Chapter 3: Constantine’s Trouble

“How should one phrase it?… Are there not women who are married and those who are not, and men who marry willingly and those forced into it…?”

A quarter-hourglass had swiftly passed. At the other end of the long corridor, in a room as spacious as the Duke’s study, the young boy murmured to himself.

Thick steam drifted through the room adjoining his bedroom. Yet the vastness of the space prevented the vapor from becoming an obstructing haze. Instead, alongside the dark marble tiles beneath, the steam lent the whole chamber an air of nobility. However, this seemingly elegant room held no other decorations or furnishings. Only an enormous, gold-trimmed wooden tub, and a metal stand holding several pure white towels, and a few other small items remained.

This was undoubtedly a luxury. In truth, even among nobles, few indulged in such leisurely baths. But the boy leaning against the sturdy wooden side of the tub didn’t seem to be enjoying any of it.

His blue-grey eyes stared absently at the white mist rising from the warm water’s surface… He appeared deep in thought. An expression holding a wisdom beyond his years had replaced his usual dull facade. If that gaze were seen by the Viscount, he would surely never again mistake this boy for someone with mental impairment; it might even make him question classifying him as an ordinary child at all.

“The Connellyvis family, the thorn in the royal family’s side for over four hundred years…”

Clearly, the Empire’s Viscount was profoundly unperceptive when judging people. He was wrong about the Duke’s intentions, and equally wrong about the Duke’s son – the seemingly sluggish thirteen-year-old boy. The frail boy poised to be a groom grasped the implications of this political marriage far more keenly and deeply at every level than he ever could…

Constantine lightly pressed his temples with his thumbs. Waves of pain, like an incoming tide, relentlessly battered his nerves. Yet, he forced himself to keep thinking. Years of experience taught him that relaxing wouldn’t alleviate the agony; instead, the headache would multiply, overwhelming his mind until it bordered on madness. Only by actively engaging his thoughts could he fight back.

“His Majesty the Emperor must be exceptionally pleased to have found such a perfect target… The legitimate heir of an armed force not renowned for combat strength, who happens to be an idiot… An undeniably easy puppet to control… But just what idea prompted the old man to push me onto the stage after hiding me away for so many years?… It seems like an ordinary political marriage, yet it doesn’t feel like one… Quite the puzzle.”

The boy whispered, trying to focus his mental power… Political marriages were as numerous as the stars in the documented millennia of the Western Continent. Even a marriage between a Princess and a Duke’s son wasn’t unheard-of news. In fact, since the founding of the Phoenix Empire, dozens of Princesses had become Duchesses. Some disfavored, non-royal Princesses becoming the wives of Marquises or Counts wasn’t even worth reporting.

Yet, this particular marriage alliance was far from the “small matter” Duke Connellyvis called it. It was an event concerning the stability of the entire nation.

“The only thing that’s certain… is that the unlucky one here is always going to be me…” The boy in the water mumbled. His brow twitched as if trying to form a smile, but his mouth merely quivered a few times before settling into a sigh of resignation. “Though… a wife roughly my own age? Hmm, even I have to admit, that thought holds a certain… forbidden appeal…”

To wed a Princess, according to bard’s tales, was the ultimate bliss, the hero’s reward for defeating great evil. In this era, the saying “wealth doesn’t survive three generations” often shattered the hopes of the nouveau riche, while new nobles exhausted themselves navigating the unspoken rule that “an aristocrat requires five generations of cultivation.” Gaining favor with a member of the Imperial bloodline was good fortune enough to die peacefully without regrets.

But the boy named Constantine knew very well that reality was far less perfect than legend. His memory couldn’t recall many historical royal husbands who lived happily ever after; most met tragic ends. While he lacked deep knowledge of European history in his past life, he had no impression of particularly joyful royal unions either.

The boy shook his head, ending that chain of analysis… The pain in his skull intensified, making distraction increasingly difficult. Yet he tried harder to concentrate… Experience told him this was his only recourse.

He fully understood his family’s position, but in his view, the strategy employed by those in supreme power… was less than successful. Over centuries of fierce struggle marked by blood and fire, the Connellyvis family had evolved into a powerful, battle-hardened entity. Barbarian attacks hadn’t ground it to dust; instead, they honed this sword to be sharper and deadlier. Connellyvis was no longer merely a national army. It had become a semi-independent entity, nominally subordinate to Phoenix… Yes, the boy remembered a term perfectly describing its status.

Warlord.

A warlord impossible to forcibly quell… and impossible to show weakness towards…

Every ruler of the Phoenix Dynasty took the danger this blade represented very seriously. Each emperor relied on this family, yet constantly guarded against it. Learning how to manage relations with the Connellyvis family was a mandatory course for every crown prince prior to ascending the throne.

Both the exalted Emperor and the noble ministers understood the core principle of politics deeply… It was balance. And the only means they possessed was the impoverished West.

Every knight of the Griffin Knight Order held the prowess of a high-level warrior. By the time of Ralphe, their officially registered number had already ballooned to five thousand – Connellyvis possessed the most potent combat force on the continent. Yet, it struggled to even feed itself… So, the Empire’s high lords tightened the supply lines and incessantly employed “political factors” to suppress the Western Frontier. Every time the Griffins took proactive military action, it invited interference and obstruction from the capital.

If Griffin excursions failed, the Orc hordes would advance unchecked. But if the Orcs were excessively weakened, Connellyvis’s Western Frontier would become a caged beast loosed upon the Empire, feared ten times more than the Orcs themselves! Only by maintaining the delicate balance would the Griffons remain the solid barrier against the Orcs, allowing Phoenix to enjoy everlasting peace.

Yet this fragile balance was now slowly shifting…

Godfrey Floyd Ralphe. Phoenix’s fourth Emperor. He possessed truly far-sighted wisdom – wisdom that guided the Phoenix Empire through the peril of fragmentation following its rapid expansion… It’s easier to conquer lands than to rule them. In this regard… Constantine believed he far exceeded his war-mongering predecessor, the Third Emperor. Probably not even the lofty deities could have managed better.

However. He was merely human. Not a god… His wisdom could only, and merely did, influence one era…

Three hundred years later, his influence finally waned.

Three centuries mended the Griffon’s wounds. Three centuries saw over ten generations of the Connellyvis family cultivate the wasteland, carving out vital living space for humans. Over four centuries, the Western Frontier Governor and his Western Army paid in blood to secure for themselves nearly half the Empire’s territory – its two largest provinces. Lands under completely free Griffin rule, accepting no jurisdiction from the Phoenix Empire!

Meanwhile, the great Emperor’s successors could only watch this unfold – panicking and cursing – while desperately seeking more effective, more insidious methods to restrain this beast from escaping its cage—

Thus began the era of military friction, bribery, sowing discord, and corruption… Nobles unleashed their most proficient tactics against the Western Frontier with zero restraint…

But we must acknowledge that the nobles sorely underestimated Connellyvis. After decades of these efforts, the Emperor and his advisors finally recognized, with resignation, that their previously infallible methods had lost their potency.

… Military actions were thwarted. Bribes were refused. Attempts to sow discord were ignored. Gifts… Money flowed in but never out, turning into a disguised form of subsidy instead…

Every member of the Sunhorn tribe received education from childhood. Battlefields soaked in blood and the example of countless valiant heroes surrounding them, paired with the glorious history of their family… forged the Griffons’ indomitable spirit into existence. This spirit defined every member of the Connellyvis family. They were resilient. They were loyal. They were courageous and skilled in war. They revered sacrifice and the blood shed in battle.

Would they give up? Absolutely not!

Since external pressure proved ineffective, they needed a different approach… Wisdom varied, but the mindset of emperors remained constant. “To stop boiling water, simply remove the firewood beneath.” After generations of devoted contemplation and experimentation, drawing upon ancient wisdom from the Far Eastern Continent, they finally settled on the ultimate solution.

In fact, looking back over the past century, they had already employed every method to infuse Connellyvis with the bloodlines of nobles, landed nobles, even the Imperial family itself. The plan? Once these women carrying “alien” blood bore sons who became legitimate heirs, then, in later generations, the Connellyvis family would gradually degenerate in both bloodline and thought! Ties to the rest of the nobility would become the shackles that dismembered the Griffons. Eventually, this dangerous beast would be divided, fragmented, and ultimately consumed.

Assimilated by the Phoenix, the legendary namesake and symbol of the Empire.

Every Phoenix Emperor silently executed this seemingly flawless long-term gambit. Even if he couldn’t control this key warlord directly, he could splinter the family, creating factions loyal to the throne. Every Imperial relative driven into the Connellyvis fold would be another nail permanently hammered home, ensuring the family could never become too powerful. Either control it from within, or break it apart.

What he himself now faced… was another step within this grand design… The peculiar twist? Among snippets the boy had received, this open secret of a plan was purportedly scrapped. Generations of effort showed minimal returns. Yet clearly, the current imperial occupant hadn’t entirely abandoned this ambition.

The boy’s thoughts began to tremble…

The usually effective head massage did nothing to soothe the pain. Constantine sensed a strange hum starting deep within his consciousness. Vaguely, it seemed like thin, luminous ribbons of color streamed from a spot of brightness, piercing into his brain. Each intrusion brought a loud hum within his mind. Countless fragmented images flashed and leaped, slowly coalescing into an indistinct picture. Within that indistinct picture lay only one vague semblance of a face – a form bearing no resemblance to any human face. Yet, inexplicably, the boy knew it was a face. It held a pair of golden eyes. Those eyes, shimmering like molten gold, held elongated pupils utterly alien to humans… pupils as unnerving as those of a wild predator!

The stabbing pain intensified sharply! Constantine’s lips twisted. His hands and feet clenched involuntarily. He tried to think of anything else to divert his focus, but the excruciating agony rendered his mind utterly blank… The surrounding water remained warm, yet he felt an icy chill seizing his body!

“Damn it!” he hissed, cursing under his breath. This vile sensation felt like countless tiny needles continuously piercing and retreating from his skull… Pain escalated swiftly into an indescribable torment!

All color drained from Constantine’s face. His normally pale skin now showed a faint shade of cyan. The veins stood out starkly on his hands gripping the bath’s edge… making clear the immense suffering he endured…

Grains of sand fell one by one within the hourglass. After long, excruciating seconds that felt both endless and fleeting, a hint of relief finally surfaced in the boy’s expression.

Once the darkest hour before dawn has passed, the light comes to bathe the land.

Tiny currents of warmth began emerging from his back. Slowly, they ascended along his spine, melting away the phantom needles in his brain. The blessed sensation drew a faint, involuntary gasp of relief from Constantine.

“At least it lasted no longer this time…” Much later, he sighed tiredly, stretching out his limbs. His gaze drifted to the nearby hourglass, and a flicker of gratitude appeared on his face.

This strange mental affliction tormenting him wasn’t innate.

Back at the villa in the Western Frontier where he grew up, these sensations sometimes visited him. Then, they behaved like mischievous, minor intruders – faint, fleeting episodes, a quick bout of dizziness or confusion, vanishing as quickly as they appeared. Only during sleep, or moments of profound distraction, would that vexing sting trouble his nerves…

Yet, inexplicably, during his journey to Hayton, this previously insignificant ailment abruptly worsened. It grew steadily more regular. That face glimpsed in unreality became clearer. Occasionally, Constantine even felt it was shouting something at him… This vicious symptom wrecked his sleep, gifting him persistent dark circles under his eyes… Lacking the timely surges of warmth from his back that periodically eased this pain, the boy strongly suspected he might have gone mad…

However, after enduring this torment for days, Constantine finally discerned a pattern—

Once a day. If he could somehow trigger this sensation and endure it, then, for that day at least, he’d be free of it.

“Perhaps… it was the memories…”

The exhausted boy lowered his head, staring at the distorted, familiar-yet-alien reflection. The ripples and steam on the water’s surface clouded the image… Only the pair of eyes set into his pale face remained relatively distinct. Those light blue pupils seemed like acute, reflective shards of smoky crystal mirroring the world.

As the swirling water dissipated between his fingers, his expression clouded, seemingly lost in an overwhelming haze. Constantine murmured quietly to himself, “Memories are like water in the palm; whether you open your hand wide or clench it tight, eventually, they all drain away… drop by drop… through the gaps between your fingers…”

The proverb probably wasn’t entirely accurate, he mused. Some matters, perhaps, even the power of death couldn’t bleach from memory. On this point, the boy named Constantine had gained a harsh proficiency.

Thirteen years had flowed by since his rebirth into this enigmatic world. His previous, unremarkable life had left him no tangible inheritance. Yet images of bustling streets, towering structures, televisions, computers, the vastness of the internet—even countless books—had never faded from his thoughts. Though stripped of most practical purpose now, this trove remained an invaluable treasury of experience.

Back then, he’d pride himself on holding onto these memories. Yet realizing his impossible rebirth made him oddly regretful. Had he only known… why didn’t he memorize something actually useful? Formulas for explosives? At the very least, the method for extracting saltpeter… Today, this yearning had dimmed considerably, less intense than when he’d first arrived here. The longer he dwelled in this nameless world, the more he realized… those things weren’t entirely necessary.

Because the dominant power governing this world, with its backdrop reminiscent of medieval Europe yet teeming with myth and legend, was the Gods.

Here, Deities were nothing like the abstract concepts he remembered. Against the palpable miracles wrought by extraordinary Magic, Divine Magic, and even the Gods’ occasional interventions… the destructive force of gunpowder seemed questionable, at best. Truthfully, he’d heard rumors of things resembling gunpowder, even rudimentary firearms existing in lands under Dwarven management. Yet none had spurred the revolutionary transformation he’d witnessed back home.

Back home, the disparity in an ordinary man’s strength wasn’t so vast. Legends spoke of heroes facing hundreds alone, but history held scarce proofs. Taking down a dozen hardened opponents placed you firmly among Earth’s elite fighters. Even tales of psychics usually boiled down to moving objects mentally or performing minor hypnosis. Yet in this place, warriors of consummate skill could genuinely hold off a hundred men. Grand Wizards soared through skies and oceans, levitated mountains, reversed rivers… Their presence alone tipped the scales. Rise or fall hinged critically on one or two figures; the rest were little more than pawns, cannon fodder.

He, the pitiable lad currently dwelling in this frail frame, was actually a stark testament to this reality himself. The day he witnessed the Mage under his nominal father’s command, after lengthy incantations, rip an actual meteor from the heavens—an impact annihilating a vast expanse of wilderness… served absolute, undeniable confirmation. A message delivered not by subtle suggestion, but earth-shattering violence. It proclaimed, thunderously, that in this world, true heroes were the architects of history.

Confronted by this reality that overturned every rule he knew, Constantine was forced to accept the system’s internal logic. He later pondered if the fading mysteries called “Magic” in his previous life’s Middle Ages were precursors of the hard sciences that later emerged. Could religion be interpreted as science yet unproven?

Constantine shook his head, dismissing the pointless train of thought. The roaring fireplace kept the room warm as a midsummer day. He stepped out of the cooling bathwater and walked into the bedroom adjoining the bathroom. Stopping before a large, full-length mirror framed in silver-coated wood, his gaze was caught by another identical mirror positioned perpendicularly against the other wall.

Naturally, as someone who’d received systematic, thorough education and prided himself on his intellect, Constantine lacked the narcissistic fixation of that legendary figure consumed by his own reflection.

The boy’s back was pale and unblemished, glowing with a touch of healthy pink under the bright noon light filtering through the large windows. Yet upon this skin, a symbol formed of starkly contrasting hues drew the eye: An intricate pattern meticulously traced by glowing lines. Precision marked its form – a hexagram seemingly etched by a master craftsman’s hand. Its lines weren’t the reds or blues typical of tattoos, but a shade reminiscent of aged steel, shimmering with hints of silver in daylight. Surrounding the hexagram, dozens of distorted, archaic characters twisted themselves into a subtle circular boundary. The characters themselves looked grimly dark, reminiscent of dried blood. Staring harder, they seemed to writhe ever so slightly, as if tiny, crimson serpents writhed just beneath the youthful skin, straining for escape from their fleshy prison.

Only upon absolute close inspection did it become clear: each line comprising the pattern wasn’t simple at all. Instead, they were dense tracery resembling intricate filigree, or perhaps… runes. These finely etched symbols flowed with an elusive rhythm. The precision of their workmanship surpassed ordinary human capability. Although confined to a teenage boy’s back, their sheer complexity was staggering enough to leave any observer in silent awe.

But at this moment, the only witness to this sight was the boy himself in the mirror. Twisting his arm nimbly, his fingers traced slowly over the miniature pathways of the symbols – feeling their texture perhaps? Yet an observer facing him directly might have noted an unnatural, minute twitch tugging at the corner of his lips.

Could this massive sigil… this Magic Array be the true root cause of his headaches?

Constantine had no clue about the origins of the intricate design etched upon his back. He only knew this eerie pattern was inscribed when he was very young. He’d once queried the old steward, a likely source of information. The vague reply was: “That Array protects the Young Master from certain Curses, specially placed by an Archmage. Its precise function known only to His Lordship.” Predictably, the Duke offered his son no answers regarding it.

Although this Array, etched into his flesh since his earliest memories, had never exhibited even the faintest reaction, the boy felt certain it wielded influence. The most direct evidence: he couldn’t remember its creation. As someone who vaguely recalled sensations from inside the womb, the memory of the Array being inscribed years after birth should logically be stored somewhere in his mind.

“Or maybe… maybe I’m about to unlock some unknown power within myself… and become invincible?”

Some moments later, he draped a long shirt over himself, concealing the vast sigil. A self-deprecating whisper escaped his lips.

Evidently… it was a jest intended solely for himself.