Chapter 2: Chapter 2 - Truth in Blackwater

[LOADING SYSTEM…]

Blue symbols flickered before his eyes like neon signs. Eirik flinched. Text boxes floated midair, glowing faintly.

“What the—”

[ANALYZING BODY COMPATIBILITY… 100% SYNCHRONIZED.]

[CHARACTER SHEET UNLOCKED.]

[NAME: EIRIK STORMCROW]

[TITLE: THE SPINELESS BASTARD OF LORD CEDRIC STORMCROW]

[AGE: 19]

[REALM: UNINITIATED]

[NOTE: THE REALM TIERS ARE RANKED FROM LOW TO HIGH AS FOLLOWS:]

[UNINITIATED, SNOW, FROST, HAIL, GLACIER, BLIZZARD, EVERWINTER]

[STATS]

[STRENGTH: 3]

[ENDURANCE: 2]

[AGILITY: 3]

[INTELLECT: 3]

[CHARM: 1]

[MANA: N/A]

[NOTE: THE STAT CAP FOR UNINITIATED REALM IS 10]

[SKILLS]

[STRENGTH AFFECTED SKILLS]

[MELEE WEAPON PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

[SHIELDS PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

…

[AGILITY AFFECTED SKILLS]

[SNEAK (F)]

[LOCKPICK (F)]

[HORSE RIDING (F)]

…

[ENDURANCE AFFECTED SKILLS]

[ARMOR PROFICIENCY: ALL TYPES (F)]

…

[INTELLIGENCE AFFECTED SKILLS]

[ALCHEMY (F)]

…

[CHARM AFFECTED SKILLS]

[FIRST IMPRESSION (F)]

…

[TALENTS]

[LOCKED]

Eirik grimaced.

He’d thought Eirik was weak, but this? All below-average stats, F-tier skills, and no talents?! This is a nightmarish start as far as character build goes.

Nonetheless, this is the hand he’s dealt, and if there’s one thing he’s known for, is not crying about what life had given him.

Another ping interrupted his thoughts.

[TUTORIAL QUESTION CHAIN ACTIVATES!]

[Complete the Quest Chain to Earn a Special Reward!]

[Tutorial Quest #1 (out of 7): Root Out the Rot]

[Quest type: Intrigue]

[Objective: Identify all spies planted by Garrick within your household (0/3 found)]

[Reward: 1,000 Mana Fragments]

[Reward: 5 Points in Intellect]

———

Eirik’s lips twitched.

Spies. Of course. His predecessor must’ve been too ignorant or too scared to notice.

His mind focused on Marta. The servant girl who had rubbed him the wrong way from the moment he entered this world. In any case, she was an easy one to pick out.

But what about the other two?

Eirik straightened, ignoring the ache in his ribs. His gaze focused on Harkin, the old guard, who stood nearby.

Harkin’s woolen tunic was patched at the elbows. Eirik noticed, and this did not come as a surprise, as the old man clearly needed money, still working at his age. His eyes shifted downward, to Harkin’s boots.

They were mismatched.

Hmm… interesting. Is Harkin a spy also?

Eirik tapped into his memory, and recalled that Harkin had served his mother briefly before her death. The man occasionally slipped bread in his quarters during lean winters. Maybe sometimes it’s clothing also.

Eirik looked at him for a while, and concluded he’s not a spy.

Whoever worked for Garrick certainly did not have the need for stale bread.

“Gather every servant.” Eirik ordered Harkin. “Everyone, including those assigned to latrines and kennels.”

Harkin swallowed. “Young Master, what is the meaning of—”

“If you value that stolen boot. Move now, Harkin.” Eirik snapped his fingers. “And bring me a basin, well water, and bluewing petals from the stillroom.”

The old guard blinked. “What… what do you need them for, Young Master?”

“Now.”

Harkin scrambled out like a scalded cat.

Alone in the room, Eirik’s mind connected the threads.

One trick he’d learned from the Academy was that, to sniff out the rats, sometimes you do not need to play detective. He neither had that time nor patience.

He could simply use psychological tactics to make them squeak.

But he couldn’t bring anything he was familiar with in the contemporary world here, which would give him a much easier time.

He had to improvise with what Eirik had… what the people in this world had.

In order to do that, he tapped into Eirik’s memories and tried to find any information that would’ve helped him, but it yielded little results.

Then, he tried to think about interaction with Garrick, maybe that mischievous little brat would help him here.

Suddenly, his eyes opened wide.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

He found it.

Bluewing petals—a type of flower found in the Northern Kingdom—would release a harmless blue dye when boiled. And when combined with animal grease, the blue color will become black. However, since not many common folk had a reason to boil flowers nor could afford meat, this was only known to a few royal people and alchemists in the kingdom. Eirik had a distinctive memory of this, because this was exactly how he was set up by Garrick in childhood to be framed as a “demon-born” in front of his father Cedric and distinctive guests. It was a pain for him to summon that precise memory, but it would be perfect for what he’s about to do.

Moments later, six servants shivered in the yard.

Eirik noted each face. Thora the laundress, missing two fingers from frostbite last winter. Jens the woodcutter, who sometimes tossed extra kindling into his rooms during blizzards. Yorick the skinny scribe, who always looks malnourished. And… three other souls that looked like their life was lived through constant suffering and struggle.

Marta… where is Marta?

Probably still busy getting his meat ready. Eirik thought. Well, maybe it’s going to be even better if she arrives late. He looked at his band of servants that looked nothing like a royal house’s staff but a group of poor adventurers, and readied his throat.

“For nine years,” Eirik’s voice carried across the yard, “This household tolerated traitors.”

Murmurs rustled through the crowd as he studied each one’s facial expressions while Harkin shuffled back into the room with a dented washbasin.

“This is truthwater. Innocent hands emerge clean. Traitors… will have their skin blackened like their souls...” He let the pause linger.

The servants shifted uneasily. The blue dye needs thirty seconds to bond with skin oils, then adding the animal fat from the meat platter will turn the color black. But first, Eirik needed someone innocent to touch the water first.

“Harkin.”

The old guard stepped forward, his fingers trembling as he dipped them into the basin.

Eirik kept his face stern.

Blue.

Harkin’s hands turned blue as they emerged out of the water.

“Your hands stay pure, Harkin.” Eirik announced as the old man pulled up dripping blue fingers.

The crowd exhaled—then tensed as Eirik added, “but your boots tell another story.”

Harkin turned gray. “M-Milord, I—”

“Three loaves of bread vanished from the kitchen shelves this month, too.” Eirik stepped closer, watching the man’s pupils dilate with fear. “But.”

Everyone leaned forward.

“You saved me after a beating from Garrick last winter.” Eirik’s voice softened. “Your loyalty outweighs petty thefts. From today, your wages double. Stop stealing.”

Harkin’s jaw dropped. Tears welled as he fell to one knee. “Y-Yes, Young Master!”

Murmurs rippled through the servants like wind through dead leaves. Maybe not everyone is a spy working directly for Garrick, but certainly no one is clean in this house. After all, who’d resist taking advantage of someone so spineless and so weak?

Yet whatever Eirik just did, this had surprised them quite a bit.

Not only did he successfully spotted Harkin’s petty thievery, he also displayed a kind of kingly grace that somehow made him appear… dare they say…

Powerful?

Did someone teach this to him? Was Lord Cedric behind this? Make the bastard appear larger than he was? But why all of a sudden—

Eeeerrrrrrrk—

The kitchen door groaned and opened as heads snapping toward her.

Marta.

Carrying a wooden platter of greasy mutton, she stumbled into the crowd with a look of complete confusion.

“Here’s your meat, Milord. Enjoy—”

“Wash your hands, Marta.” Eirik pointed to the basin.

“Why?” She was quite surprised by the order. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Do it. Now.” Eirik stepped up and took the platter from her hands.

Marta hesitated.

She wanted to refuse, since refusing this guy had cost her basically nothing for the past few years.

But seeing what he just did to Garrick—

Marta slowly placed her hands into the basin, but Eirik noticed that she subtly held her pinky finger up and only touched the water with the other four fingers and her palm.

Huh… How interesting.

A smirk crawled onto Eirik’s face as he suddenly realized something, yet he held the silence as he watched what was about to happen with the other servants.

The water’s blue hue crawled up her fingers—at first. Then, as residual mutton grease met the dye, the color darkened like ink spreading across parchment.

Her hands emerged pitch black.

Whuh—

Gasps erupted as her skin blackened.

Marta recoiled as if she just got burned. "Witchcraft! This proves nothing!"

Eirik’s lips curved.

“Harkin. Hold her.”

The old guard seized Marta’s arms with surprising strength. Loyalty rewarded pays off, Eirik noted.

Marta shrieked, then begged. “Please. Milord. I am innocent!”

Eirik circled her like a hawk.

“Three days ago,” Eirik said, “Garrick ‘found’ me alone in the armory. ”

Marta’s jaw tightened.

“Odd, isn’t it?” Eirik continued, “Since you suggested I went there to pick up a weapon for Harkin that morning.”

A gasp rippled through the servants.

Marta paled. “I—I didn’t—”

“Liar!” Harkin shook her.

Eirik raised a hand, silencing the crowd. His mind churned—recalling every intersection Marta had ever thrown him.

“Last spring. My fever.”

Marta’s eyes darted between the basin and Eirik’s icy stare. “What about it?”

“The healers said it was bad luck.” Eirik stepped so close his breath fogged her face. “You swapped my tonic with ground nightshade. Weak enough to mimic illness. Strong enough to waste me for weeks.”

Marta froze.

“After my first fever, it was like my entire body started to wither away. I constantly experienced a lack of energy, a low tolerance for cold, and occasional illnesses, all thanks to the poison you make me consume regularly.”

Marta’s pulse throbbed in her neck. “You have no proof!”

Eirik’s smile widened.

I had no proof. Until you told me just a minute ago.

“Pin her hand.” Eirik nodded to Harkin.

The old guard wrenched Marta’s right arm flat against the table. Her fingers splayed like pale spiders.

“Wh-what are you d—?”

Eirik gripped her pinky nail.

“Nightshade leaves bruise purple when crushed. Let’s see if your nails hold stains.”

He yanked .

Crack.

Marta’s scream shattered the silence.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!

The servants recoiled as her nail tore free, trailing a ribbon of blood.

And beneath it—faint violet smudges.

“Nightshade residue.” Eirik held up the nail. “Care to explain?”

Marta sobbed, clutching her mutilated finger.

“H-he made me! Garrick said he’d sell my son to the ice traders if I refused!”

The confession hung in the air as a system notification appeared before Eirik’s eyes:

[QUEST UPDATE: Spies Identified (1/3)]

———

Eirik straightened.

“Three crimes. Sabotage. Poisoning a noble. And helping Garrick to trespass just moments ago.” He eyed the horrified crowd. “Punishable by flaying… But…”

He tossed Marta’s nail to the fire. It hissed and curled.

“Swear loyalty,” Eirik said, “and I’ll make sure you live.”

Marta’s head jerked up. “Wh-what?”

It’s not that she did not deserve death, which she deserved three times over. But Eirik had learned from the Academy that sometimes it’s better to show a smaller foe kindness in order to create trouble for a bigger foe.

“Swear loyalty to me. And testify for me whenever I need you to, and I’ll make sure you live.”

Marta stared at him, trembling.

“Otherwise…”

AIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE—

Marta’s scream ripped through the yard. Servants flinched, eyes wide as slaughtered deer. Marta crumpled, but Harkin held her upright.

Eirik leaned down, his face inches from hers. His eyes—cold, unblinking—locked onto her quivering pupils.

“Screaming wastes time,” he said softly. “And I hate waste.”

Marta’s sobs choked into whimpers. Her entire body shook, breaths ragged. This wasn’t the cowering boy she’d sabotaged for years. This was a wolf wearing his skin. How?

“I-I swear!” Marta gasped, snot and tears streaking her face. “Loyalty! Please—please—”

Eirik straightened. “Harkin. Take her to the still room. Pack the wound with yarrow and spider silk. But bring me a new basin first.”

Harkin scrambled away carrying Marta on his shoulders, while Eirik turned to the gawking servants.

“Anyone else care to test my patience?”

The servants all shrank back. Who is this? Their trembling lips seemed to ask. Where’s the spineless worm?

Eirik noticed a twitch flickered across the scribe’s cheek.

Yorick.

He dissected the micro-expression using what he’d learned from the Academy. Guilt? Fear? Unlike Harkin, the scribe’s boots were freshly polished. Yet his tunic hung threadbare.

Huh. This guy is obviously paid very well, but he’s pretending to be poor.

Before calling him out, however, Eirik took a mutton chop from the platter by hand.

Eirik was certain that Marta would have poisoned the lumpy gruel, but he believed that, after seeing what happened to Eirik, Marta did not have the guts nor time to do her dirty work on this, too.

Eirik threw the meat into his mouth and chewed on it greedily. Then another one, and another one, until the whole plate is gone. Him eating, no, devouring, food after just having done what he did to Marta made the servants even more nervous.

Harkin returned right before he was about to finish with another freshly prepared water basin.

“You.” Eirik pointed at the scribe Yorick while rubbing his greasy hands. “Wash your hands.”

Yorick froze. “M-milord, surely you don’t suspect—?”

“Now.”

Yorick shuffled to the newly brought basin, hands trembling. He dipped a single finger—

SPLASH—

Eirik pulled his hair and yanked his face into the water. Of course, he made sure that his greasy hands also made contact with the freshly brought water inside the basin.

Yorick thrashed, bubbles exploding as Eirik leaned his weight down.

"Glrk—blrrbl—grk!" Yorik’s muffled scream vibrated in the water.

A full twenty seconds passed.

The water turned pitch black in front of everyone’s eyes, and Eirik yanked the scribe’s head back by his hair.

"HaaAAAACK—!"

Yorick gasped as black water streamed down his terrified face.

Other servants opened their mouths as they saw for another time this miracle water worked its effect.

“Confess,” Eirik said, “or I’ll make sure you won’t be able to breathe next time.”

“Forgive me, my Lord! L-Lord Garrick made me!” the scribe wheezed. “He paid me to falsify your accounts and take a portion of your budget for himself!”

[QUEST UPDATE: Spies Identified (2/3)]

———

Eirik tossed him aside. The scribe crawled, retching.

He turned to the crowd.

“One traitor remains. Step forward now, and you’ll receive mercy.” he eyed the servants in front of him, all shivering, “But you wait until I find you…”

Silence.

Then—

Thud.

Jens the woodcutter dropped to his knees, hands raised in surrender. “Milord! I—Garrick asked me to short you on firewood during the winters! But I never meant to harm you! Pl—”

“What did he say, exactly?”

Jens stared at the floor, not daring to meet Eirik’s eyes. “He… he said he’d sell my daughter to the south. She’s just four winters. It’s all I have after her dead ma…”

“You’ll chop double firewood from now on, for an entire year,” Eirik said coldly. “Fail, even if just for one day, and I’ll chop off your hands and feed them to the flames.”

Jens bowed, forehead touching the stone. “Thank you, milord! Thank you!”

[QUEST UPDATE: Spies Identified (3/3)]

[QUEST COMPLETED: Root Out the Rot]

———

Blue light enveloped him.