Rakshas: Tales of the Summoned Lord

The hall was dimly lit, the warm glow of lanterns casting flickering shadows across the polished floor. The air was thick with tension as Eman knelt before Allen, his face streaked with tears.

Hilter stood beside him, his usual composed expression unwavering, yet his sharp eyes betrayed his concern.

"Young Master, please reconsider," Eman pleaded, his voice hoarse. "The family needs you. The Old Master is gone, the First Young Master has passed, and the Third Young Master—! There is no one left to lead the Styles Family but you!"

Allen sat on the grand chair at the head of the hall, his gaze cold and unwavering. He rested his chin on his hand, his expression unreadable.

"I understand the urgency, Eman," Allen finally spoke, his voice calm yet commanding. "But right now, my only priority is breaking through to Gold Rank. Without strength, a title means nothing. If I return now, I will be a weak lord, easily controlled. That is unacceptable."

Eman clenched his fists, his body trembling. "But, Young Master—"

"Enough." Allen's tone brooked no argument. "You will rest here. Hilter, make sure he's well taken care of. Once Patt arrives, I will listen to what he has to say. Until then, this discussion is over."

Hilter gave a slight bow. "As you command, Master."

Eman's shoulders slumped in despair, but he did not argue further.

Allen rose from his seat, his black coat sweeping behind him as he turned. "I will return tonight, prepare the carriage." Without another word, he strode out of the hall.

...

The night was quiet, the streets of Redbrook empty as the carriage rolled steadily toward the outskirts. The gentle clatter of hooves against the stone echoed through the air.

Inside the carriage, Allen sat in silence, his hands resting on his lap, his thoughts deep.

Jasper, seated at the driver's perch, held the reins with precision, his posture straight and disciplined. Unlike his usual mischievous nature, his respect for Allen was absolute.

"Master," Jasper spoke, his tone reverent. "May I ask something?"

"Hm.."

"You seemed… unaffected by the news."

Allen's brown eyes flickered in the darkness. "Affected or not, my path does not change. If I were to return as I am now, it's not enough."

Jasper nodded solemnly. "Your wisdom is unmatched, Master. Power determines status, not birthright. Your decision is correct."

"No need for flattery, little Jasper." Allen leaned back, his gaze drifting toward the moonlit sky outside the small window. "When we arrive, summon all my combat summons. I want them present when I break through. Once I succeed, I will listen to everyone's counsel."

Jasper bowed his head slightly, despite knowing Allen could not see him. "It will be done, Master."

The carriage continued its steady journey toward the estate, carrying Allen toward his path of absolute strength.

...

Following the meeting, for four days Allen sat alone in a dimly lit chamber, surrounded by silence. No distractions, no interruptions—just him and his thoughts.

Not of this world.

He was once a man with no purpose. A simple history teacher, bound by the monotony of a life without meaning. No family, no lover, no friends. A life lived, but never truly felt. His parents had separated long ago, and he had drifted through existence, unnoticed and unneeded.

But here… here was different.

In this world, he had power. He had people who followed him, bound by the arcane mark, their loyalty absolute. Some might call it cruelty, stripping men of their freedom for his own gain. But Allen did not lie to himself—he was selfish. He craved the respect they showed him, the unwavering devotion in their eyes. It drove him forward, gave him a reason to wake, to fight, to chase something greater than himself.

And now, fate had placed yet another path before him.

The Styles Family—the name of his bloodline, the remnants of his past—had come calling. The Northlands were without a true lord. His father was dead. His brothers were gone. And the third young master, the last of his kin, lay sick and helpless. The weight of a noble's duty pressed upon him.

Would he refuse? Would he turn away from this destiny? No.

A surge of energy rushed through him, unlike anything he had ever felt before. His body trembled, his breath quickened. He felt something shifting inside him, as if the pieces of two lives—his old self and his new one—were merging into a single existence.

And then, from the abyss of his mind, a golden light erupted.

His body burned, but it was not pain—it was power. His meridians shone brilliantly as his battle aura surged, rushing through him like a raging river, clearing blockages, expanding his limits. His breathing deepened, his heart pounded, his muscles tightened with newfound strength. His very being resonated with the transformation.

Golden Rank.

The threshold that had once seemed so far away was now his to command. His fingers clenched into a fist, feeling the raw strength that pulsed through him. A faint tint of gold shimmered in his brown eyes, a mark of his ascension.

Allen Styles was no longer just a wandering swordsman or a man seeking meaning.

He was now a force to be reckoned with. A noble in both name and power.

Allen stepped out of his chamber, the lingering warmth of his breakthrough still coursing through his veins. The air outside felt crisp, charged, as if the world itself recognized his transformation.

Just ahead, a familiar figure leaned against a wooden post, arms crossed, watching him with a knowing smirk—Peter, a Golden Rank Swordsman and a trusted sparring partner.

"About time you came out," Peter remarked, pushing off the post. His sharp, confident eyes studied Allen for a moment before narrowing. "...Wait. No way."

Allen smirked. "I broke through."

For a second, Peter just stared. Then, suddenly, he burst into laughter, clapping Allen on the shoulder. "Damn, I knew you'd do it! But this fast? You really don't play fair, huh?" His admiration was clear—he had expected Allen to reach Gold Rank eventually, but within weeks? It was unheard of.

Peter let out a low whistle. "Claude's still in retreat, but trust me, he's gonna want to hear this. The old man bet on you from the start." Then, grinning wickedly, he added, "You should celebrate tonight. Maybe host a feast or something… though after all those elixirs, you're probably broke, huh?"

Allen chuckled, shaking his head. "Pretty much."

"Then I've got the perfect solution." Peter's smirk widened. "The Foxtail Brothel. Best place in Redbrook, I swear. Top-tier girls, private rooms, real stress relief. Trust me, it's the best way to—"

Allen laughed, cutting him off. "Sir Peter, you really don't think about anything other than women, do you?"

Peter shrugged, completely unapologetic. "What can I say? Gotta enjoy life while we can."

Shaking his head, Allen thanked him before heading back to his estate. He had no time for brothels—his mind was already set on something far more important.

It was time to gather his summons.Tonight, they would all convene. And Northlands future would be decided.