Odyssey of the Renegade Sovereign

The battlefield was filled with corpses and blood, but as the sun's first rays broke across the horizon, the silence was shattered—not by roars of beasts, but by the voices of men and women.

A ragged cry went up from one soldier, his face streaked with grime and tears."He did it! The beasts are retreating!"

Another voice followed, then another, until the weary ranks of Greenhollow's guards and adventurers lifted their weapons high into the dawn.

"Victory! We're alive!"

"Blessed be the Eternal Light!"

"The Holy One has saved us!"

The cheer rolled across the ruined fields, trembling voices breaking with relief and gratitude. Men clutched each other and laughed through sobs. Women fell to their knees, thanking the heavens. Some simply collapsed, overcome by exhaustion.

Captain Harwen, bloody and limping, raised his sword to the sky, his voice raw but proud.

"Remember this day! We stand because of him!"

All eyes turned toward the lone figure in the tattered hood. Baldoc stood unmoving, his blade lowered, face shadowed beneath the morning light. For that one breathless moment, he seemed less a man and more a savior sent down in their darkest hour.

The soldiers and survivors cried out again, their gratitude unending.

"Praise the knight!"

"Our saviour!"

"We live because of him!"

Baldoc gave no answer. He simply turned, the light fading from his blade, and walked toward the edge of the battlefield. And then he vanishes.

One blink, and the shabby-clad old man had disappeared into the mist and ruins. Shock rippled through the survivors.

"W–where did he go?"

"Was he even real?"

"No… he was real. I'll never forget that face. Nor what he did here."

The cheering gave way to hushed murmurs, and then to a heavier silence as the work began.

The battlefield was littered with corpses—beasts piled upon beasts, but also men and women of Greenhollow. Sons. Daughters. Fathers. Mothers.

"Ralf… Ralf, wake up, please—"

"My boy… gods, no…"

"Father...Father, wake up..."

The victory tasted of ash and grief. For every life spared, another had been lost.

And yet, amid the devastation, one truth remained etched into every heart.

They would never forget the nameless saviour who appeared in the darkest hour—the holy knight cloaked in rags, who fought like a god and vanished like a ghost.

The man who had turned the tide and left behind a city that would speak his name in awe and whispers for generations to come.

------

The forest beyond Greenhollow lay quiet, far removed from the cries of victory and mourning that echoed through the city. Morning mist clung low to the ground, wrapping the trees in a pale haze.

A lone figure strolled through the path with hood drawn, heavy steps, the faint shimmer of holy light long since gone. His breath was shallow, his shoulders slumped. Every movement carried the weight of exhaustion.

Rustle.

From the bush, a silver blur launched forward.

"Grrr—!"

Clawdia's growl cut off as recognition sparked in her eyes. She bounded straight into the hooded man, knocking him against a tree, her tail wagging wildly. She licked at his face and hands with frantic affection, whining between breaths as though she had found a long-lost friend.

The old man chuckled—no, not quite an old man's voice. It was younger, softer.

"Clawdia, stop…"

His hand moved to her head, steady and familiar, and she immediately settled against him, pressing her body into his chest.

The man reached up, pulled back the hood. And it wasn't Baldoc's lined face at all.

It was Astrael.

He exhaled sharply, sliding down to sit against a boulder. His body shimmered faintly as the last remnants of the disguise magic peeled away. The false wrinkles smoothed, the hunched frame straightened, and the wearied eyes regained their younger glint, though dulled with fatigue.

"Finally…" Astrael muttered, wiping a streak of blackened blood from his lips. His voice was hoarse but unmistakably his own. "That guise almost broke me apart."

Clawdia pressed her head into his chest, silver fur damp with dew, refusing to leave his side.

Astrael tilted his head back against the stone, staring up through the canopy where dawn light filtered in faint beams. His breath came heavy, but the faintest, wry smirk tugged at his lips.

Then his gaze fell to the skil he acquired.

[Copycat (B) – Active: You have gained the ability to replicate the essence of the fallen, giving rise to the skill Copycat. When activated, it allows the user to assume the physical form, mannerisms, and aura of a slain target. However, the mimicked version is a downgraded form of the original, lacking its full power. Maintaining the disguise requires a steady flow of energy, and overuse may cause strain. Cooldown: 2 Months.]

His mind drifted back—images flashing of that hidden valley he had stumbled upon weeks ago. An entire colony of chameleon-like beasts, each capable of twisting their form into crude mimicries of predators and prey alike. They had been dangerous in numbers, but not to him then. He had cut through them one by one, eradicating every last nest.

At the time, the system's rewards had been almost disappointing—low-grade camouflage, temporary invisibility, tricks hardly worth the slaughter. Or so he thought.

But his divine talent again overturned his understanding.

He clenched his fist slowly, recalling the moment after the beasts were gone. His synthesis talent merged every camouflage-like ability into something altogether different.

Astrael gave a tired, rasping laugh. "Who would've thought… from wiping out a nest of shapeshifting vermin, I'd end up with a skill that lets me wear another man's skin."

Clawdia's ears flicked as she gave a low rumble, sensing his unease.

"But-" Astrael muttered, eyes narrowing at the system's warnings. "It drains me like a juice. Now i am feeling so much exhausted. Continuous use would have made me a dry husk. Sigh."

He looked down at his trembling hands, the faint afterglow of Baldoc's illusion still clinging to his skin like smoke before fading completely.

"…Powerful, yes," he admitted softly. "But not without its restriction."

For a long moment, he sat there, silent, as the first rays of dawn burned the mist away.

Then, almost bitterly, Astrael whispered, "I suppose every strength I gain is born of slaughter."

The sun was already high when Astrael finally reached Greenhollow's battered gates. His hood was drawn low, the rough-spun cloak disguising most of his face, though his gait betrayed how drained he was. Every step dragged, his body still carrying the ache of poison and overexertion.

The guards at the gate barely glanced his way. Their armor was dented, bloodied, eyes sunken from sleeplessness. They were too busy hauling corpses into carts, too busy holding back grieving families demanding answers. No one had the energy to look twice at a lone, travel-worn figure slipping through.

Inside the city, the air was thick with smoke and sorrow. Stalls had been overturned during the chaos, beasts' blood staining the street. Children sat on doorsteps with blank, tearless faces, and everywhere the low murmur of mourning clung like a fog.

Astrael's sharp eyes caught it all—the despair, the ruin—but he didn't linger. He lowered his head, pressing on through the hushed streets. A few folk brushed past him, too preoccupied with their own losses to care who he was. In truth, he preferred it that way.

At last, he came to a modest inn tucked between a shuttered smithy and a small herb shop. Its wooden sign swung lazily, the paint faded but legible: The Lantern's Inn.

He stepped inside. The smell of broth and stale beer hit him first, mixed with the faint tang of smoke that seemed to cling to the whole city. The innkeeper, a plump woman with tired eyes, looked up as he approached the counter.

"A room?" she asked flatly, her voice worn thin from the endless stream of displaced souls.

Astrael reached into his pouch and dropped a small stack of silver coins onto the counter. "yes, for a week."

That made her pause. She blinked, studying him for a moment as though wondering what kind of man paid for so much time upfront. But she said nothing, only swept the coins into her apron pocket and handed him a key.

"Third floor. Last door on the left."

Astrael nodded once, wordless, and turned toward the stairs. His legs felt like heavy stone as he climbed, Clawdia padding silently behind him, her silver coat dulled by dust and fatigue.

When he reached the room, he didn't bother removing his cloak or boots. He shut the door, dropped the key on the nightstand, and collapsed onto the straw mattress.

The last thought before exhaustion swallowed him was simple, heavy, and quiet.

For now… just rest.

---------

The night deepened over Greenhollow, shadows stretching long and thin under the pale moonlight. The city itself lay in uneasy silence, its people too weary from grief and bloodshed to stir. Only the crackle of dying torches and the distant creak of wagon wheels disturbed the stillness.

But beyond the gates, in the forest's dark fringe, movement stirred. Five figures emerged from the treeline—cloaked men and women, their faces hidden, their steps deliberate. They paused at the edge of the road, their silhouettes framed against the moon.

One of them, a tall woman with a staff strapped across her back, broke the silence. Her voice was low, but carried with the sharpness of command.

"He's here. I can feel it."