Chapter 43: The Beginning of Turmoil

“In any case, I’ve completed emergency treatment, and his life is not in danger. However, he’s unconscious due to shock, and I cannot guarantee when he will wake up. His blood loss was significant, too.”

Inside King Brikal’s chamber, the royal archpriest, Kairen, put down his staff and spoke to Regent Akaron.

With his left ear cut off, his left arm severed, and his left eye gone, Brikal’s appearance had become so grotesque that it was miraculous he was alive.

Akaron’s face was heavy with worry as he looked at the disfigured king.

“You say we don’t know when he’ll wake up…”

Since Brikal had no family, regency passed to Akaron in the event of his incapacitation. However, Akaron trembled with fear.

Brikal had collapsed and lost consciousness.

This meant that the victims of his tyranny might finally breathe freely, and Akaron feared their vengeance might turn toward him, the temporary wielder of royal authority.

“Mobilize all other priests and gather their healing powers. The longer his recovery takes, the more the royal authority will be at risk.”

To Akaron, who had been hiding behind Brikal’s oppressive rule and reaping its benefits, Brikal was a generous patron.

As long as Brikal’s tyranny reigned, Akaron enjoyed the spoils simply by remaining in his shadow.

However, now the beehive that provided him with honey trembled precariously, and he felt a growing unease.

Without the tyranny, there would be no cause for concern.

But the tower of royal authority built on oppression wavered when oppression disappeared, and Akaron’s face was clouded with worry.

“Ah… He must recover soon…”

“I’ll also request aid from the priesthood.”

“Understood.”

Kairen left, and Akaron, who had been silently staring at the bedridden Brikal, swallowed his concerns and exited the chamber. He had no intention of stepping forward into the fray.

Until the day he could safely feast on honey from behind the hive, Akaron intended to keep his head down and go with the flow of events.

‘Hopefully, nothing else will go wrong…’

Thinking this, Akaron walked back toward the throne room.

Dealing with the current situation was the top priority.

Emerging from behind the throne, he saw Saint Yuria still sobbing where she had collapsed, and the kneeling, lifeless figure of Duvel at the foot of the throne’s steps.

Duvel, the captain of the royal knights.

His once-brilliant stature had fallen, drenched in blood, but Akaron thought it was a festering wound that had finally burst.

Even in a field cultivated through tyranny, weeds still grow.

‘Duvel… Why did you make such a choice?’

He felt only pity.

It would have been easier to survive by merely staying by Brikal’s side and scraping up what little was left.

What sudden change could have driven him to refuse the spoils and instead choose death?

To Akaron, Duvel’s choice to forsake an easy path for a difficult one seemed utterly foolish, and he gazed down at Duvel’s arrow-pierced and mangled body with a sense of regret.

To stand beside the lofty throne, gazing down from above, even as a parasite—if it guaranteed life and wealth, who wouldn’t choose to be a parasite?

Though it is human to agonize, one does not cease to be human for not agonizing.

For Akaron, who had discarded such agonies, Duvel’s choice was incomprehensible.

“Guards, cut off that traitor’s head and display it in the central plaza.”

Though he pitied Duvel, treason was still treason.

Without setting an example, others might arise to turn the wind Duvel summoned into a storm. Thus, a clear example had to be made.

That example, of course, would follow “Brikal’s way”—even though the king had temporarily collapsed, his will remained unchanged.

Brutality didn’t matter.

Such was the will of Brikal, the tyrant.

“Hey! What are you waiting for? Rephon!”

When the vice-captain of the royal knights, Rephon, hesitated, Akaron roared at him, and Rephon, along with the senior knights, finally approached Duvel.

“Rephon, you personally carry it out.”

“W-what? Me, sir?”

There’s a saying that even a stray dog learns to swing a sword after three years in the academy.

To Akaron, who had witnessed Brikal’s tyranny for a year, ruling people in Brikal’s way had become second nature.

By directly executing his superior, Akaron sought to confirm and subdue Rephon’s resolve.

Failing to execute Duvel would imply that Duvel’s will still lingered within Rephon. Conversely, carrying out the execution would make Rephon realize, through the blood on his blade, the ultimate fate of traitors.

Moreover, a sword stained with the blood of one’s superior would deter similar mistakes in the future.

Rephon, holding his sword, looked down at Duvel.

“Hurry and do it! Are you siding with the traitor?”

Akaron barked again at Rephon, who was still hesitating. At last, Rephon’s sword swung in a wide arc, severing Duvel’s head.

Even a body honed to perfection becomes mere flesh once life is extinguished.

Thud.

The head of Duvel, who had upheld his convictions and vows, tumbled to the ground.

Whoosh! Rephon flicked the blood of his superior off the blade.

Rephon understood that Duvel longed for conviction in an age of barbarism.

There were times when, sharing drinks, they had pondered the righteous path together.

Thus, while Rephon understood Duvel’s choices, he could not comprehend the notion of trading one’s life for conviction.

He found Duvel’s futile death lamentable.

It would’ve been better to sever the king’s neck, at least.

Perhaps his half-formed conviction was guided by his oath to protect the king, Hurion.

Still, knowing Duvel had regretted his actions ever since bringing Emilia down, Rephon felt a measure of pride in him.

In an age of barbarism, an honorable death was the highest glory a knight could achieve.

Rephon bitterly commanded the knights.

“…Carry out Akaron’s orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thus, Duvel’s body was displayed in the central plaza, the price for keeping his convictions.

The indomitable shield that had once protected Brikal lay shattered.

The knights and archers withdrew, leaving only Regent Akaron and Saint Yuria in the royal chamber.

A chilling silence fell over the blood-soaked throne room.

Akaron gazed at Yuria, who remained collapsed, unable to stand.

“…Did you fail to foresee this, Your Holiness?”

Yuria, having stopped crying, shook her head.

Her sacred white hair swayed desolately.

Her dim, gray eyes, void of light, were fixed on the bloodstains left by Duvel.

“…I didn’t see it.”

Akaron furrowed his brow and questioned her words.

“…You foresaw the hero’s treason but not Duvel’s rebellion, which led to this grave crisis for His Majesty?”

Yuria remained silent.

Her silence puzzled Akaron, though he didn’t doubt her. He knew that a saint could not lie under the influence of divine power.

Of course, if her divine power had faded, she could deceive, but committing such blasphemy would be unthinkable.

Doing so would invoke the wrath of the Empire’s Holy Order, bringing the sword of judgment upon her.

It was not something that could be concealed.

When a saint’s divine power waned, they could no longer hear the voice of the deity, nor prophesy the kingdom’s affairs, inevitably revealing the loss of their powers.

Failing to disclose this loss in advance would lead to immediate execution.

For 500 years since the Holy Order’s establishment, no saint had dared such foolishness.

There was no reason to hide it.

Once their divine power faded, saints returned to the Holy Order, relinquished their duties, and resumed peaceful human lives—something all saints who bore the burden of foresight longed for.

Moreover, concealing it would also implicate the king, making it even less likely to be hidden unless one intended to destroy the royal family.

For this reason, the divine power of the saint was directly tested by the king with a small amount of blood.

The saint’s divine power was crucial to the kingdom’s stability.

“Yes… I didn’t see it.”

“I see… Could it be that the deity has forsaken the Kingdom of Elond?”

Of course, Akaron knew that the saint couldn’t foresee everything in the kingdom.

Prophecies, though significant, weren’t all-encompassing.

Still, it was suspicious that she foresaw the hero’s treason yet failed to predict Duvel’s rebellion, a direct consequence of that event.

“…I don’t know. The deity’s will is beyond my comprehension…”

The saints dispatched by the Empire’s Holy Order were merely vessels for the deity’s messages.

Until their divine power waned, they simply conveyed the will of the deity and could not fathom what remained unsaid.

Akaron also gazed at Duvel’s bloodstains, following Yuria’s lead.

He couldn’t help but think that the deity might have abandoned Elond.

After all, King Brikal, who had succeeded the virtuous King Hurion, was a tyrant—cruel, debauched, and unbearably arrogant.

When drunk, Brikal would occasionally utter blasphemous remarks, so it was no wonder the deity might disdain the Kingdom of Elond.

Perhaps that’s why no warning of this disaster had been given to the saint.

In fact, it was likely so, as if to punish Brikal for his audacity in daring to look upon the deity with such arrogance.

If this was more than mere speculation, then the Kingdom of Elond could indeed be headed toward ruin.

Regent Akaron worried that his life of comfort, spent reaping benefits from Brikal’s shadow, might come to an end.

“All we can do is hope he hasn’t abandoned us. Please, pray to the deity. Pray that King Brikal recovers swiftly.”

Yuria silently nodded.

Her pale pink lips, now devoid of vitality, remained firmly shut.

The prayers of a saint, imbued with divine power, reached the deity.

Of course, just because they reached the deity didn’t mean every prayer was granted. The efficacy of prayer was solely determined by the deity’s will.

“Well then.”

With that, Akaron disappeared into the corridors behind the throne.

Determined to use every healing method available to restore Brikal to the throne, Akaron headed somewhere with urgency.

Left alone, Yuria blankly stared at the bloodstains.

Duvel had never believed in Yuria’s prophecy of Emilia’s rebellion.

He had regretted his choice ever since that day—the day he chose his oath over his convictions.

Yuria knew he had relentlessly searched for traces of Emilia.

However, she had never reported Duvel’s actions to Brikal.

Though she had foreseen this path to ruin, she didn’t want to stop Duvel, who was drowning in regret.

That agonizing regret wasn’t something Duvel alone endured.

Yuria, too, had been beside him in that terrible swamp of regret, and so she hadn’t stopped him.

And in the end, this was the conclusion they reached.

Choosing conviction over his oath, Duvel met the end of his regrets in death.

Yuria had no doubt that the same end would eventually come for her.

She believed that ruin would come for someone as weak and cowardly as herself, who had chosen survival over truth.

It was a natural order, a fate she couldn’t escape.

At the very moment Duvel died, protecting his conviction with his life—

Elsewhere, unaware of what had transpired in the royal court, Roselle sat across from Grand Duke Lucillan, hoping for his participation in the beginning of the revolution.

At the same time, Viela was sitting across from Daltan, seeking his cooperation in the start of reflection.