Chapter 36: The Meeting of Master and Disciple (Final)

Whoosh! Boom!

The duel didn’t last long.

As Emilia’s teacher, he had already thoroughly grasped her swordsmanship.

Though he struggled somewhat with the magic-infused sword techniques she had learned from her late mentor, Duvel eventually forced his pupil to her knees.

“Surrender… You know it’s the only way, Emilia.”

It was heartbreaking that all he could do was urge her to surrender peacefully and preserve her life.

But under the sharp, watchful eyes of the king, there was no other choice.

He could only hope that his evasive attacks during their fight conveyed his true intentions.

“Sob… Everyone’s so cruel… What did I even do wrong?”

Tears streamed down the face of the hero, Emilia, who had returned home with dreams soaring high.

Duvel clenched his teeth. How could such an innocent and earnest woman be accused of rebellion?

What? Emilia is planning a rebellion, you say?

When he first heard Saintess Yuria’s prophecy, Duvel couldn’t believe his ears.

He wanted to cleanse them of the words he found so unthinkable.

Though he understood that the saintess’s prophecies were considered divine and infallible, he knew Emilia better than anyone.

She was a dreamer, pure and full of hope, not someone who could ever conceive rebellion.

“That’s… her fate,” Yuria had responded.

He couldn’t ask any more questions.

With King Bricall already fuming over the prophecy, voicing doubt would only brand him as a potential traitor himself.

Thus, Emilia was imprisoned in the dungeons.

Duvel had tried numerous times to meet her, but every attempt was in vain.

He wanted to ask her, face-to-face, about the truth behind the prophecy.

But for 65 long days, she remained confined.

Even when he questioned Sregon about her condition, all he could get was a cautious, “She’s alive.”

Emil…

As her mentor, he felt utterly powerless.

All he could do was hope that Emilia was holding on.

With her sentenced to slavery, he knew he might catch a glimpse of her at the royal s*ave auction soon.

Duvel entered the annex on the north side of the royal palace where Emilia had once stayed.

It was where they had trained together, living side by side. He hadn’t set foot there since sending her off on her journey.

Tracing her steps, he recalled the tear-streaked face of Emilia, who had pleaded her innocence.

If only there were some sign of treachery, it might have made this painful truth easier to bear.

Eventually, he entered her room. The sanctified quarters where a hero once rested.

He found a diary there, filled with Emilia’s personal thoughts and dreams.

“Ah… Emilia…”

If only the diary had been filled with plans and vows of rebellion—it might have freed him from the torment of doubt.

“Haa…”

Duvel let out a heavy sigh as he read the pages brimming with dreams and hopes.

Though prophecies are meant to prevent disasters by foreseeing them in advance, Emilia’s diary made it impossible for him to accept the prophecy’s validity.

Was it the hardships of her journey that had tainted her innocent dreams? Or perhaps the corrupting influence of the secular world?

Unable to bear the weight of uncertainty, he took the diary to the Tower of the Saintess.

He climbed to the top of the tower and found Yuria seated by the window, bathed in moonlight.

“Saintess, forgive my intrusion, but I have a question I must ask.”

But Yuria did not turn around.

Unwilling to leave without answers, Duvel spoke from behind her.

“I understand that prophecies foresee future events.

But if the act of rebellion has not yet occurred, doesn’t it make sense to guide the sinner toward reform rather than punishment?”

At his words, Yuria lowered her head slightly.

Was she considering his point?

Taking a step closer, Duvel opened the diary to a page overflowing with Emilia’s dreams of adventure and exploration.

He placed it before her, hoping she would see the truth in its words.

As he approached Saintess Yuria and was about to show her the journal, he hesitated.

“Saintess,” he said, his voice faltering.

Her tear-filled eyes looked up at him, and he found himself unable to hand over the journal.

A stream of luminous tears reflected in the moonlight clung to Yuria’s chin before falling like dewdrops in the night.

He couldn’t fully grasp the meaning behind her tears, but he sensed one thing clearly.

The pain they shared was the same. He, who had taught Emilia, and Yuria, who had summoned her, now bore the same burden.

Even if the summoning had been done with the power of the supreme deity, they were bound by the same sorrow.

Seeing her tears, Duvel could no longer bring himself to ask anything further.

After 65 days, Emilia was finally brought up from the underground prison.

Duvel, who had been anxiously awaiting her behind Bricall, froze at the sight of her.

Emilia, dragged out by Sregon in shackles and cuffs, was a mere shadow of her former self.

Her disheveled golden hair, hollow gaze that seemed to look at nothing, and emaciated frame made her unrecognizable.

The proud warrior and hero were nowhere to be found.

“Was there… torture?” Duvel asked Sregon, his voice trembling.

“Kekeke, this woman was so stubborn that she refused to confess,” Sregon replied with a sinister laugh.

Duvel sighed deeply, his expression hard. Why would they need a confession when she was already condemned to slavery? They had already decided her guilt—what purpose did such confessions serve?

“Kekeke, follow me, s*ave. Before you’re sold, you’ll need to tidy yourself up.”

Emilia, dragged away by Sregon to the dressing room, left Duvel standing there, unable to do anything but watch.

A storm of emotions—grief, anguish, and rage—choked him, but he could not express them.

The sight of his disciple, whom he had raised with care, now in ruins before his eyes, was unbearable.

And yet, all he could do was hope and pray that she would be sold to a benevolent master.

Of course, the chances of a truly virtuous man buying a s*ave for such purposes were slim to none.

But even such a hopeless prayer was all Duvel could offer, hoping it might somehow ease his guilt for her downfall.

No matter how much time had passed, the Emilia he remembered—the bright young girl who practiced swordsmanship with a radiant smile—still lingered vividly in his mind.

“Emilia… may I come in?”

Duvel’s voice was cautious as he stood in the doorway where Eshil froze, her expression conflicted.

“Yes, please come in.”

Their relationship, now irreversibly changed, made Eshil smile awkwardly as she stepped aside to let him in. Duvel entered and scanned the room.

“Is this where you’ve been staying?” he asked.

“Yes.”

It was a relief.

True to the reputation of Duke Roselle, a man of honor, Eshil’s room was no different from that of any common citizen’s—a cozy space with a proper bed.

Of course, Eshil had yet to use the bed even once.

“Please, have a seat, Master.”

The title “Master” cut deeply. Duvel could not bring himself to accept it.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t deserve to be called ‘Master.’ Please don’t address me that way.”

It was painful to hear.

How could he accept such a sacred title when he had shattered his disciple’s life? Regardless of whether it was due to the prophecy, his actions were inexcusable.

“Oh… I see… then, Duvel… sir. Please, have a seat,” Eshil said hesitantly, pulling out a chair for him before sitting down across from him.

Duvel seated himself, his expression somber.

“You said you had something to discuss?” Eshil asked.

“…Are you doing okay now?” Duvel asked after scrutinizing her closely.

It wasn’t what he truly wanted to say, but seeing the faint vitality returning to her face after days of emaciation gave him some relief.

Eshil nodded quietly.

“Yes… the master treats me well.”

“It seems so… I’m relieved that you’ve met Duke Rosel as your lord.”

At the mention of Rosel’s name, a reflexive smile spread across Esil’s lips, but she quickly hid it.

She didn’t want anyone to notice her feelings toward her master.

After all, a s*ave harboring feelings for their master was unthinkable anywhere in the world.

Duvell closed his mouth at the sight of her smile.

There was something he wanted to ask.

Had she truly intended to commit treason? He wanted her to speak honestly.

He wanted to find out where his wavering steps should lead him as he stood between his oath and his beliefs.

But as he stood before Emilia, he felt he already knew.

Where he needed to go became clear.

And so, Duvell withdrew his question.

At this point, did it even matter?

Emilia’s cry on that day had likely been the truth. He resolved not to be swayed anymore by a future that hadn’t yet come to pass.

Just as a felled tree cannot take root in new soil, he realized that his question could not guide him to new ground.

“Duvell… sir?”

“…I had so much I wanted to say… but standing before you, none of it comes to mind.”

“…I understand. I feel the same way.”

Just having Duvell now look at her with the eyes of a mentor was enough for Esil.

Yes, the mercy of the blade she had felt in the royal court that day had been genuine. Even amid that terror, someone had believed in her.

That alone was enough solace for her, and so she felt she understood the meaning of Duvell’s words.

Duvell silently looked at Esil before taking something out of his pocket and placing it on the round table.

Then he stood up.

The chaos in his mind, torn between his oath and his beliefs, was finally settling.

He realized now that it was too late to tread the path of belief after he had pointed his sword at Emilia’s neck.

No matter how absolute the prophecy was, from the moment he abandoned faith and belief and destroyed Emilia, he had forfeited his right to struggle between oath and belief.

He now understood that not only the sycophants but also he himself had been tainted by the red petrifying water.

For this reason, Duvell could no longer bear to face Emilia.

It wasn’t Emilia, who had defended the kingdom, but himself, who had defended Brical, that had been corrupted by the secular world.

With this realization, his eyes were no longer clouded by confusion.

The place he needed to be was indeed the pond of red petrifying water.

Once stained by the red petrifying water, the stain could never be removed.

And if one corrupted by the red water were to step out of the pond, their very steps would taint the path they walked.

Corruption leaves traces and spreads wherever it goes.

Thus, Duvell offered his final words.

“…I always carried this with me, intending to give it to you.”

“This… this is…?”

Esil picked up the small, thin book lying on the round table.

It was her journal, filled with dreams and hopes from that day.

“I’m sorry, Emilia. May the dreams recorded within… be realized.”

With those parting words, Duvell walked toward the door.

As he grasped the doorknob, ready to leave, a voice called out from behind him, stopping him in his tracks.

“T-thank you… teacher.”

Though it was still difficult for him to hear himself being called “teacher,” Duvell turned his head to see Esil’s smile.

He nodded to her and stepped through the door.

Just like the mentor he had been on the days they trained together.

Even if the fate of one tainted by the red petrifying water was destruction, he opened the door and left.