Chương 73: Free from Illusion

Inside the study, Jack sat quietly behind his wooden desk, listening to Giles, Barnaby, and Old Miller deliver their reports. While Jack had been gone, the village had operated smoothly. The integration of the fifty new bonded laborers had been challenging, but there had been no major issues. The only minor incident had occurred near the forge, where one of the slaves had accidentally spilled a bucket of dirty water onto one of the villagers.

The villager had shouted and threatened to strike the man, but Giles had immediately stepped in, de-escalating the situation before any blood was drawn. People's hearts, habits, and culture could not be changed in a single day, month, or even a year. It always took time and patience for outsiders to be truly accepted. Beyond the minor squabble, the production numbers were excellent.

"The new miners have adapted well to the deep shafts, Lord Jack," Giles reported.

"We have extracted fifteen heavy carts of coal are fully loaded and sitting in the storage""Good," Jack nodded approvingly.

"Three days ago, a messenger riding a fast horse arrived at the village gates. He bore the crest of a neighboring northern lord, requesting a formal meeting with the head of the Frost-Grip fief. However, upon being told that you were traveling in the West, the messenger simply turned around and rode off. He did not leave a detailed letter." Giles reported afterwards. With the summary concluded, Jack leaned forward, resting his arms on his desk.

"You have all done exceptional work," Jack said smoothly, praising the three men.

"Maintaining the peace and hitting our production quotas while I was absent proves that this fief can stand on its own two feet. Giles, send one of our scouts out tomorrow morning. Have him ride to the neighboring lord's estate and send word that I have returned. Tell him I am open to a meeting."

"It will be done, Lord Jack," Giles nodded respectfully. Jack then reached into his coat pocket and placed the two Twin Silver-Thread Spatial Rings onto the wooden desk.

"Barnaby," Jack said, sliding the rings across the table.

"These are moderate-capacity storage artifacts. Each one holds twenty cubic feet of space inside of it." Barnaby stopped breathing for a second. He slowly reached out and picked up the silver rings, his eyes wide with reverence.

"Give them to your most trusted men in the mine," Jack instructed.

"They can load the coal directly into the rings deep underground and walk it to the surface effortlessly. It will completely eliminate the need to push heavy wheelbarrows up the tunnels."

"This… this will double our extraction speed, My Lord," Barnaby said in awe.

"The men will not have to break their backs hauling those heavy rocks up the slopes anymore."

"They shouldn't be breaking their backs anyway," Jack stated.

"Which brings me to my next command. We have a massive export contract to fulfill, but I will not have my people worked to death to meet it. From tomorrow onward, a strict law is implemented in the mines and the logging camps: for every five hours of continuous labor, every worker must take one full hour of rest. No exceptions." Old Miller looked visibly surprised.

"Lord Jack, that is highly generous." Jack tapped his cane against the floor.

"Finally, I have secured several large crates of thick, clear glass. They are currently stored safely within these spatial rings. Old Miller, begin surveying the land near the southern wall tomorrow. I want designs for five more greenhouse structures before the end of autumn. But there is no need to rush the construction. Focus on the harvest first." With the matters settled, Jack dismissed the meeting. The three men bowed deeply and left the study, eager to return to the village and share the good news.

Later that night, the castle was completely quiet. The slaves had spent the day scrubbing the main halls, removing the thick layers of dust, and leaving the stone floors looking respectable again. Jack ate a quiet dinner alone in his room. By the time midnight arrived, everyone in the fief, including Karen, was fast asleep. Jack stepped out onto his stone balcony. He leaned against the cold railing, taking a slow, deep breath of the mountain air.

He looked out over the dark, peaceful valley, feeling a deep sense of accomplishment. Suddenly, a sharp spike of pain flaired in his head. Jack gasped, his hands instinctively flying to his head. The mental block that had been placed over his mind in the Western Market City—violently shattered. Because Karen was completely exhausted from the long carriage journey and was currently in a deep sleep, her active control over the artifact had finally slipped.

Countless, chaotic thoughts flooded Jack's brain all at once, hitting him with the exact same suffocating intensity he had experienced on the street in the western market city. Jack's knees gave out. He collapsed onto the floor of the balcony, groaning through his clenched teeth. Deep inside his chest, his Iron Core throbbed wildly, pumping raw mana through his body to fight off the mental intrusion. After several agonizing minutes, the chaotic storm of thoughts began to recede.

His mind slowly cleared, leaving behind clarity. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. Jack stayed on the floor, his breathing ragged and uneven. He remembered it now. He remembered Karen holding the dark blue gemstone clip in the jewelry shop. And most horrifyingly, he remembered the second his own paranoia had been instantly wiped away, replaced by an artificial, stupid calmness. He scrambled to sit up, leaning his back against the cold stone railing.

His mind raced at lightning speed, analyzing his own existence from the moment he had arrived in this world. Why and how did he come here? When he had first awakened in this freezing castle months ago, coughing up blood, why had he instantly accepted his reality? How did he already know exactly how to use necromancy, acting with the efficiency of a seasoned lord rather than a confused, panicked transmigrator?

"Karen," Jack muttered, a cold sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. She was behind this. But what did she want? What happened to the real John Frost-Grip? Jack forced his rising panic down, forcing himself to rely on logic. Her goal was definitively not to kill him. She cooked his meals, poured his tea, and slept in the same castle. If she wanted him dead, she could have slit his throat or poisoned his food a hundred times over. Furthermore, she didn't have absolute control over him.

She couldn't puppet his body. Most of the decisions were entirely his own. She was only influencing his emotions, gently nudging his thoughts in specific directions and smoothing over his suspicions when he got too close to the truth. The blue artifact in her hair had to be the thing that was controlling him. But why did she help him? During the bandit raid, she had subtly influenced him to be ruthless, pushing him to wipe out the threats to his life without hesitation.

Did she have a problem with him occupying this body, or did she actually need him to survive? Jack thought back to the strange, erratic behavior of the blue stone in the city. The mind-attack in the street. The artifact must have been flawed, or perhaps its energy had been failing. That was why she hadn't stopped him from going to the Western Market City—she desperately needed to go there to repair it. And what about that dark void place with those mysterious entities he had seen when he first arrived?

Were they gods? Did this entire situation escalate because Silas Thorne had shown up? Perhaps the Gold Core Inquisitor's presence had forced Karen's hand, making her use the artifact more aggressively. Jack realized that the original boy's true memories were still fragmented and locked away. He could only access tiny scraps of them. He needed to advance his magic.

If he could reach Layer Two or Layer Three of the Iron Core or silver core, his core might become dense enough to break the remaining mental barriers and reveal exactly what had happened to the real Jack. But right now, he was only free of the illusion because Karen was dead asleep. When she woke up tomorrow morning, the illusion would return. He couldn't run. He had no allies outside this valley, no money of his own, and if he fled, the Holy Church would likely hunt him down as a rogue necromancer.

He was trapped in a cage with a monster pretending to be a maid. Jack slowly pulled himself up from the balcony floor. He walked quietly back into his bedroom, closed the balcony doors, and sat down at his wooden desk. He didn't know when the next chance would return. It might be tomorrow, it might be never. But as long as there was even a tiny sliver of hope, he had to try his hardest to leave a warning for himself. He grabbed a piece of parchment and picked up his charcoal pen.

He didn't write in the common language of this world. He wrote in English, a language no one in this world could possibly decipher. My real name is Dustin Hayes, he wrote, his hand trembling slightly. Age: 26. He stared at the letters, grounding himself in his true identity before continuing. I have transmigrated into this magical world. I possess the body of a northern lord from the Frost-Grip family, and I possess one of the Uncommon Magics: Necromancy. If the Holy Church ever finds this out, I am dead.

He took a deep breath, trying to organize the chaos in his mind. Someone is controlling me. To be more specific, they are influencing my thoughts and altering my decisions. I don't know exactly who they are, but the prime suspect is Karen. I don't know what their actual goal is, but I am pretty sure they do not want me dead. Dustin began to list the moments where his autonomy felt compromised, tracking the pattern of manipulation so his future self could understand it. 1.

Just as I woke up in this world, I was heavily influenced to use necromancy on the dead guards without any hesitation. 2. During the bandit raid, I was pushed into a ruthless state to slaughter them all. 3. When the merchant Vane came with the slaves, I paid him a large sum of extra money without much thought. It is highly possible she wanted something established with Vane. 4. Going to the Western Market City.

She must have had a really important task there, which is why she didn't stop me from calling Inquisitor Silas. He tapped the charcoal against the desk. What did this all conclude? She doesn't want me to die, and she actively wants me to advance in my magic. But is there a limit? If I cross a certain threshold—let's say Silver Core, or even Gold Core—will I become a threat to her? Will I be in immediate danger then? I am not so sure about that. He wrote down his thoughts on the original Jack.

I only have fragmented memories of the original Jack. After advancing my core, I get to see more and more of his memories, but I am still not sure how he actually died. She doesn't seem to have any problem with me helping the villagers. So I must keep helping others as my normal behavior according to her while at the same time increasing my power. This might be the only way to break free of the control. Dustin wrote out his final conclusions, a strict set of rules for his future, compromised self.

I must find a way to advance as soon as possible. If I am reading this again in the future: I must keep all of this a secret and try to break through the control as soon as possible. But I must NEVER talk about this to anyone. I must act completely normal in all circumstances. Dustin stared at the English words for a long time. He folded the parchment carefully and walked over to his wooden cabinet. He placed the note deep inside a specific drawer where he kept his most important documents and trade logs.

It was just a guess, but in the future, if he was reviewing his paperwork, he might stumble upon it and trigger these memories once again. Sitting on the edge of his bed, a profound sense of existential dread washed over him. He couldn't understand what was even going on. How did he even die on Earth? What kind of accident or event had taken his life that he couldn't even feel his own death? And what the hell was actually going on in this castle?

He went to bed, knowing he was going to forget all of this tomorrow anyway. But no matter how hard he tried to sleep, he just couldn't. His mind was too agitated, too full of horrific realizations. He tossed and turned for an hour. Then, he got up and paced the length of his room. He walked out to the balcony, stared at the dark horizon, and then went back to bed. He repeated this cycle for hours. He was a prisoner in his own mind, fighting a war he wouldn't even remember in the morning.

It was only when the sky began to turn yellowish that exhaustion finally overpowered his anxiety. Jack's eyes slid shut. When Jack woke up late the next morning, the sun was shining brightly through the windows. He stretched, feeling well-rested, and immediately began planning out his meeting with the neighboring lord's envoy. To Jack, the new day was completely normal.