Ruho spent the next hour doing something he should have done the moment he got the castle, exploring it properly. Still wrapped in his towel with his cargo pants drying on the roof, he went room by room through the ground floor, cataloging what Vexor had actually given him.
The entrance hall, he already knew. Massive, imposing, with the heavy front door and the torture-furnace built into the wall. But beyond that, through a large archway to the right, was the great hall.
It was enormous. The ceiling soared at least twenty feet high, supported by thick stone columns. A table dominated the center of the room. not just any table, but a massive oak monstrosity that could easily seat fifty people. High-backed chairs lined both sides, each one carved with intricate designs of lions and eagles and other symbols of medieval power. Paintings hung on the walls, depicting battle scenes that Ruho didn't recognize, armored knights fighting dragons, armies clashing on open fields, sieges of castles that looked nothing like his own.
"Who are these battles supposed to be?" Ruho asked, looking at one tapestry showing a particularly dramatic dragon slaying.
"Those are historical conflicts from this world," Vexor said, his presence manifesting with obvious pride. "The Battle of Crimson Vale, where Duke Harrington the Third defeated the dragon lord Vraxxus. The Siege of Ironspire, which lasted seven years. The Great Northern Campaign, where—"
"I don't care," Ruho interrupted. "I just wanted to know if they were real."
He moved on before Vexor could launch into a full historical lecture.
Beyond the great hall was the kitchen he'd already found, with its massive hearth and empty shelves. Adjacent to it was a butler's pantry, a smaller room lined with cabinets that held dishes, serving platters, wine decanters, and all the accoutrements of formal dining. Everything was high quality, ornate even, with silver trim and gold leaf decorations. Completely useless for someone who had no food and no guests.
The east wing held the library.
Ruho's heart lifted slightly when he saw it. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, all filled with leather-bound volumes. A reading area with comfortable chairs. A fireplace. Natural light from tall windows. It looked like the kind of place where you could spend days just reading and thinking.
He pulled a book from the shelf. The leather was soft, well-maintained. He opened it.
Blank pages. Completely blank.
He tried another book. Blank. Another. Blank. Every single book in the entire library was just empty pages bound in expensive leather.
"VEXOR!" Ruho shouted at the ceiling. "The books are EMPTY! What's the point of a library with no books?!"
"Those are war journals," Vexor explained, sounding defensive. "You're supposed to fill them in yourself with tales of conquest, records of battles, documentation of your strategic victories. It's traditional for nobles to keep detailed accounts of their military campaigns."
"I don't HAVE military campaigns!" Ruho screamed. "I'm fighting for basic survival! I don't need a thousand blank journals!"
"You never know," Vexor muttered. "You might want to document your experiences for future generations."
"Future generations of WHAT?! I'm the only person here!"
He left the library before his frustration could escalate further and explored the west wing.
More armories. Of course. Three more rooms filled with weapons, one for siege equipment like battering rams and portable walls, one for exotic weapons like whips and nets and things with spikes that Ruho couldn't identify, and one that was just shields. Just hundreds of shields in every size and style imaginable.
"This is a sickness," Ruho said to Vexor. "You have a problem. You need help."
"A properly equipped fortress needs comprehensive armament options," Vexor replied stiffly.
Beyond the armories was something that made Ruho stop completely—a chapel.
It was small compared to the other rooms, maybe twenty feet by thirty, but it was unmistakably a place of worship. Stone pews faced an altar. Stained glass windows depicted religious scenes—gods he didn't recognize performing miracles, saints being martyred, the usual religious imagery. Candles stood ready to be lit. A book that was probably meant to be a bible or prayer book sat on the altar.
"You put a chapel in my castle," Ruho said slowly. "A place to worship gods. While actual gods are actively tormenting me on a daily basis."
"It's traditional," Vexor said. "Every proper castle has a chapel for spiritual contemplation and—"
"I'm being tormented by GODS," Ruho repeated. "I have no desire to pray to them. This is the most useless room in the entire castle."
"You might change your mind," Vexor suggested.
"I won't."
The second floor was mostly bedrooms. Ruho climbed the stairs and started opening doors. Bedroom. Identical four-poster bed, empty wardrobe, cold fireplace. Next door. Another bedroom. Same bed, same wardrobe, same fireplace. Next door. Another bedroom.
He counted twelve bedrooms before giving up. They were all exactly the same. All empty. All waiting for occupants that would never come.
"Why do I need twelve bedrooms?" Ruho asked the empty hallway.
"Guest quarters," Vexor said. "For visiting dignitaries, allied nobles, military commanders. A castle of this size needs appropriate accommodation for—"
"I don't have guests," Ruho said flatly. "I will never have guests. These rooms will sit empty forever."
"You don't know that."
"I know that."
The third floor had more practical spaces. A study with a large desk, empty bookshelves, and a comfortable chair. A map room with detailed charts of the island spread across a large table—that was actually useful. Ruho spent a few minutes looking at the maps, noting the topography, the location of his plateau, the distance to the shore. Knowledge he'd need for the coming pirate problem.
There was also a small observatory in one of the towers—a room with a domed ceiling and a telescope pointed at the sky. Ruho looked through it briefly, saw stars he didn't recognize in constellations that made no sense, and moved on.
The fourth floor was just the towers. Four of them, one at each corner of the castle, each accessible by narrow spiral staircases that made his legs burn. Each tower had the same setup—ballista weapons, ammunition storage, firing positions overlooking different directions. The northwest tower where he'd killed the Gigantosuchus. The northeast tower overlooking the other side of the plateau. The southwest and southeast towers covering the remaining angles.
By the time he finished exploring, the full hour had passed. His legs were screaming from all the stair climbing. His mind was overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the place. Thirty thousand square feet. Dozens of rooms. Most of them completely useless for a single person living alone.
It felt wrong. The castle felt like it belonged to someone else, some medieval lord with servants and guests and armies. Someone who needed a great hall for feasts and a library for records and twelve guest bedrooms for visiting nobles.
All Ruho had was himself, a towel barely clinging to his waist, and the growing awareness that he was completely, utterly alone in a structure designed for dozens of people.
He climbed back up to the roof to check on his pants.
Finally. Finally they were dry.
The sun had baked them completely, leaving the blue cargo fabric warm to the touch and mercifully free of blood and death smell. They were still torn at the knees and had some permanent staining that would never come out, but they were wearable.
Ruho grabbed them and headed back down to his bathroom—the one room he actually liked in this entire castle. He dropped the towel and pulled on the pants, relishing the feeling of being clothed again even if he was still shirtless.
The pants fit perfectly. Still baggy in that tactical cargo style, still with way too many pockets, but they were his. The only piece of his original outfit that had survived everything this world had thrown at him.
He looked at himself in one of the bathroom mirrors. Shirtless, barefoot, wearing torn cargo pants, his hair still damp from the bath. He looked like a disaster. A refugee. Someone who was barely holding it together.
But he was alive. Or whatever passed for alive in the afterlife.
And he had pirates to deal with.
"Azirel," he said, heading back toward the map room. "Show me that island map again. I need to start planning."