In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

After finishing his conversation with Astrid, Michael quietly left the study.

He wanted to give her space—to let her process everything they had discussed about the future.

As he stepped through the grand, gold-trimmed doors, the stately corridor of the royal palace welcomed him. The high ceilings soared in elegant gothic arches, and rows of intricately carved columns lined the marble halls. Along the walls, ancient tapestries proudly depicted the glorious history of the resurrected Xerx Kingdom.

Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long, golden patterns on the polished stone floor. The light shimmered warmly atop the cold marble, creating a tranquil harmony between grandeur and grace.

As Michael walked, servants and attendants passing through the corridor stopped to bow respectfully. The maids, dressed in flowing garments of sky-blue and silver, lifted the hems of their skirts with elegant poise. The pages, clad in deep navy vests, placed a hand over their chest in solemn salute.

Their faces reflected a mix of awe and nervousness.

The crown prince's every step was an object of reverence. There was a silent gravity that surrounded Michael—the weight of power, the air of a warrior who had carved his legend into history.

Some of the younger maids dared not even lift their heads, lowering their eyes and waiting quietly for him to pass. The younger pages fidgeted awkwardly, straightening their tunics and struggling to maintain composure—hoping, perhaps, that they might catch his eye and be chosen as squires.

Michael, now well accustomed to the change in atmosphere since his formal appointment as crown prince, continued forward without altering his expression. His silence and poise only heightened the sense of reverence trailing in his wake.

At the far end of the corridor leading to the royal family's quarters, royal guards stood at attention. Clad in shining armor and gripping their spears with discipline, they offered a crisp salute.

Their polished armor glinted in the sunlight, but what shone brighter was the unspoken loyalty in their eyes.

Michael offered a short nod in acknowledgment and walked on, his gaze drifting briefly out the window toward the palace gardens. Blooming with vibrant flowers and silver fountains, the gardens looked serene—untouched by the looming threat of war. Birds chirped somewhere in the distance, their song innocent and carefree.

"Once this war is over... I suppose we'll have to relocate the palace."

It was a bittersweet thought. Elizabeth and his sisters had poured their hearts into this palace's design. Yet, it was too small now to serve as the royal seat of a growing empire.

"Well... where do I even begin?"

Though the preparations for the campaign were progressing smoothly, Michael couldn't shake the sense of unease that clung to him. Ever since he learned that his grandfather hadn't attended the coronation—and had left the palace entirely—he'd felt unsettled.

As he approached his quarters, Michael spotted a familiar figure standing by the door, adjusting his cuffs—a tall, stately man in a crisp black uniform.

It was Oliver, the senior steward of House Crassus.

Loyal, sharp, and immaculately composed, Oliver had served the family for decades. Though he wore a calm expression, there was a slight tension in his lips and the faintest flicker of unease in his eyes.

He had waited outside Michael's door ever since the crown prince entered the study with Astrid—knowing instinctively that whatever discussion took place in there would shape the future of the kingdom.

And so, he waited in silence, not daring to interrupt.

"Oliver. Is something wrong?" Michael asked, coming to a stop.

A flicker of relief crossed the old steward's face.

At last, he could fulfill the first official task the new crown prince had entrusted to him.

Bowing with perfect grace, Oliver spoke with his usual steady voice—though worry still lingered faintly in his gaze.

He was no ordinary servant. Though now a viscount by title, Oliver had chosen to remain in service, claiming it was still too soon for retirement. His quiet presence continued to uphold the order and dignity of the royal household.

To him, Michael was not merely a prince, but a symbol—one who had resurrected both House Crassus and the Kingdom of Xerx.

"Your Highness," Oliver said with a subtle smile. "There is good news. Lord Alfred has returned to the palace."

Michael stopped in his tracks, surprise washing over his features.

"Grandfather's returned?"

Joy, unexpected and deeply felt, crept into his voice.

Oliver nodded respectfully. "Yes, Your Highness. He passed through the palace gates an hour ago. He is currently in the Executioner's Chapel."

Michael's eyes lit up.

Ever since the coronation ended, he had been trying to find his grandfather—Alfred, the strongest warrior he had ever known, and perhaps the only person in the world he trusted completely.

And more importantly, his family.

Though the past few days had been consumed by political ceremonies and strategic briefings, Michael had quietly been searching. Alfred had not only skipped the coronation—he had disappeared entirely, and no one knew where he'd gone.

With a war against Gwanghui looming, such an absence was troubling.

But now—he had returned.

Michael turned sharply, his expression focused and tense. He quickened his pace down the corridor.

This meeting wasn't just about joy or reunion.

Before he could lead an army to war, Michael needed to speak with the man who had taught him strength—and whose past still held the key to the future.

Alfred was not just family—he was a vital asset, perhaps the most important element in the coming battle against Gwanghui. His knowledge and strength would prove decisive. As crown prince, Michael knew he had to be stronger than anyone. And before setting off for war, there was one story he needed to hear.

"I need to know everything Grandfather's been hiding."

Oliver, watching the tension on Michael's face, asked carefully, "Shall I escort you to him now, Your Highness?"

Michael didn't hesitate. "Of course."

His pace quickened. As he passed through the palace halls, maids and pages bowed deeply once more—but Michael didn't glance at them. His eyes were fixed ahead, focused on one man and one destination.

Alfred sat alone in the Executioner's Chapel, a quiet and austere place tucked into a secluded wing of the palace.

Stone walls, low ceilings, and sparse decoration—an aged wooden crucifix on the wall, plain iron candlesticks, and the soft glow of light streaming through narrow windows—made the room feel reverent, solemn.

Michael entered with silent steps.

Alfred, seated on a stone bench, looked up as he sensed Michael's presence.

"You've returned, Grandfather," Michael said softly. "You didn't come to the coronation. I was worried."

He approached and gently took Alfred's large, calloused hand. The old man slowly rose with a warm smile.

Deep lines of age carved across his weathered face, but his presence still radiated strength.

Gripping his grandson's hand tightly, Alfred replied in a quiet, steady voice, "The coronation would have gone just fine without me. No need to worry over an old man."

His grip was firm—these were the hands of a warrior who had survived countless battlefields. Yet now, as they held the hand of someone he loved, they were warm.

Michael looked into his grandfather's eyes. "To me, you're more important than anyone, Grandfather."

Alfred smiled again. "That means a lot to me, Michael."

He glanced around the quiet chapel. The shifting sunlight reflected in his eyes.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," he said. "Walk with me?"

Michael nodded at once. He had a vague idea of what was coming. But the conversation they shared during that walk went far beyond anything he'd imagined.

The twisted history between Alfred and Gwanghui. The truth about his grandmother—Arabela—a former goddess.

The shocking revelation that he, Michael, was a direct descendant of gods.

Michael's expression tightened as he processed it all. "Then... did my mother or Uncle Henry inherit divine power too?"

His hand instinctively began to glow with a faint, bluish light—the power to drain strength from others, his unique ability.

But Alfred shook his head. "No. Margaret and Henry were both ordinary humans. I stripped them of their divinity when they were children—to protect them. And your power... it's not like mine or Arabela's."

He paused. "If anything... it resembles Gwanghui's."

Michael had suspected as much. "So it's because I was brought here from another world?"

There was no need to hide anything between them now.

Alfred nodded gently. "Perhaps. Who knows for certain? But the important thing is that you can stand against him. That's enough."

Michael looked at his grandfather with sorrow in his eyes. Through their talk, he had realized something—Alfred's goal, once Arabela awoke, was to live a quiet, peaceful life. Nothing more.

"You really want it to end like that? After all the power you possess?"

Alfred smiled wearily and reached up to tousle Michael's hair.

To the world, Michael was a crown prince and a hero. But to Alfred, he would always be a boy.

"I'm tired, Michael. Let me rest now, won't you?"

Michael nodded, tears welling in his eyes. He couldn't argue—not after learning how long his grandfather had endured alone.

"Even so... you have to live a long, long time. Promise me."

Alfred laughed heartily, patting his grandson on the back.

"Ha! Look at me, boy. I've still got fifty years left in me. I'll be around to meet your great-grandchildren. Don't you worry."

Only then did Michael finally smile again.

Yes—there was still time.

Feeling reassured, he returned to the palace with Alfred by his side, chatting quietly.

Now, at last, Michael could prepare for the march without regret.

One week later.

At the appointed hour, the great gates of the royal capital opened.

The clash of metal rang through the air—shields and spears gleaming in the light, armored boots striking against stone roads in unison.

Michael rode atop Marcus, draped in black armor adorned with gold, a long black cloak billowing behind him.

He scanned the ranks of knights and magical beasts that stood ready at his side.

Then he raised his voice.

"Today, we march on the Holy Nation. But remember this—we are not destroyers. We are the ones who will establish a new order."

The knights responded with unwavering eyes filled with trust.

And then, Michael drew his sword.

"Forward!"

The march to war had begun.