Chapter 42. The Final Fate of the One Stained by the Crimson Petrified Flame (End)

“Eek!”

At the sight of Duvel drawing his sword behind Brickal, both the regent and the high priest emitted pitiful screams and fled.

They abandoned the king’s safety without a second thought, escaping as far as possible.

Simultaneously, dozens of archers stood in unison on the second floor of the royal palace, their arrows aimed.

Among them were several massive ballistae capable of piercing steel.

The positioning was precise, as though they had anticipated this moment all along.

From behind Brickal’s towering figure, Duvel surveyed the archers and spoke.

“…Was this also foretold by the Saintess?”

Despite the chilling steel against his neck, Brickal responded calmly to Duvel’s question.

After yesterday’s events, Brickal had sensed it—the iron grip of rebellion was to come today within the royal palace.

His long reign of tyranny had honed his sharp instincts.

“No prophecy was necessary. I saw it in your eyes yesterday.”

“And yet, you didn’t flee from me.”

“Even if I had fled, do you think I could escape the radius of your sword?”

Had he attempted to run, Brickal would likely already have been reduced to pieces.

The silent ones are always the first to be cut down.

Though hundreds of arrows were pointed at him, Duvel’s sword remained unwavering.

Just as Brickal predicted the rebellion, Duvel had anticipated the arrows.

Yet, he paid them no mind.

If he were afraid of mere arrows, he would never have drawn his sword.

For someone who had already faced countless fears and regrets, arrows and ballistae were nothing to him.

“…Do you think mere arrows can break my resolve?”

“I am aware. With determination, deflecting hundreds of arrows would be no challenge for you. But even you would struggle to block dozens of ballistae.”

As Brickal noted, even a body tempered to enlightenment could not guarantee survival against the direct force of a ballista.

Yet Duvel’s sword did not waver in the slightest.

Brickal turned to face Duvel, who pressed his blade to the king’s throat, prepared to strike at any moment.

“I have no intention of blocking them.”

“…Do you plan to meet your end here? Don’t be rash. I would rather not witness the pointless death of a royal guard knight.”

“Death is, by nature, pointless.”

Suppressing his fear, Brickal issued a stern warning.

The fiery gleam in Duvel’s crimson eyes made him seem like a bloodthirsty beast, but Brickal had no choice but to confront him directly.

If a dragon bared its fangs, it was his creed to pull them.

“What is your purpose? What happened at the Rosell mansion?”

“This has nothing to do with Duke Rosell. It’s simply a matter of a knight’s conviction.”

“Conviction, you say. I’ve seen many knights die young, clinging to their so-called convictions. I thought you, at least, would value oaths over conviction. Are you breaking your oath now?”

Oath.

Brickal weaponized the word, exploiting Duvel’s memory of swearing his loyalty to his father.

Duvel remained silent, but his blade pressed deeper, drawing blood from Brickal’s neck.

“…Do not speak of oaths so lightly. They are not something for you to utter so carelessly.”

Fired up by the mention of oaths, Duvel delivered his warning.

Yet, Brickal’s keen eye saw through him—the knight was still torn between his oath and conviction.

Smiling slyly, Brickal probed further into this confusion.

“Hah, are you even worthy of speaking of oaths? You who broke your vow to the late King Hurion by pointing your sword at me?”

“…It doesn’t matter.”

“Then explain why you’ve done this. Why has a knight broken his oath?”

Brickal’s taunting words sought to unravel Duvel.

The more the oath was brought up, the more his blade trembled.

Duvel, who revered his oath to Hurion as if it were his life, could barely contain himself.

Brickal felt confident that the knight would crumble under his own inner turmoil.

“…I haven’t broken it.”

“Yes, perhaps not yet. I’m still alive, after all. But isn’t merely aiming your sword at me a stain on your oath?”

Duvel gritted his teeth. The vile man dared to speak of oaths with such a filthy mouth.

Not that Duvel’s conscience was spotless.

But every time Brickal sullied what little purity remained, it disgusted him.

“…Your attempts to shake me with talk of oaths are futile.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“Do you believe it is right to punish someone for a crime they’ve yet to commit?”

The crux of the matter. Brickal frowned at the question.

“It’s not a crime they might commit—it’s a crime they will commit.”

“I’m not questioning the prophecy. I’m asking if punishment should take precedence over reform.”

“Prophecies are the will of the deity. Are you denying the deity?”

At the mention of the deity, Duvel let out a sigh full of despair.

Even with a blade pressed to his neck, Brickal clung stubbornly to his warped beliefs.

If, even once, he showed the will to reform, Duvel might have spared him.

Reform was the better path, as Duvel had come to realize at Duke Rosell’s mansion.

However, Bricar’s sneer betrayed not the slightest hint of remorse.

Instead, as if he had a second life to spare, he ridiculed Duvel, intent on exploiting his guilt over breaking his oath.

“Arrogant fool. What difference is there between your hypocritical rebellion and blatant deceit? A knight who breaks his oath—how shameful! King Hyurion must be turning in his grave.”

Emphasizing the name “Hyurion,” Bricar’s taunt struck a nerve, causing Duvel’s eyes to twitch momentarily.

To hear the glorious name of Hyurion sullied by this indulgent, self-serving king—who abandoned his kingdom for pleasure and luxury—left Duvel trembling with indignation.

Yet, strangely, Duvel felt a sense of relief.

He had worried that the king might somehow acknowledge his conviction.

Better for Bricar to remain obstinate in his ignorance than to feign repentance and confess lies under threat of death.

In this shared moment of impending doom, Duvel found Bricar’s foolish arrogance oddly reassuring.

Duvel smiled.

“W-what are you smiling about?”

Alarmed, Bricar raised his hand, signaling the archers to hold fire, but Duvel’s unsettling smile remained unwavering.

“I’m relieved. I feared His Majesty might come to understand my convictions.”

“W-what nonsense is this?”

Duvel lowered his sword but didn’t sheathe it. He held it casually, yet Bricar’s outstretched hand stayed frozen, the command to fire still hovering in the air.

Looking down at the blade, his voice tinged with regret, Duvel spoke.

“Do you know what I’ve come to realize?”

“That Emilia would never commit treason.”

“Are you implying the saint lied?”

Bricar’s voice rose in panic, but Duvel’s serene smile remained unshaken, as if he had let go of everything.

“The prophecy doesn’t matter. I’ve learned that true humanity lies not in blind faith in absolute prophecy but in finding conviction through doubt and struggle.”

“Blasphemy! Are you questioning the divine will?”

“Call it blasphemy if you like. But I know Emilia is no traitor.”

A flood of memories washed over him, of the mistakes made that fateful day when he pointed his blade at Emilia.

Had he spoken that single truth aloud—Emilia is no traitor—none of this might have happened.

Yet he had followed the tide of the times, justifying his actions as a knight’s duty.

Now he finally understood: a truly human life is one lived for one’s convictions.

At that moment, from behind the throne, Saint Yuria appeared, running barefoot in desperation.

She stopped beside the throne, clasping her hands over her mouth, eyes wide with shock as she stared at Duvel.

Her pale gray eyes trembled, much like that day in the royal court.

Duvel met her gaze.

Had she foreseen this calamity?

Or had she turned a blind eye despite knowing?

Or perhaps, she could no longer see the future at all?

He felt no bitterness, only clarity, as he understood the meaning behind her tears.

Instead of resentment, he smiled gently at her, a smile reminiscent of a wanderer forsaking worldly ties.

But to Bricar, that serene smile only deepened his terror.

“P-please, Duvel! This path leads to nothing but ruin for both of us! Do you wish to die that badly?”

Duvel showed no intent to attack; he held his sword with ease, yet Bricar trembled in fear.

That tranquil smile seemed to carry no mercy, no hope for reconciliation, only a longing for retribution.

Clenching the hilt tightly, Duvel erased the smile from his face, his eyes blazing red with fiery resolve as he locked his gaze on Bricar.

The end was near, the burning embers in his crimson eyes seemed to say.

“I no longer fear death, Bricar.”

“W-what? Stop this madness, Duvel! Are you truly breaking your oath? Betraying King Hyurion?”

“I know that only hell awaits me now.”

Bricar felt his legs give way as Duvel’s ominous words filled the air with a lethal pressure.

For years, Bricar had relied on Duvel, bound by his oath to King Hyurion, as an unyielding shield.

Duvel had carried out even the dirtiest and most brutal tasks without complaint, all to uphold his vow.

This indestructible shield, stronger than mithril, had seemed unbreakable—until now.

Only now did Bricar understand: the shield hadn’t shattered; Duvel had simply chosen not to wield it.

Hyurion’s sacred vow no longer chained Duvel.

Finally, Bricar realized the truth.

“And at the end of that hellish path lies nothing but eternal regret.”

-Swoosh!

In an instant, Duvel’s sword vanished from sight, and Bricar screamed as a chilling sensation of flesh being sliced overtook him.

His left field of vision blinked red.

“Aagh!”

The greedy left eye was gouged out.

The fawning left ear was severed.

The gold-hoarding left arm was sliced off.

Blood poured from his eye, ear, and arm as Duvel stood over him, delivering his final words.

“In fear of losing your life, bow your head and remember: I’m taking half of you as my companion on the road to hell.”

-Thud!

With a swift kick to Bricar’s abdomen, Duvel sent him crashing down the steps of the throne.

The king now lay crumpled before his own throne.

At the same time, the sound of bows and crossbows being drawn filled the air, darkening the royal court.

Hundreds of arrows and dozens of crossbow bolts were loosed upon Duvel.

-Thud!

Blood-stained vision.

A throat choking on blood.

A body pouring out crimson life.

With a heavy thud, Duvel fell to his knees on the royal court floor.

Though his body, hardened by relentless training, had endured the arrows, the bolts from the crossbows pierced his iron armor, running through his upper and lower abdomen.

He could have stopped them.

His sharp eyes, capable of tracking a hummingbird’s wings, had seen their trajectory clearly.

But he didn’t stop them.

Kneeling now, like Emilia had that fateful day in the royal court, Duvel gazed upon the high priest, who was healing Bricar’s battered body.

Yes, Bricar must live.

It wasn’t Duvel’s place to claim his life.

The mere shattered remains of his filthy body would suffice as a token for the journey to hell.

Let these scars remind him that his life is not eternal, Duvel thought, as he released his sword.

It was the best decision he could make as a knight sworn to King Hyurion.

“Cough…”

With one cough, his life was halved.

His vision blurred, his ears slowly muted, as if submerged underwater.

Death was near.

Strangely, it didn’t frighten him.

There was no regret.

On the contrary, he felt relief.

Through his dimming sight, he saw the saint Yuria weeping in red.

“…Saint…”

Why was she crying?

If this was fate, it was simply the course of events.

Even if it wasn’t, it was just the inevitable end of this so-called “destiny.”

Why then, did her tears fall so sorrowfully?

“Cough…”

He could no longer hold his head up.

His grip faltered.

“Sigh…”

With a final breath, Duvel managed a crimson-tinged smile.

This was the end of a knight precariously balancing between oath and conviction.

The pitiful conclusion of a knight who drifted aimlessly, unable to choose a single path.

Killing the lord he had once served brought death, as it should.

But more devastating than death was the act of betraying his lord, rendering his life of service a waste.

Yet it was something that had to be done.

No regrets, only the hope that this might serve as the starting point for Emilia to reclaim her smile.

He wished for her to overcome fate alongside Duke Roselle, who stood firm in his convictions.

He hoped Bricar would forever bend his knees before her, never daring to stand upright again.

“Emilia… I’m sorry…”

With this heartfelt apology spilling from his lips, Duvel collapsed, blood pooling onto the cold stone floor of the royal court.

Pierced by countless arrows.

Burdened by countless sins.

Haunted by countless regrets from that fateful day.

He closed his eyes.

In this place where the times had devoured conviction.

Like his fallen disciple,

Master Duvel now lay in eternal rest.

Drip… drip…

From Duvel’s closed eyes, blood trickled.

From the saint’s open eyes, tears fell.

Their warmth softened the cold stone of the royal court.

Thus ended Duvel, the knight who had wandered between oath and conviction.

At the end of his journey.

With his vow to King Hyurion and his convictions both intact.

A knight bearing a tarnished, half-faded honor.