Vergil stepped up to the carriage, pushing the door open with little care. His gaze settled on the lone occupant—a young woman sitting with an air of quiet composure, utterly unfazed by the carnage outside.
She had long, silvery-white hair that cascaded past her shoulders, strands shimmering faintly in the dim light. Her violet eyes were sharp, assessing him with eerie calmness, as if weighing his worth just as he was hers. Noble features—high cheekbones, soft lips, an air of refinement—spoke of aristocracy.
But what truly caught Vergil's attention was her demeanor. She wasn't afraid.
He leaned against the doorway, tilting his head slightly. "You're rather composed. Not afraid I'll kill you?"
The woman, Eleanor Valtier, barely reacted. Instead, she smoothed the fabric of her elegant midnight-blue dress, her fingers brushing against 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 had expected panic, pleading—perhaps a display of arrogance, given her noble status. Instead, she regarded him with a level gaze, her voice laced with intrigue rather than fear.
That made her interesting.
Vergil studied her for 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 decided to be... efficient."
Vergil scoffed. "Efficient? Sending disposable mercenaries to kill you in the middle of nowhere?"
A faint, bitter smile touched her lips. "He's cautious. He won't use his own people if he doesn't have to. Easier to deny involvement when the 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, her violet eyes unwavering. "Yes. This will keep happeninh until im 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. But a noble heiress with... let's say unique abilities and is a mage.
Eleanor tilted her head, studying him once more. "And if I refuse?" Her body did flinch 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 Eleanor in silence, his mind working through the possibilities.
She would be the first.
A single piece, but the foundation of something far greater. Every ruler, every strategist, every conqueror starts with their first piece. And she was a worthy one.
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.
Most people were too weak, too predictable. She wasn't.
But raw potential meant nothing if they cant harness it or they end up two feat under before they mature.
Vergil would give her both.
He let a slow smirk cross 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, Eleanor. Power, intelligence, composure—those are 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 her posture. The flicker of something behind her eyes.
He continued. "I don't waste good pieces."
Her fingers lightly traced the fabric of her dress, as if considering his words. "And if I refuse?"
Vergil's smirk didn't waver. "Then you run. You hide. You can spend the rest of your life looking over your shoulder, waiting for your uncle's men to find you again for an untimely end ." He tilted his head. "Or you move forward—with me and reach greater heights."
Silence stretched between them.
She was weighing 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, his eyes flicking over Eleanor's elegant dress—fine, but impractical for what was ahead and too attraction seeking
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 briefly drifted to the corpse from earlier. Edran, was it? He had stripped the man of his belongings, taking his necklace and, more importantly, his clothes.
Without another word, Vergil stepped out of the carriage, 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 violet 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 out of the carriage, 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 promptly 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, I don't know, 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 formulate a response, 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 about them.
"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 on the sharp angles of her face. Gone was the elegant gown that once draped her form, replaced by the stolen garments—practical but undeniably beneath her station. The white linen shirt was slightly oversized, the loose fabric gathering at her wrists where she'd rolled up the sleeves. It hung just enough to hint at her slender frame, the neckline modest but open enough to allow movement.
The dark trousers, though fitted well enough, were clearly meant for a man—sitting lower on her hips and requiring a belt to keep them in place. The leather boots, scuffed and worn from travel, weren't hers either, yet she walked as though they had always belonged to her. The contrast was striking: noble refinement forced into something rugged, yet somehow, she made it work.
Her violet eyes, sharp and perceptive, flicked over to Vergil with faint amusement, the candlelight catching a glint of mischief in their depths. Even dressed 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.
She adjusted the belt at her waist, testing the fit before finally meeting Vergil's gaze. "Well?" she asked, arching a brow. "How do I look?"
Vergil smirked, taking her in—disheveled, out of place, and yet, somehow, still carrying an air of quiet authority.
"Like a noble who just committed a robbery," he said.
Eleanor hummed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Fitting, considering the company I keep."
Vergil said "we're leaving"
Eleanor said "ok"
'Atleast she doesn't question and is willing to prove that she is useful
[I forgot to tell you something]
"What is it?" Vergil said in his mind thinking this sytem would make another joke
[She's...]
"Okay what is it?"
[She's one of the people who has the potential to reach the peak of her class and can gain benefits from the confidant system]
"How can you be so useless , how did you forget?" Vergil mocked
[Just... innit]
As they walked back to the village under the afternoon sun, Eleanor's sharp gaze flicked to Vergil's torn clothes. His back was exposed where the fabric had been shredded, and his sleeves hung in tatters.
She smirked. "Did you lose a fight to your own shirt, or is this some new mercenary fashion?"
Vergil didn't look at her. "Rats."
Eleanor raised a brow. "Rats did that?"
"Large ones. Persistent." His tone was flat, uninterested.
She let out a short chuckle. "Not quite the battle scars I imagined for someone like you."
He shot her a glance, expression unreadable. "Then don't imagine."
Silence settled between them, stretching as they walked. The village was coming into view when Vergil finally spoke again.
"Eleanor," he said, his voice calm but edged with 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 didn't respond. He simply kept walking, his pace steady, gaze fixed ahead.
Vergil handed Eleanor a few coins, his 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 casting 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 the state of his clothes. "What happened to you?"
"Rats," he said simply, placing the Astralyth stones from the Oververmin and its guards onto 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, that 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, however, became clear the moment he started reading. Magic wasn't something he could just brute force his way into. He could grasp concepts—mana flow, runic structures, elemental affinities—but putting them into practice was another matter. The symbols in the books made sense, yet when he tried to apply them, there was no reaction.
It wasn't just about knowledge. Most mages learned under a mentor, someone who could guide them through the intricacies of spellcasting. 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 over the intricate diagrams. I'll figure it out myself.