Cornwall, England.
The King's decree had been issued. Monsters wearing human skin were flocking to this land, prepared to butcher anything that stood in their path. But where there is shadow, there is light. Wherever evil converges, the executioners of justice will inevitably follow.
Inside a modest but lavishly decorated manor, the current Duke of Cornwall, the regional magistrate, stared out the window at the starry sky, utterly miserable. He ignored the warm wool blanket his wife had draped over his shoulders.
It had only been a day or two since the intelligence dropped. As the local authority, he hadn't even processed that his territory was ground zero for a vampire convergence before the Mage's Association and the Holy Church kicked his door in.
Their orders were absolute: surrender all magical jurisdiction over Cornwall immediately, mobilize the secular government, and evacuate the population centers under the guise of an imminent "earthquake."
An order like that meant one thing. This region was about to become a warzone.
The Duke hadn't slept a wink. He couldn't eat. Cornwall was just a quiet, ancestral strip of land, largely ignored by the rest of the world. Now, it was the focal point of the globe, all because some monster at the absolute apex of the underworld had pointed a finger at it.
If Cornwall was wiped off the map... what did his family have left? The country was already pivoting toward capitalism and modern democracy. The age of aristocratic fiefdoms was dying. Without his land, a "Duke" was just an empty title. He'd be nobody.
He waited until his wife had safely retired to the bedroom, let out another heavy, trembling sigh, and cursed under his breath. "Those damn magi."
"You should know, Your Grace... the concept of territory was always designed for the strong."
A soft, weightless voice drifted directly into his ear.
The Duke's head snapped up. In the reflection of the windowpane, he saw them. A pair of ghostly, crimson eyes staring back at him from the dark.
"Every noble lineage's ancestor was either a magus themselves or lived under a magus's protection. Especially here in Britain."
The speaker was pale. Aside from those deep, shifting eyes, his body was ethereal, drifting like a phantom. The ghost spoke at a leisurely pace. He reached out a translucent hand, gently pressing it over the Duke's trembling fingers just as the old man reached for the panic alarm under his desk.
"I mean you no harm," the phantom whispered.
"Wolfe? Is everything alright?"
A gentle voice called out from the adjacent bedroom. His wife.
The Duke, who had been bracing himself for a desperate, suicidal struggle, instantly froze. He locked his muscles, terrified that any sudden movement would trigger the monster.
The phantom paused. A faint smile touched his ethereal lips.
Oh? Cares more about his wife than his own life?
According to the absolute laws of concealing Mystery, mundane humans were never allowed to interact with the supernatural. Not even heads of state. During massive disasters like the Fuyuki gas leaks, the Association and the Church would merely memory-wipe or brainwash the secular authorities. They didn't negotiate.
The fact that they actually sat down and warnedthe Duke meant one thing: his bloodline still held legitimate, recognized rights within the Mage's Association. He was the descendant of a fallen magus family.
Which meant he had the dormant circuits to bear Magecraft, and logically, the burning ambition to reclaim his family's lost glory.
But seeing the man freeze entirely to protect his wife, Rimuru mentally clicked his tongue. Well. So much for my initial psychological profile. My judgment was a bit off.
Whatever. A miscalculation was just a pivot point.
"What exactly do you want?" The Duke forced his voice into a low, harsh whisper. He stared at the ghost, terrified his wife might hear the panic in his tone and walk into a slaughterhouse.
"What do I want?"
The pale phantom solidified. The flickering ghost flames in his eyes deepened into a striking gold. Rimuru pondered for a second. He decided to stick with the magus angle. Unless absolutely necessary, he preferred bribery over threats.
As a businessman, harmony brings wealth.
"Before I answer that, I have a question for you, Your Grace."
The black shadows knitted together. The ethereal ghost shrank and condensed, fully transforming into the physical manifestation of the White Knight.
"Have you ever chased after the lost glory of your ancestors, only to find it entirely out of reach? Have you ever felt the agonizing despair... of being powerless?"
The Duke stared at the petite, white-clad boy who had just materialized in his study. The implication of the words settled like ice in his stomach.
"You want..."
"Yes." Rimuru nodded. He stepped up beside the Duke, tilting his head to look out the window at the sprawling estates. He smiled.
"I want this place. All of Cornwall. Everything."
As Rimuru spoke, a thin layer of condensation fogged the windowpane.
Like a television screen, the glass began to project silent, moving images. The Duke watched in horror as ordinary civilians willingly accepted the vampiric curse. He saw aristocratic peers, men he drank brandy with, eagerly bowing their heads to Dead Apostles, offering their necks.
"They... they're doing this willingly?" the Duke muttered, his voice trembling. He felt like he was standing in a walled city already completely compromised by the enemy. It was unfathomable.
Only someone with magical aptitude had a chance of retaining their sanity during a Dead Apostle conversion. An ordinary person would almost certainly die and rise as a mindless, feral ghoul!
"Of course," Rimuru said softly, nodding at the glass. "Just as you cursed magi a moment ago, every person harbors their own bitter resentments."
"Just as peasants despise the nobility while desperately trying to become them... ordinary people who curse the strong will never, ever refuse the chance to step into the world of Mystery."
The Duke swallowed hard. Cold sweat soaked his shirt, plastering the expensive fabric to his spine as he stole a terrified glance at the boy.
He's a lunatic.
He was weaponizing the allure of Mystery. He was throwing the sacred, guarded secrets of magecraft to the unwashed masses to build a cult of personality. He was utterly ignoring the fundamental law of their world: the more people who know about Mystery, the weaker it becomes. Diluting the pool meant severely weakening his own power.
Rimuru chuckled. It sounded like he was explaining basic arithmetic to a child, or perhaps just musing to himself.
"Mystery is like a fixed currency. A finite resource bound to this planet. And the fundamental problem with finite resources is simple: the more people you distribute it to, the less each individual gets."
"The ancient magi of this world are obsessed with tradition. To them, the pie is fixed, so the only logical solution is to shrink the number of people at the table. They'd slaughter everyone else to hoard it all for themselves if they could, isolating themselves and earning the hatred of the masses."
"They genuinely believe their personal might makes them immune to consequence. That individual greatness can suppress a shifting era." Rimuru let out a soft, mocking laugh. "But the times are changing."
He looked at the Duke, his golden eyes glowing behind the mask.
"Future generations will understand something these fossils don't. Hoarding is stagnation. Investment is king. Controlling the market, controlling the hearts of the people, that is the real truth."
Spend capital early. Buy loyalty. Consolidate power. Corner the market.
Then, when the time was right, you reap the harvest. The ones who refuse to adapt are the ones who die bankrupt.
Sure, magical power wasn't as liquid as fiat currency. Reclaiming your "investment" usually meant the debtor had to die. But so what? Winner takes all. The old money, the ancient magus families, would bleed out, and their hoarded power would flow to Rimuru's new shareholders.
And if his shareholders went rogue? As a Dead Apostle, he had absolute, biological command over his bloodline. If push came to shove, he'd just eat them one by one to get his capital back.
Rimuru closed his eyes, savoring the escalating, chaotic mana signatures beginning to bloom across Cornwall.
He opened them and extended a white-gloved hand toward the ashen-faced Duke.
"So. Give me your answer, Your Grace."
"Will you return to the embrace of Mystery... and fight for me?"
….
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