Chapter 23

Subjugating a Spirit

The masked figure was startled at Sylas' sudden proclamation, pausing its speech and looking at him strangely. Sylas, on the other hand, didn't know whether to pull his hairs out or salivate at his sheer, good luck. He reeled back in quickly, taking a deep breath. Come what may, his reaction notwithstanding, this was a win. A major win at that—a massive win. A windfall, so to say, from the clear, blue sky. He’d be a fool not to try and take advantage of it.

Though the quest didn’t say it explicitly, it – very heavily – implied that the masked figure in front of him was a ‘Remnant Shadow’, whatever that may be. Which meant that Sylas would need the figure’s help if he wanted to subjugate Farseew. As for how he could obtain that help… well, there was really only one way to find out.

“I… I just realized I could use your help with something,” Sylas said. “But cursed myself out for wanting to ask of you a favor. Don’t worry about me.”

“… there is no need to curse,” the masked figure seemed intrigued. “What is it that you could use my assistance with? If it’s something minor, I may not be displeased to offer a hand.”

"I… I have discovered something," Sylas hushed his tone, as though he was speaking of the unspeakable. Such an action piqued the figure's curiosity further and caused them to even 'land' on the ground, erring closer to Sylas. "Hidden in the castle… you… you are not the only shadow."

“That’s impossible,” the figure refuted immediately, seeming even slightly offended at Sylas’ words. “There is no one like me here.”

“No, no, not like you—you… you are majestic,” Sylas immediately began bootlicking to recover. “Gracious, forgiving, patient. This other thing… the reason I said you’re not the only shadow, I misspoke—it’s not a shadow… it’s… it’s a dark thing, a terrible thing. It’s a corrupt thing. Nothing like you. Absolutely nothing like you.”

"…" the figure seemed pleased at Sylas' unrepentant praise and didn't seem to find anything strange with it. "Oh? If it is an ill thing you speak of, then you must mean that loud, black cloud. I hear it, sometimes. Claiming it is unprecedented and unequal. Yet, beneath me, such a thing stands.”

“Yes, yes, precisely,” Sylas nodded swiftly. “It’s an evil thing—but, but I have ways, means of making it good. Like you. Well, like a much worse version of you, truly, as there is no equal to you, but a better version of itself. And… and I could use your help with that.”

“Oh? You have such means? Curious. Fantastically curious,” the figure said, inspecting Sylas closely for a moment. “Even I had never gleamed such means, in my many years of wandering. It is peculiar. Peculiar indeed. And you say that with my help… you can make that thing better?”

“I can make it… less loud?” Sylas ventured a guess. “And, if all goes according to plan, it would have to listen to me—I mean to us unquestionably.”

“That would indeed be handy,” the figure said. “Though it pains to me admit so, that thing predates even that which made me who I am. Though weaker and more malleable and meekly wrong, it holds certain historical value—an artefact of the time long-since forgotten.”

“You… you know what it is?” Sylas quizzed; he thought that Farseew was part of the Kingdom’s history, but it sounded like there was more to the story.

“It is a duality,” the figure elaborated. “A duality of Aspects. A former Regent Lord. Though it is merely a minor Lord, one beheld at the tail end of the Dynasty, and one beyond weak… it is still a Titular. It might not be the worst idea to learn its secrets. Are you certain of your methods?”

“Yup!” Sylas replied confidently, though that confidence was largely faked—after all, how could he be certain of something he’d never tried? But he, much like the masked figure, grew more and more curious of Farseew’s identity and true story. “Absolutely confident.”

“Very well,” the figure nodded. “I shall assist you in subduing that evil thing.”

Sylas had long since picked up on the fact that the masked figure had its own, ulterior motives, but he didn’t care. Worst comes to pass, he’d just reset and figure out another way to convince it. For now, he also wanted to learn—wanted to know. Regent Lords were very much a real thing and, as he suspected, they predated Ethernia Kingdom as well as the surrounding ones. From what the masked figure said, it sounded like it was a long, long line that reached its tail end and grew incredibly weak, allowing itself to be overtaken by the invading outsiders—the same ones who claimed they settled these lands as ‘empty’ and ‘barren of any and all human life’.

It was a tale as old as time, but a tale Sylas desperately wanted to learn. Every crumb of knowledge, no matter how small, brought him closer to understanding the nature of living in the world he’d come to. On Earth, he took that nature for granted, having been raised within and molded by it. The pursuit of success, of stars, the reach toward the impossible—and then the reality, the struggle to enable those pursuits. Was life here the same? No—that much Sylas could already tell.

But there was a major problem—his outlook on the world and life itself here was framed within a single castle. It would be like trying to understand the entirety of Earth from some village in the mountains.

Sylas explained to the figure where to meet him and when before walking back to his room, his spirit rekindled. He felt very much like a bad artist whose accidental few strokes created a decent-looking depiction of something, with the problem being that something was only a small part of the entire painting. He was yet to paint out the rest of the canvas.

Days came and went and soon the day of the Baron's arrival came. Sylas was jittery, almost like a kid before Christmas morning. He barely slept the night before and could hardly stomach a few bites of the luxurious breakfast before stopping. Ever since the day arrived, he felt it—the hooded, masked figure was somewhere in the walls of the room. It was not that Sylas suddenly developed a keen perception of these things, but that the figure likely let itself be felt by him, as a signal that it was watching.

Sylas remained within the room all day long, all the way up to Cyrs' arrival and his subsequent expulsion of his family, yelling to be left alone to his thoughts. Thinking that this was it, Sylas stepped out as a few times before, drawing out Cyrs’ paranoia and the blade that was pointed at him.

“W-who are you?! How did you get in here?!”

“You have betrayed your men,” Sylas began slowly but pointedly—his goal was to draw out Farseew as quickly as possible as to waste as little time as possible. “You have done the unthinkable, you have…” bit by bit, he began fanning the Baron's guilt until it was a brightly lit fire that burned within the man's eyes. And, just like last time, the tendrils of shadowy smoke began framing his figure before the whole 'transformation' took place.

“Ah, I must thank you, puny—”

“A poor, ugly thing, be commanded!” the masked figure appeared suddenly from within the walls, startling both Sylas—who wasn’t expecting it just yet—as well as Farseew.

“Who dares challenge great Farseew the Horrible?! Tiny-boned, fair-skinned, shell of who Great Farseew is?!! Submit to me, puny Shadow!"

An array of smoke blurred forward and struck toward Farseew who, using the sword as a conduit, wrapped a thick alloy of darkness around it and swung back. Sylas’ lips widened into a slight smile as he believed he was about to watch the fight his lifetime, but the smile was short-lived.

A pillar of emerging darkness blew out from the epicenter of the two’s collision, carving out a hole up toward the heavens and sending out large chunks of stone flying everywhere. The explosion shook the entire castle and even managed to destabilize its foundations, causing it to lean forward slightly. However, that slight slope caused everything to go to hell—books began flying off the shelves, cutlery from the countertops, and who knows what else outside Sylas’ room.

He himself was yanked back violently and tossed into the wall, causing him to cry out in pain as he felt his spine snap. He could barely breathe, and couldn’t move, watching the two figures emerge from the thick alloy of shadows within the pillar. The two didn’t talk, and instead began exchanging blows immediately—it wasn’t a duel, not one Sylas could have imagined anyway. Instead, it was a proper fantasy fight—before long, both of them flew out of the room and into the heavens as well as beyond Sylas’ view.

He was left stranded on his behind, slugged against the wall, his breathing slow and raspy. Screams and shouts emerged into his ears a moment later but were quickly drowned out by the ensuing explosions in the skies above. He could feel his life leaving him… but it was slow. It was painful. It was agonizing. It reminded him of the time he slipped on the ladder and, similarly, broke his spine but somehow remained alive. Conscious, awake, and aware… but immobile.

What did him in wasn't the passage of time—instead, the greatest explosion yet shook the world itself and, for that briefest flash, Sylas saw the sky being consumed within the darkness, the very same darkness that then plummeted at the castle, swiftly drowning it in nothingness, dragging Sylas along toward the river of death.

You have died.

‘New Dawn’ save point initialized.

Your actions have made permanent changes to the current loop.

Sylas woke in the library, trembling. What he saw… was beyond all of his understanding. Though he had slowly come to accept that magic was a very real concept here, he was still under the belief that it was the low-type of magic. That it was merely certain people invoking spirits or using tools for some magical explosions and whatnot—effectively substituting what Earth’s science did with magic. But… he was wrong. No, he was beyond wrong.

The magical display of the two—Farseew and the masked figure—proved to him that he had no place in this world. The two leveled an entire castle by just fighting with its vicinity, likely killing everyone there without even meaning to. If one of them, or even both, actually attacked the castle with the Ghouls, what would have happened? Even if Sylas had the infinity to figure out a way to save the castle, he’d never, ever, ever save it. Not against them, he wouldn’t.

Days passed in a strange haze, with him deliberating whether to go and seek the masked figure. For better or worse, he could still learn some things from not only it but also Farseew.

Walking down the corridors and toward the distant courtyard, he wondered whether waking those two devils up was even worth it. If he could bring both of them to his side and have them assist him with putting the Prince on the throne, then it would be perfect. But he had a keen suspicion that neither of those two would willingly listen to some young, lame welp yap on about anything, let alone his grand plans of conquering the Kingdom.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but as soon as he stepped into the courtyard, he realized something was amiss—unlike the last time, he didn’t feel that discomfort, the sign that something… ‘other’ was there. Looking back, he pondered whether he’d missed a day and came when it wasn’t here—but he hadn’t. Did he do something during the loop to toss the continuity into question? He didn’t think so but, in all fairness, most of his memories regarding this specific loop were largely a blur.

He sat down on one of the decrepit stones, the ilk that used to be a part of something that might have even mattered at some point. The fact that he dared venture this deep and settle in the darkness—one that was nowhere near as striking as the last time he was here—told him that the masked figure… wasn't here. As for where it was, he had absolutely no idea.

“It’s for the better,” he sighed, jumping off the stone. “It’s one thing to manipulate young pups and old duds. To try and manipulate that fucking thing? Jesus Christ man, I must’ve obtained balls of fuckin’ adamantium when I crossed over…”