctor of nation, we take the illness of nation and make sure the nation still alive. What kind illness we take from it? Injustice, slavery, corruption, power hunger and greedy noble and always remember we work from shadow, we are not like squabbling noble, we are work with people and we are people servant... Rest is already night, morning "
Freya's eyes gleamed and going to rest.
A month had passed since the opening of Dr. Vergil Ragnaros' Medical Clinic in Châteauclair. The air around the clinic was always bustling with people. Adventurers, merchants, and even nobles frequently lined up for treatment. The reputation of the "doctor with the beastman assistant" had spread rapidly. Unlike other doctors, Vergil treated everyone equally, regardless of class or race. His potions were potent, his treatments swift, and his knowledge unmatched.
Freya had grown significantly during this time. Her movements were sharper, her instincts honed, and her ability to interact with nobles had improved. She maintained her composure, even when faced with the scrutiny of wealthy patrons. Patience, control, and precision, she reminded herself each day, echoing Vergil's teachings.
It was early morning. The clinic was closed for the day, and Freya sat on a windowsill, nibbling on a piece of bread. Her wolf-like ears twitched as she enjoyed the calm morning air.
"It's quiet today," she muttered, her tail swaying lazily behind her. "No adventurers, no nobles, and no shouting merchants. Feels weird."
Vergil was at the desk, writing something in a thick leather-bound book. His pen strokes were methodical and sharp, each line precise. It was one of the many archives he kept — information on races, medicines, tactics, and the Brotherhood of Shadows he intended to build.
The knock sound echoed through the clinic.
Freya's ears perked up, and she glanced toward the door. "Strange. We're closed today."
Vergil's eyes didn't leave the page. "Check it."
Freya hopped off the windowsill, her steps light and quiet. She cracked open the door, her eyes narrowing as she saw three men in silver armor with royal insignias on their chests. The soldiers of the imperial palace.
Her eyes met theirs, calm but sharp. "We're closed."
The captain, a grizzled man with a stern gaze, glanced at her and said, "We know. We're here for Dr. Vergil Ragnaros."
"What business do you have with him?" Freya asked, her gaze unwavering.
"The Empress is ill. We require his aid immediately," the captain replied, his voice laced with urgency.
Hearing this, Vergil closed his book, stood up, and approached the door. "The Empress, you say?" His eyes locked onto the captain's, cool and calculating. "I see. Very well, I'll come." He glanced at Freya. "Prepare our supplies. This won't be a simple visit."
Freya's eyes lit up with understanding. "On it." She moved swiftly, gathering potions, herbs, and tools into a leather bag.
Riding in the royal carriage, Vergil sat across from the captain, his arms crossed, his gaze sharp. Freya sat beside him, clutching the medical bag.
"Tell me everything," Vergil said, breaking the silence. "When did the Empress fall ill? What symptoms has she shown? What did she eat? Drink? Did she encounter anything out of the ordinary in the last week?"
The captain frowned, his arms folded. "That's not for you to know, doctor. Just do your job and treat her."
Vergil's eyes narrowed, his voice colder. "If you want me to treat her, I need to know what I'm dealing with. Do you expect me to cure an illness I can't identify?" He leaned forward, his piercing blue eyes locked onto the captain's. "I don't guess. I solve."
The air grew tense. The two men stared at each other in silence until the captain finally exhaled in defeat.
"Her Majesty has had fevers, chills, abdominal pain, and weakness for three days. She's eaten her usual meals — nothing strange except for the wine from the royal banquet."
"Banquet wine..." Vergil muttered, his eyes narrowing in thought. "Was it shared among the nobles, or was it a special bottle for her alone?"
"The Empress has her own wine. It's inspected for poison."
Vergil tilted his head, his mind running through possibilities. (If it wasn't poison, then it's either an infection or a natural disease. Chills, fever, abdominal pain… it's possible.)
Freya glanced at him, noticing his expression shift. She had seen this look before. (He's already figured it out...)
The grand gates of the Imperial Palace of Britalienne opened slowly, revealing vast courtyards lined with marble statues and colorful flower gardens. Royal guards stood at attention as Vergil and Freya were escorted through gilded hallways lined with portraits of past emperors and empresses.
They were led straight to the Empress's chamber. The heavy doors opened to reveal a grand bedroom adorned with silk curtains and velvet pillows. Lying on the bed, drenched in sweat, was the Empress herself — her face pale, her breathing shallow. Several royal doctors stood around her, looking frustrated.
One of them stepped forward. "Who is this?!" he snapped, pointing at Vergil. "The Empress is under OUR care!"
Vergil strode forward without answering. His eyes scanned the Empress, his gaze sharp and analytical.
"Pale complexion, clammy skin, rapid pulse, pain in the abdomen…" he muttered to himself. He pressed his fingers lightly on her abdomen, noticing her wince. Clear signs of typhoid fever.
"She has typhoid," Vergil declared.
The royal doctors gasped. "Impossible! We've already checked for poisons!"
"It's not poison," Vergil shot back, his eyes cold. "It's an infection caused by contaminated water or food. No amount of anti-poison remedies will cure her."
He opened his bag, pulling out herbs and bottles. "Freya, prepare hot water."
"On it." Freya moved quickly, taking charge like she had been trained to do.
On three The Empress is under Vergil care, he giving all what he can do for The Empress he self. The Empress's chambers were dimly lit by the soft glow of enchanted lanterns. The heavy scent of herbs hung in the air as Vergil finished grinding the final dose of medicine. Freya poured the hot water into a small cup, letting the steam rise, blending it with the herb's aroma. Vergil stirred the concoction, his eyes locked on the Empress, who lay weakly on the bed, her breaths shallow but steady.
Her once-radiant silver hair was now matted with sweat, her skin pale as porcelain. A thin layer of moisture covered her brow as her chest rose and fell with labored breaths. The royal physicians stood nearby, watching Vergil closely, their eyes filled with a mix of curiosity, doubt, and frustration.
"This will be the final dose," Vergil said, his voice calm but firm. He approached the Empress's side, his blue eyes sharp, like a predator analyzing his prey. "Drink this, Your Majesty. It will cool the fire within your body."
The captain of the royal guards stepped forward, his hand resting on his sword's hilt. "Careful with your words, doctor. If anything happens to Her Majesty, you'll answer for it."
Vergil's gaze flickered toward him, cold and precise, his eyes like the edge of a blade. "If you doubt me, draw your sword now. But I promise you this — if she dies because you interfered, your sword will be as useless as the men who swing it."
The captain's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
Freya smirked as she saw the guard's silence. (They bark loud, but they know who's holding the leash.)
The Empress weakly opened her eyes, her gaze meeting Vergil's. Despite her frailty, her eyes held an undeniable presence of authority. Slowly, with Freya's help, she sat up. Her lips curled into a faint smile. "Doctor Vergil… you're unlike any healer I've met before."
"That's because I'm no ordinary doctor," Vergil said as he handed her the warm cup. "Drink this, slowly."
The Empress did as instructed, taking small sips. Her eyes never left Vergil's face, studying him intently. The air grew quiet. The physicians whispered among themselves, but their words faded into the background as Vergil knelt by her bedside. His eyes, as cold as an endless winter, met hers.
"There's something you should know, Your Majesty," Vergil said quietly. His voice was calm, but there was a weight behind every word. "I am an assassin."
The room fell still.
The physicians froze. The captain of the guard reached for his sword, his eyes burning with fury. "Assassin?! You dare—"
"Stay your hand," Vergil's voice cut through the air like a blade, sharper than any steel. His gaze turned to the captain, his eyes narrow and piercing. "If I wanted her dead, she would have died long before you even knew I existed."
The captain's hand hovered over his sword, his instincts conflicted. He glanced toward the Empress, who raised a hand, signaling him to stand down. Her eyes, though tired, were locked on Vergil's.
"Explain yourself, Doctor Vergil," the Empress said, her voice still weak, but her authority undeniable. "Why would an assassin reveal himself so boldly to his target?"
Vergil bowed his head, his white hair shadowing his face for a moment before he lifted his gaze to meet hers once more.
"Because I am not your enemy," he said, his voice steady but filled with quiet intensity. "If I were here to kill you, I wouldn't have spent hours treating you. I would have let you suffer, watched you die, and no one would have suspected a thing. But that's not who I am."
Freya watched in silence, her eyes flickering with curiosity. This was a side of Vergil she hadn't seen before. His presence had always been shrouded in mystery, like a predator hiding in the fog. But now, here he was, baring his true nature to royalty. Brave or reckless? Maybe both.
Vergil stood slowly, his white cloak shifting like a shadow come to life. He faced the Empress fully, his eyes unwavering.
"I am Vergil Ragnaros. An assassin trained to end lives with precision and efficiency. I have mastered the art of killing from the shadows, where no eyes can see me, and no sound can betray me." His voice was as steady as a heartbeat, and every word echoed with cold certainty.
The Empress said nothing, her eyes narrowing as she studied him carefully.
"But there is another side to being an assassin," Vergil continued, his gaze distant as if recalling past memories. "To know how to kill, one must also know how to save. I was trained to find weak points, study anatomy, and understand how the body works. Knowing how to break something also means knowing how to mend it."
He glanced at his hands, flexing them slowly. "With these hands, I have taken lives... but I have also saved them. Not because I was ordered to. Not because I was paid to. But because sometimes, saving someone is harder than killing them. And I value difficult tasks."
The air in the room grew colder, the weight of his words sinking in.
"Your Majesty," Vergil said, his voice gentler now. "I am an assassin, but I am also a doctor. I do not take life needlessly, and I will not harm you or your empire. If I desired that, you would not be speaking to me now." He knelt before her, bowing his head low. "I swear on my name, on my life, that I will protect you and your empire from the shadows. Not because I owe you, but because I have chosen to do so."
Freya's heart swelled with pride as she watched Vergil kneel. This is why I follow him, she thought, her wolf-like ears twitching. He's not just an assassin. He's more than that.
Three days later, the Empress had fully recovered. Her face glowed with health as she sat on her throne. Before her stood Vergil and Freya, summoned by royal decree.
The Empress smiled warmly. "Dr. Vergil Ragnaros, you've done more than save my life. You've saved the empire from turmoil."
She gestured to the prime minister, who held a scroll. "As a token of our gratitude, I hereby grant you land within the empire, along with a private residence befitting your status."
Freya's eyes widened. "Land and a house?!"
Empress commanding all people to leaving the room and only with his Prime Minister, The Prime Minister unfurled a scroll, his voice echoing through the marble hall.
"By decree of Her Imperial Majesty Eliza, Empress of the Britalienne Empire, I hereby establish the creation of the 'Shadows' — a secret force that answers only to the Empress herself. This unit will act as her eyes, her ears, and her unseen blade."
Freya's eyes lit up. "So this is it, huh?" she muttered, her tail swishing behind her.
The Prime Minister's eyes shifted to Vergil. "The commander of this unit shall be none other than Vergil Ragnaros, whose skills in both assassination and healing are deemed vital to the empire's interests. He is given the authority to recruit, train, and mobilize the Shadows at his discretion."
The Empress gazed down at Vergil, her silver eyes like the moonlight reflecting on a still pond. "Serve me well, Vergil. Not as a mere assassin. But as the protector of my empire from threats that hide in the darkness."
Vergil stepped forward, his cloak flowing like a living shadow. He knelt once more, his voice as sharp as steel. "I accept, Your Majesty. From this day forth, I shall be the unseen hand that moves at your command."
Freya's grin widened. "Looks like we just became something bigger, huh?"
Vergil's eyes remained on the Empress, his heart calm, his mind focused. "This is only the beginning."
Empress back to ask everyone to joining with her and celebrating his recovery and feasting to all guest and said that Vergil Ragnaros is part of the Noble but he must still continuous his work as doctor to help commoner and Noble without any discriminations.