Introduction Note:
Rise of a Manor Lord came out of me wanting to take many of the demon lord and isekai tropes I’d enjoyed in other media and put my own spin on them. Keep that in mind and try not to take anything in this story too seriously. While I had definite anime inspirations (among others) I’ve tried to ground things in my fantasy world without killing the fun.
Let’s roll.
DRAKE
In his twenty-three years on Earth, Drake had experienced multiple rude awakenings. The cops kicking down his door before dawn because they got the wrong apartment. The cute girl who accidentally kneed him in the crotch the morning after a one-night stand. The time his fire alarm went off because his dumbass roommate used too much cooking oil. This, however, was the first time he’d woken up manacled to a table... while naked.
Just how much had he had to drink last night?
Instead of thrashing in his obviously secure restraints, Drake took stock. He was on his back inside a tall, round tower. A lamp hung off a sloped ceiling three stories up. It provided enough light to show walls of aged brick that formed the inside of an old castle tower.
A closed wooden door sat three stories up, at the end of a set of wooden stairs that wound around the curved wall from where he was. None of this was normal, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. Should he scream? Given how scratchy his throat felt right now, he wasn’t looking forward to that at all.
“Hello?” An unfamiliar male voice rose from his right. “Can you understand me?”
Drake damn near snapped his neck as he looked in that direction. A man stood in the darkness to his right—no, that wasn’t quite correct. Rather, the man was manacled to what looked like a wooden X standing against a dark wall formed of gray bricks. He was also naked.
The first thing Drake needed to see, after waking up strapped to a table, was not another dude’s junk. He focused on the dude’s face. He had a smooth, refined face. Probably a model or something. Also, he had a flat black disc about the same width as a doorknob attached to his chest, on which red LEDs flickered about in odd patterns.
“Who are you?” Drake demanded. “Where am I?” And why are we both naked? he wanted to add. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
The man on the X smiled as if learning Drake was capable of speech was a great relief. “My name is Westin, and you are now in a ritual chamber inside Gloomwood Manor. I realize this is distressing, but fear not. If we collaborate and stay calm, we may still escape.”
Drake still felt drugged, and having difficulty focusing on his life before now pissed him off enough he focused harder. How had he ended up in these manacles? As he struggled for his most recent memories, sensations and visions rose grudgingly from the mental sludge.
As the radio blared and he tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel, the headlights of his truck lit a two-lane highway in the New Mexico desert. There were no other cars out on this highway, not a cop for miles, and the moon was a perfect, gorgeous sphere. It was a good night for a drive through the desert, and as Drake took in the serenity sprawled around him, he pondered pulling off the road and taking in the view before heading home.
A dark-haired woman in a maid’s uniform ran out in front of his speeding truck.
“Sir!” The desperation in Westin’s voice jolted him from the memory. “We have little time before our captor returns. Do you have the ability to open locks?”
Drake was still trying to wrap his head around almost flattening a hotel maid, so he ignored whatever nonsense “Westin” was spouting. Had he hit that woman with his truck? No. He hadn’t pancaked a maid because he’d swerved off the road to avoid her and then... what?
Past the broken glass, past his crumpled hood, one of his headlights cut through the darkness. The other wasn’t doing shit. Judging from the way the front of his truck was hugging the thick wooden power pole leaning over his hood, he had run straight into it.
His side hurt. His ribs hurt. Glass glittered all around him, the remains of his shattered windshield, and there was an actual glass shard embedded in his chest. As he tried to touch it, it sliced his fingers open. He was bleeding, and badly. Badly enough he might die.
So he’d hit a power pole by the highway and blacked out, but he hadn’t killed anyone. He hoped. So what happened after that? Had someone found his truck, pulled him from it, and then... chained him to a table in a castle tower? None of that made any goddamn sense.
“Sir!” Westin demanded. “We are in grave danger. I know you are disoriented from travel, but you must push past that unpleasantness and focus on escape. We must escape.”
It seemed obvious Westin wasn’t going to stop badgering him until he at least acknowledged the man’s existence, so Drake decided to hold off on figuring out how he’d gotten here and focus instead on the grave danger. “Escape who, exactly?”
The menacing click of a lock slamming open made Drake jump in his restraints, and Westin’s terrified gasp unnerved him all the more.
“He’s here!” Westin whispered desperately. “Listen. Lord Gloomwood will demand your name, but you must not give it no matter the pain. With your name, he can dominate you.”
“What?” Drake was now more annoyed than anything. “Why would he want my name?”
Hinges moaned ominously as the big door above swung open.
Introduction Note:
Rise of a Manor Lord came out of me wanting to take many of the demon lord and isekai tropes I’d enjoyed in other media and put my own spin on them. Keep that in mind and try not to take anything in this story too seriously. While I had definite anime inspirations (among others) I’ve tried to ground things in my fantasy world without killing the fun.
Let’s roll.
DRAKE
In his twenty-three years on Earth, Drake had experienced multiple rude awakenings. The cops kicking down his door before dawn because they got the wrong apartment. The cute girl who accidentally kneed him in the crotch the morning after a one-night stand. The time his fire alarm went off because his dumbass roommate used too much cooking oil. This, however, was the first time he’d woken up manacled to a table... while naked.
Just how much had he had to drink last night?
Instead of thrashing in his obviously secure restraints, Drake took stock. He was on his back inside a tall, round tower. A lamp hung off a sloped ceiling three stories up. It provided enough light to show walls of aged brick that formed the inside of an old castle tower.
A closed wooden door sat three stories up, at the end of a set of wooden stairs that wound around the curved wall from where he was. None of this was normal, and his head felt like it was stuffed with cotton balls. Should he scream? Given how scratchy his throat felt right now, he wasn’t looking forward to that at all.
“Hello?” An unfamiliar male voice rose from his right. “Can you understand me?”
Drake damn near snapped his neck as he looked in that direction. A man stood in the darkness to his right—no, that wasn’t quite correct. Rather, the man was manacled to what looked like a wooden X standing against a dark wall formed of gray bricks. He was also naked.
The first thing Drake needed to see, after waking up strapped to a table, was not another dude’s junk. He focused on the dude’s face. He had a smooth, refined face. Probably a model or something. Also, he had a flat black disc about the same width as a doorknob attached to his chest, on which red LEDs flickered about in odd patterns.
“Who are you?” Drake demanded. “Where am I?” And why are we both naked? he wanted to add. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.
The man on the X smiled as if learning Drake was capable of speech was a great relief. “My name is Westin, and you are now in a ritual chamber inside Gloomwood Manor. I realize this is distressing, but fear not. If we collaborate and stay calm, we may still escape.”
Drake still felt drugged, and having difficulty focusing on his life before now pissed him off enough he focused harder. How had he ended up in these manacles? As he struggled for his most recent memories, sensations and visions rose grudgingly from the mental sludge.
As the radio blared and he tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel, the headlights of his truck lit a two-lane highway in the New Mexico desert. There were no other cars out on this highway, not a cop for miles, and the moon was a perfect, gorgeous sphere. It was a good night for a drive through the desert, and as Drake took in the serenity sprawled around him, he pondered pulling off the road and taking in the view before heading home.
A dark-haired woman in a maid’s uniform ran out in front of his speeding truck.
“Sir!” The desperation in Westin’s voice jolted him from the memory. “We have little time before our captor returns. Do you have the ability to open locks?”
Drake was still trying to wrap his head around almost flattening a hotel maid, so he ignored whatever nonsense “Westin” was spouting. Had he hit that woman with his truck? No. He hadn’t pancaked a maid because he’d swerved off the road to avoid her and then... what?
Past the broken glass, past his crumpled hood, one of his headlights cut through the darkness. The other wasn’t doing shit. Judging from the way the front of his truck was hugging the thick wooden power pole leaning over his hood, he had run straight into it.
His side hurt. His ribs hurt. Glass glittered all around him, the remains of his shattered windshield, and there was an actual glass shard embedded in his chest. As he tried to touch it, it sliced his fingers open. He was bleeding, and badly. Badly enough he might die.
So he’d hit a power pole by the highway and blacked out, but he hadn’t killed anyone. He hoped. So what happened after that? Had someone found his truck, pulled him from it, and then... chained him to a table in a castle tower? None of that made any goddamn sense.
“Sir!” Westin demanded. “We are in grave danger. I know you are disoriented from travel, but you must push past that unpleasantness and focus on escape. We must escape.”
It seemed obvious Westin wasn’t going to stop badgering him until he at least acknowledged the man’s existence, so Drake decided to hold off on figuring out how he’d gotten here and focus instead on the grave danger. “Escape who, exactly?”
The menacing click of a lock slamming open made Drake jump in his restraints, and Westin’s terrified gasp unnerved him all the more.
“He’s here!” Westin whispered desperately. “Listen. Lord Gloomwood will demand your name, but you must not give it no matter the pain. With your name, he can dominate you.”
“What?” Drake was now more annoyed than anything. “Why would he want my name?”
Hinges moaned ominously as the big door above swung open.
