Elias leaned forward, resting his elbows on the messy desk and staring at his hands. The faint golden lines he saw earlier in the cave were gone—hidden, maybe.
His skin looked smooth and pale, clearly Veyron's. It didn't have the usual roughness Elias had from years of typing and using cheap pens.
He turned his hands over, half-hoping to see some sign of the Entity still there.
"Okay," he said quietly, flexing his fingers. "Entity. Symbiotic Integration, Stage 1. Show me something."
He stood up and began pacing the small room. The floor creaked under his boots. In his notes, the Entity was a wild card—an ancient symbiote meant to merge with Lin and boost his powers.
Elias hadn't fully figured out how it worked yet. It was supposed to grow, change, maybe even break the rules of magic. But what did that mean for Veyron? A second-rate mage with shadow powers and a noble title that barely meant anything?
He stopped by the candle on the shelf. Its flame flickered, casting a shadow on the wall. "Alright," he whispered, raising a hand like mages did in Chapter 12—palm open, mind focused.
He pictured the shadow twisting into a snake—the crest of House Maelor. His chest buzzed faintly, like a spark trying to start a fire.
Nothing happened. The shadow didn't move.
He clenched his teeth and tried again. This time he made a fist, trying to pull the darkness into his hand like smoke.
The buzzing flared for a second—sharp enough to make him flinch—but then faded. Just a dull ache behind his eyes. No magic. No cool effects. Just the same room and the same candlelight.
"Really?" he muttered, lowering his hand. With a thought, he opened the [Creator Tools]. A yellow screen appeared at the edge of his vision. He tapped View Stats, hoping for answers.
Name: Veyron Maelor (Elias)Age: 19Title: Lord of House Maelor, AuthorRank: 2nd Grade - Low - Mage (Shadow Affinity)Status: Bonded (Entity – Symbiotic Integration, Stage 1)
No changes. No new powers. No "Entity Awakened" message. Just the same vague info, mocking him with how little it said.
He dropped back into the chair and rubbed his temples. "Great. I bond with some ancient creature, and it does nothing." Maybe Stage 1 was just inactive. Like a seed that hadn't grown yet. Or maybe the Entity only worked for Lin, not Veyron with his weak magic. Elias had created the Entity for a protag—not for a background character with a dying estate and a family ring.
Elias sighed and looked at the mirror across the room. Veyron's face stared back—sharp jaw, dark hair, and bright eyes. They looked almost silver in the candlelight. But that could've just been the light. Or his imagination.
He stood again, testing how his body felt. He seemed fine. Maybe even stronger. But he had just escaped a cave and nearly drowned—adrenaline might explain it.
He threw a few punches at the air. His moves felt smoother than normal, his balance better—but nothing crazy. He jumped, half-expecting something dramatic. His boots barely left the floor.
"Nope," he muttered, dropping onto the bed. "Nothing. Zip. Nada."
The Entity was there—he'd felt it in the cave, seen those golden veins.
Maybe it needed time. Or something to activate it. Or maybe he just wasn't good at magic.
His eyes stung from exhaustion. The fall, the climb, the freezing water—it was all catching up to him. He looked at the desk, where debt notices still lay, their dark ink glowing in the candlelight. Ten thousand gold marks. Thirty days left. Blackmailing Lady Salar Thorne was his only real plan, but his mind was too foggy now.
"Sleep," he mumbled, kicking off his boots. "I'll deal with it tomorrow."
He blew out the candle, and the room went dark. The small bed creaked as he lay down, still wearing Veyron's damp shirt. The manor was quiet, the only sound the soft tapping of rain outside.
Elias woke up to pale sunlight shining through the window. Down in the courtyard, the fountain sparkled in the morning light. His body felt sore, but not as bad as he'd expected.
He walked to the desk and pushed aside the debt letters to make space. Time to focus on the blackmail plan. Lady Salar Thorne—the queen of alchemy, wife of Lord Edric, and secretly running a potion smuggling ring through orphanages.
He called up [Creator Tools] in his mind. The yellow screen appeared. He opened his story notes. He found what he needed: the couriers used secret ledgers, delivered weekly to a tavern called The Broken Quill. The potions were packed in fake medicine pouches that normal magic scans couldn't detect.
He smirked. "Got you."
He grabbed a quill and paper and started writing the letter carefully. It had to be vague to protect himself but sharp enough to make a threat.
Lady Thorne,
Your shelters in the outer districts aren't as clean as you pretend. Kids carrying pouches that don't show up on wards? I know what's in them. So will the Council if I talk.
Be at The Broken Quill, three nights from now, tenth bell. Alone. Bring gold. Keep quiet, or House Thorne's name sinks.
—A Friend
He read it twice, adjusting a few words. It was subtle but dangerous, just enough to make her worry. He sealed it with plain wax—no house crest, nothing to trace.
He'd hire a street runner to deliver it, someone with no ties to House Maelor. The Broken Quill was neutral ground, a place where nobles and commoners mixed. If Salar took the bait, he'd have her. If not… well, he had saved last night's state. He could always try again.
He stood, slid the letter into his tunic, and looked at himself in the mirror. Veyron's silver-gray eyes stared back, calm and sharp.
"Let's do this," he said. And for a moment, he actually believed he was the lord he was pretending to be.
Lady Salar Thorne's POV
The letter arrived at dusk, slipped under the door without a sound.
Lady Salar Thorne paused mid-sentence, quill suspended above a parchment full of potion notes. The air in her study was still—tinged with herbs and ink.
Shelves of labeled bottles stood in perfect order. A lantern burned low on the desk, casting a warm glow on the emerald ring on her finger—a gift from Edric, long ago.
She noticed the envelope on the floor. No crest. Plain wax.
Her lips thinned.
She rose, picked it up with careful fingers. Cheap paper. Market-grade. But the penmanship was precise, deliberate. Not scrawled by a street thug. She cracked the seal and read.
By the second line, her breath caught. Her expression didn't change.
The shelters. The wards. The pouches.
This was no bluff. Whoever wrote this had real information. Only a few people could've known. Fewer still had reason to dig.
Her mind spun as she lowered the letter.
She crossed the room to the window. Below, the garden lay misted in moonlight. Her own reflection met her eyes—sharp green, shadowed by thought. Her hair was pinned back in a no-nonsense coil. She looked calm.
But inside, gears turned.
Who would risk this? Someone reckless, or someone desperate?
New money wouldn't dare. Old money wouldn't need to.