Chapter 41: The Fate of Those Stained by Crimson Corruption (Part 2)

“Sir Duvel!”

The nobles, enraptured by the banquet and the dancers, paid no attention as Gelion hurried out of the hall and approached Duvel with urgency.

Duvel stood by the garden pond, staring blankly at the carp swimming lazily in the water and a frog croaking atop a lotus leaf.

Hearing Gelion’s call, he turned his head.

“Oh, Lord Gelion.”

“Huff, huff… Sir Duvel… Huff.”

“What has you so rushed? Please, catch your breath.”

The elderly man’s frail lungs gasped desperately for air. Gelion, bracing himself with one hand on Duvel’s shoulder and the other on his knee, bent forward, trying to steady his breath.

“Ah… I feel alive again. Goodness, I can’t even handle a brisk walk anymore, ha ha.”

Gelion let out a hearty laugh, but Duvel, already aware of the reason behind his haste, turned his gaze back to the pond.

A frog leaped into the water, its ripples distorting Duvel’s reflection, giving it an unsteady, precarious look.

“Lord Gelion, did you know?”

“Know what?”

Having caught his breath, Gelion also looked into the pond. A frog blinked its eyes, letting out a small croak atop a lotus leaf.

“They say if you place a frog in a pot of water and slowly heat it, it won’t realize it’s being cooked until it dies. What a foolish and pitiful end.”

“…It is indeed a sorrowful fate.”

“Humans are creatures of adaptation. Like the frog, they conform to gradual changes in their surroundings, only to meet their end foolishly, unaware of their peril.”

“An insightful thought for such a serene night.”

Duvel’s gaze softened, becoming heavier as he watched the frog.

Seeing the frog reminded him of his own predicament, a strange sense of camaraderie washing over him.

For it was only recently, as his eyes began to truly open, that he could see the boiling crimson stone pond around him and realize his own flesh was cooking within it.

Gelion glanced at Duvel.

“If Sir Duvel had not taken up the sword, you surely would have earned renown as a man of letters.”

“…But the fact remains that I chose the sword.”

The bitterness in every word prompted Gelion to ask, “Do you… regret taking up the sword?”

The word “regret” caused Duvel’s pupils to dilate ever so slightly. Regret.

Yes, this anguish stemmed from regret.

However, it wasn’t the act of wielding the sword he regretted, but the things he had done with it.

He regretted the countless lives taken, justified only by prophecies.

The days he spent shedding blood, all for a future that hadn’t even come to pass, weighed heavily on him.

That long-buried regret finally erupted at Duke Rosel’s estate, revealing its raw, festering nature.

The boy who had sworn his life to his liege at thirteen.

The man who had chosen conviction over the era, sacrificing his own body to save Emil.

And Emilia, who unwaveringly looked up to him as a “mentor.”

The events of the three days at the duke’s estate had peeled back the rotting layers of regret he had kept buried.

He deeply regretted trampling on the glory of the day he sacrificed his life for Lady Ronsha, all for the sake of preserving his own miserable existence now.

As if to recall that lost glory, Duvel traced the scar on his cheek.

He had forgotten.

Forgotten the courage etched into that scar.

Forgotten the self who once genuinely offered his life for his liege.

Gelion, as though observing his son, looked at the hesitant Duvel with warmth, gently patting his back.

Then, like a parent probing their child, he asked softly:

“…What troubles you, Duvel?”

Gelion’s unexpected familiarity startled Duvel.

Yet, sensing no command in the elder’s tone—only the gentle comfort of a confidant—Duvel smiled, his tension easing.

Light.

It felt as if a fatherly figure had appeared to guide his faltering steps.

Though he longed to confess his wrongs and seek the path to light, Duvel no longer pursued it.

He had wielded his blade under the pretense of vows, countless times straying from his beliefs.

Though the sword passed through water, his intent had been murder, justified as a knight’s duty and oath.

Even though King Hurion’s legacy taught to divide life from death, Duvel had failed to embody it.

He had rationalized his actions as necessary to uphold his vows.

And so, he had spilled blood again and again, justified only by prophecy.

Now, that blood had seeped into his very bones, impossible to scrub clean.

Duvel, gazing at Gelion’s warm expression as the elder patted his back, smiled faintly.

“…There is nothing troubling me anymore, Lord Gelion.”

Having realized that the red stone pond he was immersed in was, in fact, blood, Duvel now had no burden left.

The morning sun rose.

The banquet had concluded, and nobles offered their farewells to King Bricall, leaving the mansion one by one.

It had been a long, long feast—for Rosel, Essil, and Duvel alike.

Holding the royal crest-engraved helmet under his arm, Duvel, clad in his epaulets and armor, mounted his horse, waiting for Bricall to emerge.

His face was stoic, resolved for the duty of escorting the king safely back to the capital.

Having bid farewell to Count Lubran, Gelion approached him.

The faint trace of resignation in Duvel’s eyes from the previous night lingered in Gelion’s mind.

Now, it felt almost impossible to let him go.

“So, you’re leaving now? When shall we meet again, Sir Duvel?”

At Gelion’s words, hinting at a next meeting, Duvel offered a gentle smile and bowed his head.

“…I have gained much from this, Sir Gelion.”

Though he could not pinpoint the exact meaning of these words, Gelion could read the expression in his eyes.

When Duvel first set foot here, his gaze had been resolute—a steadfast focus on fulfilling his duties as a knight escort.

But now, as he mounted his horse, his gaze no longer held that resolve.

It was as if a mighty tree, deeply rooted and weathered by storms, had chosen to sever its own trunk and awaited only its fall.

“…I’ve given you nothing. How could you say you’ve gained much, Sir Duvel?”

“Haha, must there always be a gift to have received something in return?”

Gelion studied Duvel’s inscrutable smile, trying to decipher the true intent behind it.

Yet even with his years of experience, he could not discern whether Duvel’s gaze pointed to an oath, a conviction, or something entirely different.

His deep crimson pupils glowed faintly, like embers on the brink of extinguishing—perhaps their final flame.

“Sir Gelion, may I make one last request before I depart?”

“A request…?”

“You needn’t grant it if it’s too much trouble.”

“Go on, speak.”

Duvel glanced toward Emil’s room.

Before leaving, he wished to bid her farewell, even if just with a glance, but she was not at the window.

It was better for her if he left quietly, leading the Brical entourage away as swiftly as possible.

Still, there was one thing he wanted to ask of Gelion—a bold, even shameless request.

Though he had no right to ask, having once pointed a blade at her, he could not suppress the desire to leave this final plea behind.

“Please, take good care of Emilia. As you have offered comfort to a wayward soul like mine, do the same for her.”

“Emilia…? Is she not a traitor?”

Gelion had yet to pass judgment on her crimes. For now, he merely followed the will of his esteemed lord, without questioning right or wrong.

And knowing that Duvel had defeated her himself, Gelion couldn’t help but find this request puzzling.

Seeing Brical emerge from the annex, Duvel donned his steel helmet.

Taking the reins, he turned his horse, ready to leave his final words behind.

“In a place where the times have consumed conviction, does the distinction between guilt and innocence even matter anymore?”

With those parting words, Duvel spurred his horse to the front of the procession.

Gelion could only watch his retreating figure, unable to unravel the meaning of his cryptic words.

“In a place where the times have consumed conviction…”

It was a sentiment Gelion, even with his years of wisdom, found difficult to grasp. He stood there, lost in thought, staring after Duvel.

The times consuming conviction—was that not an implicit critique of the kingdom itself? Knights lived by their convictions and oaths.

To critique the times was to critique the kingdom, its history, and its rulers.

Finally grasping the weight of Duvel’s words, Gelion’s beard quivered as he called after him.

“Duvel… what are you planning?”

But Duvel was already heading to a place beyond reach, leaving Gelion only to hope for his safety and honor.

Clutching the memory of the day they fought back-to-back to protect Lady Ronsha, Gelion could only pray for Duvel’s success and well-being.

The sound of hooves echoed—clip-clop, clip-clop.

The eastern gates of the capital came into view.

They had traveled half a day to reach this point, though the distance from Rosel Grand Territory should have taken only three hours.

The endless line of carriages filled with tribute had slowed their pace considerably.

The sheer volume of treasures piled high in the carriages made it unclear whether this was a birthday celebration for the Duke of Rosel’s daughter or merely a grand collection of tributes.

Duvel, however, no longer felt anger at the display.

What right had he to criticize when he himself had once been no different from Brical, trailing along and serving like a mere lackey?

At that moment, one of the aides, Raul, rode closer.

“Sir Duvel.”

“Yes?”

“When we arrive at court, kneel before His Majesty and offer a full apology.”

“…For what offense?”

“Ah, come now. You know well enough, even if His Majesty forgives you. The act of taming one’s own is not without its calculated measures…”

Raul was worried about him.

It was a concern born of the years they had spent together.

King Brical was a man who would stop at nothing to subdue and control his subordinates.

Having observed Brical up close, Raul knew all too well that he would undoubtedly resort to the most heinous and malicious acts to break a strong opponent.

The process would inevitably claim many lives.

And Duvel, the kingdom’s strongest knight, was a prize worth taming in Brical’s eyes.

It was clear that yesterday’s events would force Duvel to confront the oath he had made to Hurion.

Despite Raul’s repeated pleas over the course of several minutes, Duvel remained silent.

“Has something shaken your loyalty?” Raul asked with a sigh.

“…A ruler who does not heed bitter truths is bound to walk the path of ruin, is he not?”

“And why should it be you delivering those bitter truths?”

“If no one else will, then someone must,” Duvel replied.

Raul had no response to that.

Though he fully understood the state of the world, he had no desire to risk his life for bitter truths.

After all, delivering hard truths was a burden meant for those in power.

While Duvel was certainly suited for that role, Raul’s concern for the comrade he had journeyed with for so long weighed heavily on him.

“Ah… Just remember my words,” Raul said with a sigh, retreating as he admitted defeat.

Shortly afterward, the procession of carriages passed through the eastern gate of the capital.

The line of carriages, which had enjoyed three days of calm, began entering the palace grounds.

Duvel, who had arrived at the forefront, dismounted from his horse and removed his helmet.

The carriages soon stopped in the palace courtyard, and coachmen and laborers quickly began unloading the cargo from the wagon beds.

From the first of three golden carriages, Brical alighted, and the chamberlain and regent stepped forward to bow deeply.

“Was the banquet uneventful?”

“It went without incident.”

“Let us proceed to the royal court. You must rest from your journey, but we shall provide a brief report on three days of governance.”

“Very well.”

Brical cast a glance at Duvel before making his way to the royal court.

When Brical reached the heart of the court, Duvel, who had silently followed him, drew his sword.

Shing.

He did so to avoid becoming a dull frog that dies, unaware it is being boiled alive.

He did so to prevent himself from being corrupted to the marrow by the crimson tide of depravity.

He did so to preserve human dignity in a place where the times had consumed conviction.

And finally, he did so for atonement.

Duvel aimed his blade at Brical’s neck.

The sword that had once been wielded in service of an unjust ruler had at last turned against him.