Chapter 181
Chapter 181
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 181
Chapter Title: 56. Montpellier! Oh, Montpellier! (2)
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When he first heard the Queen's plan, Montpellier thought it was quite plausible.
Bound and dragged like a dog into the square, where the newly appointed Prime Minister of the royal palace would announce his public execution, listing his crimes and denouncing the Emperor's villainy—he was even impressed.
With things escalated to such grandeur, they couldn't possibly ignore it. Out of concern for the Empire's prestige and the Emperor's dignity, they had no choice but to rescue him.
Tied to the pillar in the square, enduring a full day without even a sip of water, he didn't waver.
Everything was going according to the Queen's plan, so he saw his suffering and humiliation as part of it.
"Filthy dog of the Empire!"
"You strutted around like a king, and now look at you!"
"Ptoo!"
But it was unbearable humiliation—even for a grand cause—when lowly scum he wouldn't have deigned to glance at spat curses, hocking phlegm right in his face.
"How dare you..."
"This pig-headed fool still hasn't come to his senses!"
Unable to hold back his rage, he glared, only for some woman to appear out of nowhere and douse him with a bucket of filth.
The stench hit like a punch, leaving Montpellier dazed.
"Look at him, totally lost his mind!"
"Serves him right!"
He heard the rabble cackling, but he couldn't even shout back. With sewage trickling into his mouth past his lips, he couldn't even close it.
He just sat there, blank as a madman.
It didn't feel real.
The jeering crowd hurling insults and pointing fingers, the smirks on the faces of the royal soldiers and knights who were supposed to guard the prisoner, his own wretched, filth-soaked appearance—none of it felt like reality.
A night wind blew. Unlike the breezes from the Empire, this was a biting gale that cut to the bone.
The chill burrowing into his sewage-drenched body was all too real, unlike his state of mind.
The freezing pain snapping at his skin like tearing flesh jolted him awake.
"H-hey... At this rate, I'll freeze to death. At least some dry clothes... If not, light a fire, please."
He finally begged pathetically, after holding out as long as he could.
The soldiers and knights didn't even pretend to listen.
They mocked his denseness for still not grasping his predicament.
Their faces said they truly wouldn't care if he froze solid right there.
The soldiers might not know, but the knights should have been in on the Queen's plan—yet they showed no sign of it.
Still, up to that point, he believed they were just keeping the secret, hiding the truth.
He even fantasized about their faces when they learned he'd volunteered for this ordeal out of noble sacrifice.
Turning his eyes from the cold, harsh reality, Montpellier waited for dawn in his delusions.
The night deepened.
The crowds that had swarmed like flies had dispersed, leaving only soldiers and knights.
As he shivered, teeth chattering, a figure cloaked tightly in a mantle approached.
"You deserve to be beaten to death! Ground up and chewed to pulp!"
Unlike the ignorant mob's curses, this was laced with raw, seething grudge. Montpellier's eyes flew wide.
"Ptoo!"
The man spat and bolted away.
Something about that fleeing face in the dark seemed familiar.
No, couldn't be the Grand Marshal.
He shook his head. The Grand Marshal would be busy rallying knights and officers to plan a strike on the kingdom's knights—no way he'd sneak out alone at night. Must be his blurry eyes playing tricks.
Another figure appeared.
"The kingdom's dignitaries who wept because of you number like the seas. May your eyes weep blood in turn. I pray that tomorrow's dawn finds you dying in agony."
A low voice spat the curse, and a glimpse of the man's sharp, elegant jawline beneath the mantle was strikingly handsome.
That beauty and the pleasant, ear-tickling timbre reminded Montpellier of someone he knew well.
"Could it be Kirgu..."
Slap!
Before he could finish, stars exploded before his eyes.
"I'm not Siorin Kirguyen!"
The man barked furiously, slapping him several more times.
If you're not, then don't hit me, he wanted to protest—but he couldn't. Montpellier just watched the man flee.
Similar scenes repeated several times.
The nighttime assailants all wore mantles pulled low like it was planned, startling and striking if he tried to see their faces.
By the time dawn broke, after repeated slaps and kicks, the city's citizens swarmed like bees to watch the execution. Nobles from the capital lounged on nearby terraces overlooking the square.
Shame washed over him late.
But he endured.
This ordeal was the only way to atone for the sins he couldn't shake even after defecting to the kingdom. If it went well, his merits might outweigh his crimes, earning reward.
Amid the crowd's abuse, he dreamed of a bright future.
At least until then.
"Before the execution, administer one hundred lashes so the sinner may reflect on the harm inflicted upon the kingdom!"
Even when the Queen herself appeared and ordered unanticipated flogging, he figured it was just to heighten the drama.
They'd go easy, pretend. His role was to act the pain convincingly.
So he thought.
But not for long.
Thwack.
A dull thud of pain flashed his vision white.
"One!"
Only after the executioner's delayed shout did he realize it was real—no mercy.
"Agh!"
His scream came late.
Thwack!
"Two!"
He couldn't curl up, bound tight—could only take the blows.
"...Ten!"
Merciless lashes tore flesh. Each rip cracked his belief that this was all staged.
"Twelve!"
Are they really going to execute me like this?
"Thirteen!"
Not planning to take out me and the Empire's knights at once?
"Thirty-five!"
In the brutal, unrelenting beating, he lost faith in the Queen's promise.
And regretted it bitterly.
What had he been thinking, volunteering for this? To them, he was an enemy they'd gladly grind to dust.
He was stunned at his own naivety, believing they'd accept him as a noble if they just dealt with the Empire's knights.
His head must've been addled. With his lands burned and status lost, desperation had narrowed his vision.
Otherwise, he'd never entrust his life to those who saw him as mortal foe.
"Nobles of the kingdom, here's your chance to vent your grudges."
The Queen's clear voice made the executioner step back.
The kingdom's nobles stepped forward eagerly, taking the whip.
"Because of you, my house endured such torment!"
"Vile serpent! Your slippery tongue forced me to live a lifetime of ridicule!"
Their grudges burned hot, but these nobles, who'd never lifted a finger, flogged like a tickle compared to the executioner.
Montpellier's hopes revived.
They'd started merciless out of necessity, but now they'd ease up, pretend.
He endured about thirty more that way.
Then Grand Marshal Billefeld stepped up.
The ancient demanded his staff over the executioner's whip.
Obvious from a geezer that old—he inwardly cheered for a few more free passes.
The marquis shed his overcoat. What emerged was no old man's frame.
Sinews bulged from sleeves, veins popping over carved muscle.
"W-wait..."
Thwack!
No tirade of grudge—the marquis just swung.
That one blow showed Montpellier the Grand Marshal hadn't risen on age and loyalty alone.
Likely skilled in swordsmanship too—one lash left him dazed.
Thwack! Crack! Thwack!
Three silent strikes, then the marquis donned his coat and turned away.
"I share your pain—the royal family's suffering from that wretch is beyond measure. Don't think ill of your Queen for wielding the lash herself."
The Queen spoke and descended, taking the whip personally.
"Because of you, His Majesty wept blood countless nights! You smeared the royal heir with false charges, forcing him through years of shame! Your scheming sapped my brother's vitality, sending him to a needless grave! Even chewing your flesh and drinking your blood wouldn't sate me!"
Her grief-fueled shouts matched the ferocity of her lashes.
"Your crimes are beyond counting! How dare you hope to live? Even in death, no peace for you!"
It hurt—too much. Worse than executioner or Grand Marshal.
Pain so bad, no scream came.
But fear dwarfed the agony.
The Queen's eyes were ice-cold. Staring into that glacial gaze blanked his mind white.
Empire knights? Promises? Forgotten.
He just whimpered like a beast, trembling.
Then blacked out.
When he came to, the Queen loomed from the platform. Flogging ended while unconscious—the executioner now gripped a gleaming axe.
"Carry out the sentence!"
Montpellier tried to beg for life, for the promise—but his body wouldn't obey, strength gone.
"Sp-spare me..."
"What?"
His lips barely moved; even the executioner couldn't hear.
"Behead the sinner, Cliang de Bourgogne Montpellier!"
At the Queen's death sentence, the executioner spat on his palms, reset his grip, and raised the axe blade-up high.
"Ah..."
Montpellier, you fool—dying like a mangy dog.
Swoosh.
Hearing the whistle, he squeezed his eyes shut instinctively.
But no pain came.
He cracked his eyes open.
The executioner, axe poised to strike, stood back, arrow embedded in his arm.
"We've come to save you."
A soft voice whispered in his ear.
"Ah..."
Montpellier rejoiced.
Pure Empire tongue—not the kingdomers' clumsy imitation, but authentic Burgundian.
"Sorry for doubting you. Until moments ago, we wondered if you'd truly been swayed by the kingdom."
Ropes loosened. Freed from the pillar, he crumpled.
Before hitting the dirt disgracefully, he glimpsed his savior's face.
The knight he'd passed in the capital's streets yesterday.
The knight supported him. Clashing swords rang between Empire knights and the capital's guards.
"Rest now. You'll wake on Empire soil."
The din faded.
Thus, Montpellier lost consciousness.