In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

Randolph stormed around his tent, trembling with rage. His plan to gather allies through gold had crumbled from the outset. Veins bulged on his flushed forehead, sweat beading and dripping down. His face was red enough to seem as though it might burst.

Seething, Randolph struck one of the tent's supporting pillars and bellowed, "How dare he! Executing Garfield, knowing full well he was one of my aides? This is an affront to the royal family! Treason!"

His furious kicks sent the table bearing the map clattering to the ground. Still unsatisfied, he picked up a chair and hurled it. The finely crafted yew chair shattered on impact, its splinters grazing his cheek.

Momentarily startled by the pain, Randolph tried to collect himself but failed. His mind remained foggy, his heart racing wildly. Anxiety gnawed at him, and his thoughts turned increasingly extreme.

He began to see Michael, who had carried out Garfield's execution, and Duke Capone, who had stood by silently, as co-conspirators. The more he reflected, the more plausible it seemed. Randolph's face contorted with suspicion and fury.

"They're all in this together! They're scheming to deceive me. If this continues, the kingdom will fall! Only I can correct this mess… damn it!" Randolph gripped his sword tightly, his imagination conjuring images of Michael and Duke Capone mocking him behind his back. If they were before him now, he would strike them down without hesitation.

Overwhelming waves of anger consumed him. He clutched his head with both hands and stomped his feet, his throbbing temples making him feel as if his skull might burst. His bloodshot eyes blazed as he roared, thrashing wildly.

Sir Philip watched from the corner of the tent, his pale face betraying his regret at choosing to align with Randolph. The crown prince had grown increasingly unhinged. In the past, he had been stubborn and arrogant but not intolerable, considering his position. Now, he seemed no less than a madman.

Philip could not fathom why Randolph had tampered with the food supplies just to hoard gold. Even with additional funds, the most he could recruit were a few infamous barons known for extorting tolls and looting nearby lands. Such forces would be of little use in a real battle—why would the crown prince resort to such disgraceful tactics?

Fearing he might become the target of Randolph's wrath, Philip kept as far back as possible, his body crouched low. He dared not intervene, worried the crown prince's fury might turn on him.

Yet despite his efforts to avoid notice, Randolph's crimson eyes landed squarely on Philip. Frozen in place, Philip couldn't move, his fear rendering him as still as a statue.

Though Randolph's appearance was unchanged, there was something disturbingly unfamiliar about him. A low growl escaped from his throat, more beastlike than human.

"Sir Philip, we ride to the battlefield today—no matter what. I must show them what I'm capable of. Do you understand?" Randolph growled.

Philip could only nod silently. He felt as if he were riding a runaway horse, unable to dismount or steer. There was no way out.

At dawn, Michael convened the magicians again to prepare the second trap. Timing was crucial for this one, requiring careful, sequential coordination. The magicians reviewed their assignments meticulously.

As Michael worked with them, Alex, his attendant, rushed over, his face pale with urgency. Michael had tasked Alex with monitoring Randolph's movements, so he immediately stepped aside to a quieter spot to hear the report.

"Master, Crown Prince Randolph has left through the western gate with cavalry and soldiers. Baron Philip is accompanying him," Alex reported, panting.

Michael handed him a water flask, allowing Alex to gulp down the liquid. After catching his breath, Alex continued with a steadier voice.

"Baron Philip led the procession and told the soldiers guarding the gate that they were going to scout the area and inspect the traps before returning. The crown prince was hidden among the cavalry."

Despite the sudden and reckless nature of Randolph's actions, Michael remained calm. He had expected something like this.

"What was the crown prince wearing when he left?" Michael asked unexpectedly.

Momentarily surprised, Alex quickly answered, "Now that you mention it, he wasn't wearing his usual attire. He left in plain clothes."

Randolph, who typically dressed in lavish outfits befitting his status, had chosen simple clothing—a clear sign of his intent. He wanted to earn merit not as a crown prince but as a knight. Michael smirked coldly. Randolph was walking into his own doom.

"This must remain confidential. As far as anyone is concerned, I've heard nothing. Do you understand?" Michael said sternly.

Alex, a politically savvy knight-in-training, immediately grasped his master's intentions and nodded solemnly. "You needn't worry, Master. I'll handle it carefully. The soldiers at the western gate didn't even realize the crown prince was among them."

Pleased with Alex's quick wit, Michael promised him a reward for his diligence. He then entered his tent and called for Iskar.

Emerging from the shadows where he had been standing guard, Iskar approached. Michael leaned in close, his voice a hushed whisper. The command he was about to issue was one no one could know.

"The crown prince is acting recklessly. Follow him, and ensure he doesn't die. Remember, his life must be preserved."

Iskar nodded, fully understanding the implications of Michael's words. As a former assassin, he knew precisely what his master meant.

"Yes, I'll make sure he only survives," Iskar replied.

Michael smiled faintly, confident in Iskar's comprehension. The sole heir to the royal family could not be allowed to perish. As a noble sworn to the crown, Michael could not permit such a disaster.

Randolph's fate seemed inevitable. A prince raised in the comfort of a sheltered palace, witnessing the horrors of war and losing his sanity was entirely plausible. If he were to waste away and die after such an ordeal, it could hardly be helped. After all, such an end would still be better than dying outright on the battlefield.