Vergil stepped up to the carriage, pushing the door open with little care. His gaze settled on the lone occupant—a young woman seated with quiet composure, utterly unfazed by the chaos outside.
Her long, silvery-white hair cascaded past her shoulders, strands shimmering faintly in the dim light. Blue eyes, sharp and assessing, met his with eerie calmness—as if weighing his worth just as much as he was hers. Noble features—high cheekbones, soft lips, and an air of refinement—spoke clearly of aristocracy.
But what truly caught Vergil's attention was her demeanor. She wasn't afraid.
He leaned against the doorway, tilting his head. "You're rather composed. Not afraid I'll kill you?"
Eleanor Valtier barely reacted. Instead, she smoothed the fabric of her midnight-blue dress, fingers tracing the embroidered patterns. "If you intended to kill me, you would have done so already."
A smirk tugged at the corner of Vergil's lips. "Sharp."
He'd expected panic, pleading, or perhaps arrogant defiance given her noble status. Instead, she met him with a steady gaze, her voice laced with intrigue rather than fear.
That made her interesting.
He studied her a moment longer before speaking. "So, who's after you?"
Eleanor exhaled softly. "A faction within my house. My uncle, to be specific. He sees me as an obstacle."
Vergil arched an eyebrow. "Obstacle to what?"
She glanced toward the broken window, where distant shouts and clashing steel echoed through the night. "Power. My existence complicates his claim. Rather than dealing with me politically, he chose... efficiency."
Vergil scoffed. "Efficiency? Sending disposable mercenaries to kill you in the middle of nowhere?"
A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. "He's cautious. Won't risk his own people. Easier to deny involvement when hired killers aren't linked to him."
Vergil folded his arms. "Then this isn't over. If you're still breathing, he'll keep trying."
Eleanor met his gaze, violet eyes unwavering. "Yes. This will happen until I'm dead."
A brief silence stretched between them before Vergil let out a low chuckle. "Unfortunate for you. But fortunate for me."
Eleanor raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"
Vergil pushed off the doorway, rolling his shoulders. "I was debating whether to kill you or keep you around. A noble heiress with... let's say, unique abilities. And a mage."
Eleanor tilted her head, studying him once more. "And if I refuse?" Her body flinched briefly, but she instantly regained her composure.
Vergil smirked. "You won't."
Another pause. Then, Eleanor let out a soft chuckle. "I suppose not."
Vergil watched her silently, mind working through the possibilities.
She would be the first.
A single piece—but the foundation of something far greater. Every ruler, strategist, conqueror begins with their first piece. And she was worthy.
It wasn't just her magic—though that alone was valuable. It was her mind. Her composure. Even now, with the scent of blood in the air and corpses cooling outside, she wasn't breaking. She was thinking. That made her rare. That made her useful.
But raw potential meant nothing if they couldn't harness it, or ended two feet under before they matured.
Vergil would give her both.
A slow smirk crossed his lips. "You're not in a position to turn down my help, Eleanor."
Her violet eyes studied him, unreadable. "And you're not offering it for free, are you?"
Sharp. That was good. A piece that could think for itself.
He chuckled. "Of course not. You have potential—power, intelligence, composure. Rare things. Wasted on someone who doesn't know how to use them."
She didn't respond, but he saw it—the slight shift in posture, the flicker behind her eyes.
He continued, "I don't waste good pieces."
Her fingers lightly traced the fabric of her dress, as if considering. "And if I refuse?"
Vergil's smirk didn't waver. "Then you run. Hide. Spend your life looking over your shoulder, waiting for your uncle's men to finish the job." He tilted his head. "Or you move forward—with me—and reach greater heights."
Silence stretched.
She weighed her options. But Vergil already knew how this would end.
She wasn't a fool.
After a long pause, she exhaled softly. "Very well."
Vergil's smirk widened just a fraction.
The first piece was set.
"Before we go anywhere, you need a change of clothes," Vergil said, eyes flicking over her elegant dress—fine, but impractical for what lay ahead and too conspicuous.
She arched a delicate brow. "Unless you happen to have a noble's wardrobe tucked away, I don't have any spares. Do you?"
Vergil's mind drifted briefly to the corpse from earlier. Edran, was it? He'd stripped the man of his belongings—taking the necklace and, more importantly, his clothes.
Without another word, Vergil stepped out, retrieving the set from his inventory. When he returned, he tossed the bundle onto the seat beside her. "Put these on."
Eleanor lifted a sleeve between her fingers, inspecting the fabric with a slight wrinkle of her nose. "These are hardly what I'd call refined."
"Then lower your standards."
She let out a soft breath of amusement before tilting her head. "And are you planning to step outside, or should I assume you want a front-row seat?"
Vergil leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking. "Depends. Should I be worried you'll try to stab me the second I turn my back?"
Eleanor's eyes gleamed with quiet amusement. "Would it make you nervous?"
"Not in the slightest." He pushed off the doorframe. "But fine. I'll give you your privacy."
As Vergil stepped outside, the system's voice rang in his head, laced with unmistakable amusement.
[Don't lie to me, you wanted that front-row seat.]
Vergil rolled his eyes. Here we go again. "Shut up."
[...Don't lie.]
"Not lying."
[You hesitated. That means I win.]
Vergil pinched the bridge of his nose. "That's not how winning works."
[Oh? So you didn't want to stay inside and watch?]
Vergil opened his mouth, then shut it.
[Ha! Gotcha.]
"...Maybe I did," he muttered. "So what?"
[So what? So that means you're exactly as predictable as I thought.] The system paused before adding, [Perv.]
Vergil scowled. "It's called being cautious. What if she tried to escape? Or smuggled a knife in her corset?"
[Sure, sure. And that's why you were leaning on the doorframe like some smug bastard in a bad romance novel?]
Vergil crossed his arms, glaring at nothing in particular. "I am a smug bastard, system. Keep up."
[And a predictable one.]
Before he could respond, the carriage door creaked open behind him. Eleanor stepped out, adjusting the sleeves of the shirt—a bit loose on her but not unflattering. The pants fit well enough, though she looked less than thrilled.
"Are you done talking to yourself?" she asked, clearly unimpressed.
Vergil exhaled through his nose. "Yeah. Let's go."
[Translation: "Yes, but only because I was losing the argument."]
Vergil resisted the urge to punch thin air.
Eleanor stepped out of the carriage, the dim light catching the sharp angles of her face. The elegant gown that once draped her form was gone, replaced by stolen clothes—practical, yet undeniably beneath her station. The white linen shirt was slightly oversized, the loose fabric gathered at her rolled-up wrists. It hung just enough to reveal the slender lines of her frame; the neckline modest, yet open enough to allow freedom of movement.
The dark trousers, though fitted well enough, were clearly meant for a man—sitting low on her hips and secured by a belt. The leather boots, scuffed and worn from travel, weren't hers either, but she moved as if they had always belonged to her. The contrast was striking: noble refinement forced into rugged practicality, yet somehow, she made it work.
Her blue eyes, sharp and perceptive, flicked toward Vergil with a faint spark of amusement, candlelight catching a glint of mischief within. Even in a dead man's clothes, there was an unmistakable grace to her—shoulders back, chin high, every movement measured and deliberate. Her long dark hair, no longer pinned in intricate styles, fell freely down her back in soft waves, a few stray strands framing her face.
Adjusting the belt at her waist, she tested the fit before meeting Vergil's gaze. "Well?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "How do I look?"
Vergil smirked, taking her in—disheveled, out of place, yet somehow still carrying an air of quiet authority.
"Like a noble who just committed a robbery," he said.
Eleanor hummed softly, brushing a stray lock from her face. "Fitting, considering the company I keep."
"We're leaving," Vergil said.
"Okay," she replied.
At least she doesn't question and is willing to prove herself useful.
[I forgot to tell you something.]
"What is it?" Vergil thought, expecting the system to crack another joke.
[She's...]
"Okay, what is it?"
[She's one of the few with the potential to reach the peak of her class and gain benefits from the Confidant System.]
"How can you be so useless? How did you forget that?" Vergil mocked.
[Just... innit.]
As they walked back toward the village beneath the afternoon sun, Eleanor's sharp gaze flicked to Vergil's torn clothes. His back was exposed where the fabric had been shredded, sleeves hanging in tatters.
She smirked. "Did your shirt lose a fight, or is this the latest mercenary fashion?"
Vergil didn't look at her. Rats."
Eleanor raised a brow. "Rats did that?"
"Yeah. Fucking big rats." His tone was flat, disinterested.
She let out a short chuckle. "Not quite the battle scars I imagined for someone like you."
He glanced at her, expression unreadable. "Then don't imagine."
Silence stretched between them as they walked. The village came into view when Vergil finally spoke again.
"Eleanor," he said calmly, with a quiet authority, "at the guild, call me Akira. And don't use your family name unless you want the wrong kind of attention."
"That's fine," she said, adjusting her belt.
Vergil said nothing, simply keeping his pace steady, gaze fixed ahead.
He handed Eleanor a few coins, expression unreadable. "Go to the inn and get a room. I have something to take care of."
Eleanor nodded, pocketing the money without question before heading off.
Vergil made his way to the guild. The afternoon sun cast long shadows over the worn cobblestone streets. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of parchment, sweat, and ale. Behind the counter, Elina was sorting through a stack of reports, her keen eyes flicking up as he approached.
"Vergil?" she frowned, taking in his state. "What happened to you?"
"Fucking big rats," he said simply, placing the Astralyth stones from the Oververmin and its guards on the counter. "Turns out they weren't just small ones."
Elina let out a low whistle. "No kidding. These are from the Oververmin? You took it down alone?"
"Do I get a bonus?" he asked, ignoring her surprise.
She glanced at the stones, calculating. "The original reward was one silver. With these, it brings it up to three." She slid the coins across the counter.
Vergil pocketed them without a word. In his head, he weighed the cost—almost one gold spent just to survive those rat bastards. He exhaled slowly. But the skills were worth it. I'll climb step by step. No one will hold me back from realizing my dream.
Without lingering, he turned and left, heading straight for the library.
The problem became clear the moment he began reading. Magic wasn't something he could brute force. He could grasp concepts—mana flow, runic structures, elemental affinities—but applying them was another matter. The symbols in the books made sense, yet when he tried to use them, there was no reaction.
It wasn't just knowledge. Most mages learned under mentors who guided them through spellcasting's intricacies. Books could only take him so far.
Vergil clenched his jaw. I don't have time for a teacher. He flipped the page, eyes scanning the intricate diagrams. I'll figure it out myself.