#40. The End of the One Dyed in Crimson Petrifaction (1)
The third day dawned, and the final banquet commenced. An extension of the morning and afternoon state council meetings, this gathering allowed the nobles preparing to return to their territories to exchange farewells and plot their futures. No noblewomen or retainers were present; they enjoyed a modest feast in a separate hall. Only the heads of noble houses filled the vast banquet chamber on the first floor of the annex, savoring the evening in a far more subdued atmosphere than the first two days.
At one such table, the Grand Duke of Rusillan sat alone, savoring her wine. Behind her stood a single knight, his cheeks marked with two red lines of paint signaling his northern origins. It was to her that Rosel approached.
"Grand Duke of Rusillan, may I sit?"
"As you please."
The veteran on the cusp of retirement gazed indifferently at the revelries of the younger nobles, showing no interest. Her eyes on Rosel held the same apathy. She had attended only because it was the birthday party of the daughter of the kingdom's most influential duke—Brikal's closest ally. No real enthusiasm stirred within her. She yearned only to return to her own lands. Barren though they were, they offered a warmer sanctuary than these intrigue-ridden environs near the capital.
Of course, the humiliation of being exiled to the north still burned in her chest like a deep grudge. But what could an old warrior do now? She had no choice but to yield to the times.
Suddenly recalling that day's shame, Rusillan reached for the wine bottle, but Rosel courteously took it first.
"May I pour you a glass?"
"Fill it to the brim."
Glug, glug, glug. Rosel poured her wine, then his own, and took a sip. On this final night of the banquet, he could finally enjoy it. No more icy winds would blow toward Isel.
"What business brings you here, Duke Rosel?"
Yet Rusillan's seasoned demeanor brooked no prolonged frivolity. Rosel, equally uninterested in lingering pleasantries, cut straight to the point.
"Might I see you in my office tomorrow morning?"
"...I'll depart at first light."
"Then, before you leave—I'll be waiting."
Rusillan furrowed her wrinkled brow, annoyance evident.
"What could you possibly want from this old woman?"
"I have something to discuss."
"Why not here?"
"...It's about Brikal."
"...!"
Rusillan's drooping eyelids snapped wide, her gaze piercing Rosel. Had age finally dulled her ears? She could scarcely believe he'd named the king so casually—a familiarity no one dared.
"Wh-what did you just say?"
"You heard me. Before dawn tomorrow, in my office?"
"...."
Rusillan masked her surprise, her eyes drifting indifferently back to the hall. But her heart raced for the first time in ages. Something intriguing seemed poised to distract her from retirement.
Among the pro-king nobles, Rosel had always struck her as different. Time's wisdom detected an odd dissonance in him—one utterly unlike Brikal. Still, she wouldn't lower her guard on instinct alone. She'd seen enough vile noble intrigues. And Rosel, she sensed, hid his true intentions better than most.
To converse with one who conceals, one must conceal in turn. Rusillan sipped her wine thoughtfully, then set down her glass.
"...Sounds important. I'll visit this afternoon—somewhere quiet. It had better not be a waste of time."
Rosel smiled faintly, exuding confidence that it wouldn't be. With futures plotted, he raised his glass in a light bow to the grand duke and departed. Thus, on the banquet's final night, nobles schemed their future plans: social connections, alliances, patronage recommendations, even betrothals. Amid them all, only Rosel plotted revolution.
"Then, please enjoy the final banquet."
Thus, the last night of the feast deepened.
And like the ripening night, Brikal grew thoroughly drunk.
"Where the hell has that bastard Sregon gone?"
He asked his aide, who shook his head in ignorance. The half-orc had vanished like a ghost after the first night, unfindable despite searches of the entire estate. But Brikal dismissed it with a shrug. To him, Sregon was that expendable.
"Eh, probably passed out somewhere. Hey! I'm wagering a title promotion on a game—who'll join?!"
A "title promotion" as game stakes? To power-hungry nobles, it was a festival. Hands shot up sans decorum, turning the hall into a marketplace.
"Hahaha! Good, good! You—Baron Belon! You're first!"
"Y-Yes, an honor, Your Majesty!"
A title bump meant expanded lands and lifted military caps—irresistible to expansionists. Baron Belon grinned sleazily, scurrying to bow before Brikal. But his smirk froze.
"Simple game: arm-wrestle Sir Dubel and win."
"...P-pardon?"
Arm-wrestling the king's guard captain—not just any knight, but Dubel, ascended to nirvana through pure physical awakening. Victory by strength was impossible. Belon's face crumpled.
"Uhahaha!"
"Poor Belon! Haha!"
Laughter and finger-pointing engulfed him. The sacrificial lamb, boiling the revelry higher.
"...Your Majesty, games must be fair."
Dubel spoke from behind the laughing Brikal, his face already grim. The drunken king ignored it.
"What's it matter? Fun's the point, right?! Hahaha!"
Dubel's fists trembled. No sliver of redemption in this depraved era. He sighed repeatedly at the king's frivolous wagers and the baron's eager leap into them.
"Hurry up! Dubel!"
Urged by Brikal, Dubel rolled up his sleeve and approached the table, temples throbbing with swallowed rage. Not yet time. He knew his past tailing Brikal as a lackey had fueled this rot. Guarding his lord bore responsibility in this tainted age.
He'd thought himself clean, merely patrolling the crimson petrifaction pool's edge. Now he saw he'd been steeped in it. Realizing this, yielding further would only deepen his guilt. Suppressing resentment, he sat. Waiting for the moment.
Atonement on auction demanded patience for full value—and that value would go to Emilia. Late, but now, for her, it must fetch its worth.
"E-easy now, Sir Dubel."
As hands clasped, Belon whispered. But Dubel gripped crushingly; the baron writhed like squid over flame.
"Grrgh..!"
"Hey, Dubel—go easy."
Brikal ordered a mock loss amid Belon's wriggling, but Dubel ignored him, eyes blazing. He vowed never to yield to anyone but Duke Rosel.
"Go!"
The self-appointed referee aide signaled—and crash!!
Belon's hand splintered the table, slamming down. The recoil spun him airborne into the floor.
Thud!
"Gahhk!!"
It happened in a blink. Table shards flew; dust clouded the hall.
"...."
"...."
A chill silence fell, pierced only by an owl's hoot outside.
Clap, clap. Dubel dusted his hands contemptuously over the sprawled baron. In him, he saw his own pathetic, cowardly, groveling past self. Crushing Belon crushed that self.
Dubel eyed Brikal. His sunken gaze chilled; even without mana, red aura seemed to rise from his back.
"Du-Dubel... wins!"
Only the oblivious aide's victory cry prevented disaster.
Clap... clap clap... clap clap clap.
Nobles exchanged glances, applauding hesitantly to thaw the ice, hoping Dubel's usual apologetic smile would follow. His presence dominated utterly.
"...Enough now, Your Majesty. Titles go to those of merit and repute by law. Does a mere game supersede the law?"
But Dubel pressed, overstepping with rebuke. The guard captain, bound to absolute obedience—even leaping into fire on command—had strayed. Saintess, regent, treasurer, grand sage—all failed where his voice pierced the king's enlightenment.
Applause died. The air froze solid.
'Sir Dubel.'
Rosel lurked amid the crowd, nursing wine while observing. Dubel's uncharacteristic shift sharpened his gaze. Transformed, beyond expectation—even from one vowing atonement to Isel.
'What are you thinking, Sir Dubel...?'
Tension peaked. Brikal stared shocked; Dubel glared fiercely. Guards eyed him warily, hands near hilts—knowing all combined couldn't match him.
Yet Brikal recovered, unpanicked. He knew Dubel's life-oath to his father Huerion.
"Ha, haha..! Our Sir Dubel overdid the jest. Think I'd truly offer a title as prize? Just a game! Hahaha!"
Playing magnanimous, Brikal boomed laughter, tossing a quip. Nobles joined, melting the frost.
"Ha, ha. Overflowing strength lately, eh, Sir Dubel?"
"The empire's knights couldn't touch him."
Dubel swept the sycophants, then bowed—toward Rosel at the crowd's rear. He regretted his emotional lapse before the duke he revered.
"My apologies. Caught up in the game with noble lords, I erred in excitement. Forgive my overzealousness."
Their eyes met; Rosel's nod sufficed.
Dubel turned, bowing to Brikal. No rash acts to botch atonement—not time to bare fangs.
"Forgive me, Your Majesty. The banquet's fervor led me astray. I overstepped with unsolicited counsel and beg pardon. Accept any reprimand."
"Ha, ha. I'm no petty small-minded fool. I'll heed your advice."
"...Grateful for your magnanimity. May I step out for air?"
"Of course—go on. You can't hold your liquor anyway. Drunk on the fumes, eh? Get some fresh air."
"Thank you, Your Majesty."
Dubel bowed deeply and exited. Silence returned.
Rosel broke it aptly, rising and weaving through the crowd.
"Tonight, no noblewomen watching—time to indulge freely, no? Gellion, bring in the dancers."
"Yes, my lord."
Gellion snapped fingers at Demian by the west door. Demian opened it; the territory's finest beauties entered in sheer masks and alluring attire, lined gracefully.
Rosel's ace, prepared hoping the final night passed smoothly. Brikal was mad for women, after all. Perfectly timed.
"Last night. Modest spread, but enjoy to your hearts' content."
At his word, nobles delighted in the feast, forgetting the incident to revel.
But Brikal couldn't. That fleeting, razor-sharp aura from Dubel had chilled him to the bone. First time since kingship he couldn't enjoy.
What saintess, regent, treasurer, sage failed—Dubel's voice achieved. Though drowning humiliation in drink, he soon devolved into lecherous grins amid dancers.
From the window, Dubel watched with fierce eyes, then closed them and turned away. A sigh of sorrow and regret rose to the night sky.
The chance was gone.