A workman must first sharpen his tools if he is to do his work well.
Ophelia had never heard that particular adage, but she summed up her thoughts with a saying of her own:
"A solid foundation is the only staircase to success."
No matter what Blake planned to accomplish, getting the castle up and running properly was a non-negotiable first step—and it was also the biggest problem staring them in the face.
Short on hands, short on funds, and with no viable source of income to speak of. After a quick survey of the premises, Ophelia had reached the exact same conclusion as Blake.
"This castle was designed purely for military purposes," the girl said, gazing down at the tattered, crumbling map spread out before her, a touch of resignation in her voice. "As you said—it has no advantages for transportation or trade."
"Precisely," Blake nodded, his eyes flicking to the empty teacup beside Ophelia. Ever since she'd regained her physical form, it was as if she were trying to make up for thirty years of lost time—she'd already downed sixteen cups of black tea and showed no signs of stopping. Not that it mattered, really. For nobility, savoring tea was supposed to be a leisurely pastime, and Ophelia's movements were indeed elegant and unhurried, exuding the kind of calm composure that nobles prided themselves on—the kind that allowed one to remain unflappable even if a mountain collapsed before their eyes.
If you ignored the fact that she'd finished an entire pot in half an hour, that is.
Since Ophelia's body was woven from magical energy, it didn't function like a normal human body—it had no need for digestion or excretion. There was no danger of the former princess overeating or drinking herself sick. Any food she consumed would simply be absorbed and converted into more mana. Still… everything had its limits, didn't it?
"We need manpower, and to get manpower, we need a decent amount of financial support," Ophelia said, lifting her head and gracefully refilling her teacup with a delicate, fluid motion.
That made seventeen cups.
"If you have a secret stash of money or a hidden treasure trove, I don't think this would be such a difficult problem to solve," Blake quipped, reaching over to take the teapot from her hand before she could pour herself another cup.
Ophelia blinked, choosing not to rise to the obvious joke. The truth was, she knew very little about the young man sitting across from her. Blake had introduced himself as the descendant of a fallen noble family, and his current predicament certainly seemed to bear that out. But Ophelia suspected there was far more to him than met the eye.
Take what he'd done for her, for example. In all her memories, not even the royal court mages had ever displayed the kind of power needed to materialize a spirit's form. Yet Blake had done it effortlessly, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Ophelia wasn't a mage, but even a layperson could understand how miraculous it was to grant a wandering ghost a physical body. The Holy Grace Church itself had never recorded such a feat—raising the dead was considered their greatest miracle, and what Blake had done was far beyond that.
And yet, as Blake himself had said, he wasn't a mage. Ophelia had searched the castle from top to bottom and found no trace of anything remotely magical—no spell circles, no mage robes, no grimoires, no magical familiars, nothing like the paraphernalia she'd seen cluttering the royal mages' quarters.
But Ophelia also found herself instinctively doubting Blake's claim to be a knight. Knighthood was an honor reserved for the most distinguished warriors; if the young man before her really was a knight, he should have been serving at the royal court, not wasting away in this godforsaken backwater. From what Blake had told her, the nobles who'd granted him this fief had written him off as a dead man walking, a useless pawn to be discarded—and that was hardly the treatment a knight deserved.
And yet, the way Blake spoke of his knighthood was so casual, so matter-of-fact, with none of the pride or arrogance one might expect. He didn't sound like a man boasting or daydreaming—he sounded like a man stating a simple truth. It was impossible to mistake him for one of those ordinary boys who fantasized about being knights, prattling on about chivalry with starry-eyed admiration.
Could he be...?
Ophelia shook her head, pushing the wild, unthinkable thought aside, and offered up her suggestion instead.
"My lord, why don't you grant physical forms to the wandering spirits? They're already completely loyal to you—if you could materialize them, it would at least solve part of our manpower problem."
"Their magical power, while formidable, isn't strong enough to sustain a physical body," Blake shrugged. He'd already considered that very idea. "I don't think you realize just how powerful your own magic is, Miss Ophelia. Your current mana reserves are on par with those of an Archmage—something these spirits can't begin to compare to. Even if I forged cores for them, they wouldn't be able to form complete bodies. But you're right—I have no intention of abandoning them. Once we have enough materials, I'll grant them a form of their own. After all, as you said, I need all the help I can get—especially right now."
Materials?
Ophelia stared at him in confusion, wondering why that particular word had slipped from the young man's lips. Could it be that he was capable of creating things from strange, exotic ingredients—like an alchemist? The former princess found herself growing more and more curious about Blake's true identity. He didn't seem like a mage, or a knight, or an alchemist—and yet his knowledge far exceeded what any ordinary nobleman's son should possess. Even Ophelia herself struggled to keep up with his train of thought. And she hadn't missed the casual way he'd compared her magic to that of an Archmage. Archmages were the pinnacle of the mage hierarchy—they were either reclusive wanderers who vanished without a trace or high-ranking officials serving at the royal court. For Blake, a "fallen noble," to have even met an Archmage, let alone have the audacity to judge their power, was nothing short of inconceivable.
Just who *is* this young man?
"The time is almost up," Blake said, paying no mind to Ophelia's confused expression. He pulled a silver pocket watch from his pocket—it was the only valuable item the original owner had possessed—and checked the time, then rose to his feet.
"Let's see how many recruits we can get for our first batch."
Perhaps to make a good impression on their new lord, or perhaps for other reasons entirely, the villagers of Duskwood had sent someone to deliver their taxes on the morning of the third day—and with them came the first group of villagers hoping to find work at the castle.
All things considered, the turnout was slightly better than Blake had expected.
Besides the cart drivers who'd delivered the grain, four people had volunteered to work for him. Blake stood at the castle gate now, studying the four figures lined up before him.
On the far right stood a burly old woman, somewhere in her late forties or early fifties. She wore tattered but clean clothes, her hands were calloused from decades of hard labor, and her messy gray hair was wrapped neatly in a white cloth. Her skin was rough and weathered, nothing like the soft, delicate skin of noble ladies. She introduced herself as Maffa Ben. Blake had heard the name from the village elder—apparently, her family had worked at the castle for generations, and judging by the determined look on her face, she intended to carry on that tradition.
Standing next to her was a rugged, muscular middle-aged man dressed in animal hides, a large axe slung over his shoulder. He'd come to apply for the position of carpenter—after all, a castle this size would need plenty of woodworking done, and it was a job neither Blake nor Ophelia were suited for.
Next in line was a hunchbacked old man who'd applied to be the castle gardener. He looked to be well into his sixties, his body stooped over with age, his face crinkled into a mass of wrinkles that made him look somewhat unpleasant to the eye.
For Ophelia, this entire recruitment process was a bizarre, eye-opening experience. As a princess beloved by the common people, she'd visited the peasant villages from time to time—but that was nothing like this. Back then, her visits had been carefully orchestrated affairs, a chance to relax in her family's country estates while making a show of caring for the common folk. In Ophelia's memories, servants were supposed to be solemn and earnest, performing their duties diligently while showing proper respect to their betters.
They certainly weren't supposed to grin at their lord with the kind of unbridled cheerfulness that made the former princess feel positively bashful.
The carpenter was another source of discomfort for Ophelia. To her sheltered eyes, his clothing was scandalously revealing—he'd simply draped a few pieces of animal hide over his body, leaving his chest, arms, and legs completely exposed. Ophelia's gaze lingered on him for a grand total of one-tenth of a second before darting away, her cheeks flushing bright red beneath the cover of her black cloak.
And the hunchback—good heavens, Ophelia thought to herself, crossing herself silently. She was certain she'd never seen anyone so ugly, even in the slums of the royal capital. His face looked like a crumpled piece of paper that had been wadded up and then smoothed out again, his features twisted out of place, his rough skin covered in unsightly blemishes and scars.
The last applicant was a tiny, scrawny little girl.
She looked to be around twelve or thirteen years old, but her malnourished body was so stunted that she seemed no older than ten. She had a head of matted brown hair, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and large, wide eyes that darted nervously from side to side, filled with a mixture of curiosity, fear, and uncertainty. Unlike the other three, she had no idea what job she wanted—she just stood there, trembling slightly, and begged for any kind of work she could get at the castle.
"My lord—are you really planning to hire *these* people?"
Now that their master-servant relationship had been established, Ophelia had adjusted her address accordingly. It was truly remarkable how quickly the former princess had set aside her royal pride to dedicate herself to Blake's service. Though she knew next to nothing about his background, Ophelia was already convinced that this young man was far from ordinary. As a former royal princess, she prided herself on her ability to read people—after all, surviving in the cutthroat world of the royal court required the skill to size someone up and gauge their character without them even realizing it. If you lacked that skill, you might as well have handed yourself over to your enemies on a silver platter.
And yet, despite her keen observational skills, Ophelia couldn't begin to fathom Blake's true nature. That alone was enough to make her respect him deeply.
Still—looking at the ragtag group of recruits before her, Ophelia couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease.