In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

The cut had been swift and clean—like a sword slicing through rot.

The military atmosphere had transformed completely.

With the dead weight gone, the light returned to the soldiers' eyes. Order was restored to the barracks.

Now, the army could focus solely on preparing for war.

The Queen had, of course, gone into a furious uproar.

Astrid sighed as she recalled the scene that unfolded that day.

Her mother's extravagant silk sleeve had sliced through the air, and the crystal glass she threw shattered against the marble floor.

"How dare you! How dare you drive my people out?! While I'm still standing here, and without even my permission?!"

The Queen had shrieked so loudly it echoed through the halls.

With King Charles bedridden, she no longer needed to keep up appearances.

She stomped her feet, flailed at her attendants and maids.

In the past, she might have even struck Astrid—but not anymore. Now she dared not.

"Bring them back! Bring them back at once! Astrid! How could you do this to your uncle and grandfather when they love you so dearly?!"

But Astrid showed no hesitation, no pity.

Once, she might have wavered at her mother's pleas, torn between duty and familial affection.

But not anymore.

Now, she knew what truly mattered: not emotions, but the strength and morale of the army preparing for war.

She would no longer allow the royal family's prestige to shield incompetence.

"Aaaah! You dare ignore me?! Randolph! Randolph, do you see this? Your mother is being humiliated! Come back to me, Randolph!"

The Queen clawed at her hair, overcome with rage and grief.

Even as the maids rushed to support her, she angrily pushed them away.

Eventually, her body gave out from hyperventilation and nervous exhaustion, and she collapsed.

Without a word, Astrid assigned skilled healers and loyal attendants to the Queen and had her moved to a secluded palace.

From that day on, the Queen spent her time screaming curses and lamenting her fate.

Though technically not imprisoned, her situation was no different.

She refused to accept reality.

Her beloved relatives had been expelled in an instant, and she had lost all political leverage.

With her influence stripped and her behavior growing increasingly erratic, even her former allies began to abandon her.

Thus, the Queen was left to isolate herself—lost in her delusions.

Michael turned to look at Astrid once again.

Her eyes no longer wavered.

Her mouth held firm with conviction.

And in her stance, there was not a hint of regret.

The hesitation and self-doubt she once carried were gone.

There was no longer any need to worry about her.

Astrid had become a true ruler—someone who could lead a nation with wisdom and strength.

A warm smile tugged at Michael's lips.

"There really is no man more blessed than me."

Michael once again offered a grateful glance to Duke Capone.

"You must have gone through a great deal."

"Haha, not at all. It was something I was naturally obliged to do. And truthfully, I haven't done much. These days, Her Highness the Princess is making such rapid progress that I hardly have anything left to do."

Michael praised him warmly.

"With a seasoned elder watching over her, it's no wonder the Princess can shine. I too remain deeply grateful."

Duke Capone was laughing heartily when he suddenly froze—he had just spotted Karl descending from Markus's horse.

It was Karl, the High Executor.

The heavy aura flowing over his grey armor, the deep eyes that carried the weight of years and experience, and the imposing physique that stood like an unmoving mountain—he was no ordinary old man.

Wherever Karl walked, it felt as if the very space around him gained gravity and weight.

He made no threatening gestures, didn't move wildly—he merely descended quietly. But each step he took overwhelmed the surrounding atmosphere.

Duke Capone instinctively straightened his back.

Anyone else might have mistaken Karl for just another aging knight. But Capone knew better.

He knew exactly who Karl was.

And he knew just how formidable he truly was.

His lips suddenly went dry, but he quickly collected himself and spoke.

"Did you come with us, Grandfather?"

His voice was laced with unhidden reverence and expectation.

"Could it be… you plan to join the war?"

A hopeful light spread across Duke Capone's face.

If Karl himself stepped onto the battlefield, the course of the war would undoubtedly shift.

His presence couldn't be explained merely by martial prowess or battlefield experience. His very existence carried weight.

The enemy would tremble at the mere sight of him, and their own troops would gain courage just from his presence.

'Rania will now have two war heroes,' Capone thought, both awed and slightly tense before Karl's grandeur.

Without hesitation, he stepped forward.

His strides were broader than usual, and an unconscious urgency clung to his movements.

Standing before Karl, he bowed deeply.

"Executor, thank you for returning."

His voice was sincere—filled with respect, admiration, and relief.

He was genuinely glad Karl had returned. It almost felt unreal.

Karl, ever stern, looked down at him without expression.

His face seemed carved from steel, his eyes sharp and weathered from countless battles.

Even though he was standing before a duke, his gaze held no deference or flattery—only calm indifference.

At last, Karl opened his mouth.

"Mm. It's good to see you too."

That was all he said.

Duke Capone scratched his head with a sheepish smile.

He too had once commanded countless soldiers on the battlefield, but he could never get used to Karl's way of speaking.

Whether addressing a duke or a king, Karl never changed. No embellishment, no unnecessary words.

Blunt and straightforward—like a heavy axe cleaving wood in a single stroke.

Capone couldn't help but think to himself:

'With such a blunt old man... Michael must've had a hard time.'

He sighed quietly, his gaze drifting naturally toward Michael.

A powerful physique, a strikingly handsome face, a gentle smile, and a cool-headed demeanor that never wavered even in battle.