Chapter 354
Chapter 354
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 16
Chapter Title: The Saint and the Completer (10)
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After the commotion in the king's sanctuary, which resembled a basement, the group headed to the balcony. A spot high in the castle where the city's panorama was laid bare.
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Clatter clatter!
"Medical supplies! Where did you unload the medical supplies!"
"Building materials first, before medical supplies! Part of the northeast wall is completely collapsed! If we don't at least put up a stockade—"
Neigh! Snort!
"That was a horse's whinny just now! If there are horses in the supplies, bring them out immediately! The knight order will take custody!"
"We came from the armory! We don't know what's short yet—supply list!"
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Even from a fair distance away, the saint wore a satisfied expression at the clamor filtering over the railing into the castle, gesturing to the king hiding in the shadows.
"Come out and get some fresh air, at least?"
"N-No, that's fine. I-I'm good right here...."
"...If Your Highness insists. Then, please step back a little."
"W-What are you...?"
Crunch! Cruuunch!
The king alternated glances between Charlotte, who was glaring at them from afar with her ears covered, and the saint, then recoiled in horror at his fingers burrowing into the castle wall like it was nothing.
"Oh, come on. You said that spot was good, so I'm just making sure you can see from there."
"B-But that's where Lordric's storied history is etched—"
"Hmm!"
Rumble rumble craaaack! Cruuunch! Rattle—
...Thud.
"—the castle wall, filled with... history...."
"Well, there are plenty of walls, aren't there? It's nice to have one wide open like this. Perfect southern exposure too—on a good day, we could even have tea time here."
The young king, Siode IV, was stunned by the oblivious saint who had demolished the magically fortified castle wall with his bare hands right before his eyes. He hurriedly pulled the torn curtain over his head at the sudden open view.
Tremble, tremble tremble!
The morning sun was too bright for him to see properly, but the lingering afterimage at the corner of his eyes was enough to set him shaking.
The moment he glimpsed the sight—like red paint splashed over and trampled upon the beautiful, honorable Kingsland of his memories—the speck of courage he'd barely mustered vanished like dust. His body trembled uncontrollably, to the point he could barely stand. How shameful, how pathetic, how humiliating for a king.
Siode IV swallowed his tears, imagining the saint gazing down at him with the ruined city at his back.
'Y-Yes, the saint means to humiliate me. Or perhaps he lured me here alone to assassinate this kingdom's last king! T-That's why he separated me from Charlotte and requested a private audience!'
Why had he trusted that man's words? Because he'd retracted the force that shook the entire castle, claiming it was the king's command? Or because the bait the saint dangled was too sweet?
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'P-Private audience? Y-You and I, you mean?'
'Your Highness, I requested privacy for the royal family's honor, to discuss state affairs without outsiders. It won't take long—just what I have to say to you, and I swear, never again! I won't trouble Your Highness further!'
'...Can you swear it?'
'On the name of the Saint of Light! No, on the revered and great Ro Haram! I promise! Then Your Highness can return to your peaceful, cozy sanctuary!'
'A-Alright! Discussing state secrets requires confidentiality.... I-I can accept that!'
'...Your Highness. At least keep just me—'
'Ah, I can't speak with Charlotte listening. It's a most important matter.'
'M-Milady, stay far enough that you're in my sight, but cover your ears. I, as king, will handle this well....'
'...As you command.'
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He must have lost his mind. He'd fallen for the saint's flowery words and kind expression, issuing an absurd order! When someone like that demanded a private audience with the king, refusal was the obvious course!
'Foolish. I am so foolish!'
In the end, the saint had gotten exactly the setup he wanted. Lordric's king cowered under a dusty curtain, trembling like a fawn, exposed in broad daylight for the saint to look down upon. What now? Would those hands that crushed rock like pudding seize his head and smash it? Crush it until brains leaked from his nose, then heal him with holy power and repeat the torment? Threaten to use the hollow title of king for the sake of the Light?
Should he scream for mercy now?
Though his ears were covered, the king recalled his knight staring wide-eyed this way, and the confrontation between the saint and Charlotte in the sanctuary just minutes ago. The saint, famed for triumphant reports wherever he went. The loyal knight Charlotte, whom he'd known since childhood. And the blatant show of force unfolding before his eyes.
Erwin clamped his mouth shut and bowed his head instead of screaming amid the encroaching terror.
Rustle, plop.
Thud thud—
With his vision obscured, his ears conveyed the terror. Heavy footsteps crushed the debris of the broken wall, traversing the once-honorable corridor toward him.
"...Are you afraid of blood? Or of situations where blood flows?"
"...Guh, sniff."
"Aren't you the king? You can't stand on the battlefield with them, but surely you can at least look upon the land they've bled to defend?"
"It must be frightening. Heartbreaking, suffocating! Who wouldn't know that! I understaaand completely! Yes, I do! But you still have to get up and push through, don't you! You're the king! The people out there aren't looking at the sky—they're looking at your castle where you stand!"
Contrary to expectations, only the saint's earnest voice, stripped of levity, settled over his head. Yet those words cut into the king's chest like knives, a rebuke disguised as a plea, devoid of any tact.
Grip!
Words he'd soothed his rampaging mother for hours, then mulled over alone in the quiet corner of the sanctuary in exhaustion. Words like, I can't stay hidden like this—as a member of the Lordric royal line. Those very thoughts poured from the saint's mouth verbatim.
"W-What can a wretch like me even do...."
Rage surged!
Unlike his imaginings, hearing them spoken aloud by another made them far sharper and more painful. Like a needle prick, the emotions buried deep in his chest bulged out unbidden.
"...Your Highness."
"Y-You're right. I-I'm incompetent. Unlike Father, who embodied the Knight King more than anyone, or my brave brothers born to inherit that name, I'm weak, cowardly, just a child who can't even properly hold a sword."
"..."
"B-But.... I never ordered them to shed blood for me! All I did was believe the nursemaid's words that nothing would happen and fall asleep!"
His voice cracked shrilly from sobbing. He knew it was a pathetic excuse, knew nothing would change by saying it, but words of advice from someone who'd never faced his plight were enough to drive out the turmoil swirling inside him.
"Like the dawn, Father's death notice arrived! Before I could recover from the shock, my eldest brother followed, and my youngest died right before my eyes! Even from afar, I could tell it was him by the ancestral royal armor! His head severed, body tumbling down the wall, never to be found!"
"The tragedy of the Lordric royal family is truly—"
"I never even got to say goodbye! I still can't comprehend it all—it's like a nightmare I'll wake from sweating any moment! And now the throne walks to me on its own, with only my wailing mother left, as if I'm next!"
"Your Highness!"
What right do you have to impose a king's duties on me? My brother entrusted our screaming mother to you as he begged him not to go; my other brother soared the walls like a legendary hero, only for his head to fall, body plummet, skull rolling like fruit atop the ramparts—and those scenes are still so vivid! And you, with your mere saintly title, dare claim to understand and insist I fulfill my duty anyway! How dare you! How dare you!
"I never once wanted to be king! What could a nobody like me rule, or command? Me! Who can't even lift a sword! I don't want them dying for a king of a fallen nation like me, but I've already become their king! Useless me, as their hope 'Siode IV'! I'm so terrified of the admiring gazes calling me king that I hole up in this castle unable to lift my head! How can I... be king to them.... to those more honorable than anyone...."
Gasp, gasp, gasp....
Like a fairy-tale protagonist spilling secrets in a well, the king huddled under the thick curtain, convulsing as he vomited forth the truths he'd lost everyone to hear.
'...It's over.'
His blurted truths felt like vomit. So weak, so unseemly. If he could, he'd scoop them back up.
If these honorable ones who swore to protect him to the end learned he was this pathetic, if they heard from his own mouth that he'd never wanted to be king—what faces would they make?
'Good thing we did this privately. Charlotte's still covering her ears; she heard nothing.'
Charlotte, who'd known him since childhood. Imagining her face twist in contempt made him wish he'd never existed. At least then, the Lordric royals would be remembered as honorable to the end.
"Huuuuh."
A deep, low sigh. Disappointment, surely. Whatever the saint had meant to say no longer mattered. Shame burned, but he couldn't stop the tears. Self-loathing tears shamed him further, flowing anew.
"Your Highness."
"...Ugh, guh! Hic...."
"...Hey. Erwin."
"...Sniff?!"
"No one's listening but us, so talk casually, bro?"
Riiip!
And then, the thick curtain Erwin desperately clung to tore like paper, exposing his tear- and snot-streaked face.
"Ugh, seriously, this personality clash is killing me. What a pain, this gig. Hey, you okay? Too much stimulus?"
"Hic, uh.... Huh?"
"Whoa, first let's wipe that face. You wrecked everything behind you—if they see this mug, the already tanked morale will burrow into the ground."
Pat pat pat pat!
"Uh? Huh?? Uuuh, uh????"
The young king, dazed by the sudden shift and the curtain rubbing his face, finally opened his eyes.
Through the shredded curtain, the saint's large face loomed, scrunched up like he'd chugged vinegar.
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'Ugh, seriously, can't deal with this crap.'
Living in the wasteland, 90% of folks you meet have their hearts locked up tight for their own reasons. Even our District 47 chat room's all buddy-buddy now, but back in the early days, any convo started with 'What, you tryna dox my coords and rob me?'
Rubbing shoulders with types like that teaches you things naturally. Like how to handle these pre-personality-collapse loners stewing in their shells.
'Just make 'em spill it all first.'
These guys usually have their crap situations and backstories tangled so bad, no amount of coaxing pries them open—they clam up like oysters.
But as my dear Metaljaw says: way easier to just blow up the bomb than defuse it.
'Scratch the insides a bit, and they spill like they've been waiting forever.'
They're already on the verge of exploding solo, so toss a spark into that oil drum of guts and make 'em erupt.
Once that long-winded 'Fuck, what do you know—' personal history repertoire wraps up? They're fully incinerated head to toe, slumped like a deflated balloon. That's when you start counseling or filling the empty tank.
What happened to our Your Highness Erwin just now? All part of that process.
'Bex'll skin me alive if he sees this.'
Effective, but brutal. Only wasteland vets with worn-down brains and consciences pull this off. A sane psychiatrist wouldn't make an eleven-year-old rip open his own scars. Eleven—fourth grade. Total kid.
But beyond clearing the game, this was something Professor Park, human edition, had to do.
"Erwin. Know what this is?"
"I-Impert...inent...."
"Impertinent's for when you've got dignity left. You were rolling on the floor snotting ten seconds ago—save it."
"T-That was—"
"...Dude, opportunities to hear casual talk like this your whole life? Rare."
"Uh, huh?"
"To the people, you're the national father. To nobles, the highest rank. To knights, their lord. To other kings, an equal—so everyone treats you with deference as deserved. Means almost no one left in the world who can talk casual to you."
"S-So.... I've lost... almost everyone I could relax with...."
"Exactly—so soak it up. Per our deal, after this chat, I won't bug you again."
That's why I pushed so hard—had to tell him.
Erwin's dazed, shocked face felt familiar. What swirled in that soft head? Scary? Kingsland? King? Something like that?
"...Why me?"
"Why'd this happen. Why'd Father go on that unreasonable op, brothers walk into that death pit. Why die. Why. Why. Why? Right? You've thought it? No, still are? Since losing them?"
"Y-Yeah...."
"Wanna hear it? A word from this saint, agent of god, with full credibility?"
Erwin, head turning to deny, froze and slowly nodded. Yeah. How couldn't you? Wake up, world's flipped.
Why. Why the fuck did my family die so pointlessly, so meaninglessly.
Ahem. Big talk, so catch my breath.
"Per the saint-professor's conclusion—from personal research, years of self-torment bordering on self-harm—"
...Gulp.
"It just kinda happened that way."
.
.
.
.
.
.
"...What?"
"No big reason. They just up and died like that."
The young king, braced for some grand revelation, froze in an indescribable expression at the saint's chuckling, joke-like answer.
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