The Final Moments of the One Dyed in Crimson Petrifactive Substance (2)
“D-Dubel!” Gellion burst out of the banquet hall, where the nobles were lost in revelry with the dancers, and hurried toward Dubel with an urgent warning. Dubel stood before the garden pond. He had been staring blankly at the koi drifting through the water and the frogs croaking atop the lotus leaves when he turned at Gellion’s call.
“Ah, Gellion.”
“Huff, huff, D-Dubel... huff.”
“What has you rushing like this? Catch your breath first.”
The old man’s frail lungs gasped for air. Gellion braced one hand on Dubel’s shoulder and the other on his knee, bending forward as he panted heavily.
“Haa... that’s better. Good grief, soon even a simple alert will leave me breathless, heh heh.”
“....”
Gellion let out a hearty laugh, but knowing why he had come running so desperately, Dubel turned his gaze back to the pond. A frog leaped into the water, and the ripples reflecting the moonlight made Dubel’s face shimmer precariously.
“Do you know about this, Gellion?”
“Know what?”
Having caught his breath, Gellion peered down at the pond alongside him. A frog blinked on a lotus leaf, croaking away.
“If you put that frog in an iron pot, pour in water, and slowly bring it to a boil, it stays put without realizing its flesh is cooking until it dies. What a dull, ignorant end.”
“...A pitiful fate, indeed.”
“Humans are animals that adapt to their environment. Aren’t we just like frogs, blindly conforming to gradual changes until we die like fools?”
“A profound tale that suits this quiet night.”
Dubel’s gaze on the frog sank with a touch of melancholy. He felt a strange kinship with the creature, mirroring his own plight. Now, with eyes finally opened to the truth, he could see the crimson petrifactive pond boiling furiously. And he realized his own flesh was cooking within it.
Gellion watched such a Dubel.
“Had you not taken up the sword, Sir Dubel, you surely would have gained widespread fame as a man of letters.”
“...But the fact that I did take it up remains unchanged.”
Gellion sensed the bitterness seeping from every word and asked, “Do you... regret taking up the sword?”
At the word regret, Dubel’s pupils dilated slightly. Regret. Yes, this lingering remorse stemmed from regret. But he did not regret taking up the sword. He only regretted the deeds done with it. Days upon days of committing murder on the mere pretext of an oracle, slaying futures that had yet to unfold. That festering regret had finally burst open in Duke Rosel’s estate.
The boy of thirteen who had pledged his life to his lord. Rosel, who sacrificed his own body for that boy, choosing conviction over the era to save Emilia. And Emilia herself, who steadfastly saw him as her master.
The events of those three days in the duke’s estate had peeled away the rotten shell encasing his regret.
He had lost the valor of that day long ago, when he threw away his life to protect the Lady of Ronsha. Now, he regretted trampling that glory just to preserve his own skin.
Dubel touched the scar on his cheek, recalling that day’s honor as if reliving it. He had forgotten. The bravery etched into this scar. The self who had truly offered his life for his lord that day.
“....”
Gellion gazed warmly at Dubel, who seemed hesitant to speak, as if beholding a son, and gently stroked his back. Then, like a father asking his child, he spoke softly. “...Is something the matter? Dubel.”
Gellion’s sudden shift to informal address. It wasn’t the commanding question of a superior demanding an answer, but the gentle encouragement of an elder inviting confession. Dubel feigned surprise for a moment before smiling back at him.
It felt as if a father, who should have guided him through the world’s twists, had appeared for this faltering soul. He wanted to confess his wrongs, to ask where the path of light lay—but Dubel no longer chased the light.
How many times had he swung his blade against his convictions under the guise of oath to protect Brikal? Back then, it was merely the duty of a royal guard, a stroke justified by vow rather than murder. Though King Hurion had taught him to wield the treasured sword bequeathed to him as a force of life, he had failed to uphold it. He had deemed it acceptable for the sake of his oath.
And on the flimsy basis of an oracle, he had slain without question, staining his hands with blood. Now that crimson gore had seeped into his skin, carving into his very marrow—no scrubbing or washing could cleanse it.
Thus, Dubel smiled at Gellion, who stroked his back like a warm father. “...There is nothing anymore, Gellion.”
To him, who had realized the crimson petrifactive brew he had steeped himself in was his own blood, nothing remained that could be called a “matter.”
Clop, clop.
Dawn broke. The banquets had all concluded, and the nobles bid farewell to Brikal one by one, departing the estate. It had been a long, grueling feast—for Rosel, Emilia, and Dubel alike.
Wearing his pauldrons and plate armor, helm emblazoned with the royal crest tucked under his arm, Dubel mounted his horse and awaited Brikal’s emergence. An escort back to the palace. His expression was stern for the task.
Having seen off Lubran Count, Gellion approached him. Last night, an inexplicable remorse—or rather, resignation—had lingered in Dubel’s eyes. For some reason, Gellion found it hard to simply let him go.
“So, you’re off now. When shall we meet again, Sir Dubel?”
Dubel offered a gentle smile and bowed his head. “...I leave with much gained, Gellion.”
Gellion couldn’t pinpoint the meaning, but he read the man’s eyes. When Dubel had first set foot here, his gaze burned with unyielding resolve—the steadfast eyes of a royal guard devoted to his duty. But now, as he mounted, that resolve was gone. Like an ancient tree with deep roots weathering storms, now severed at the base, awaiting its fall.
“...We’ve given you nothing. How can you say you leave with much, Sir Dubel?”
“Haha, must one give to receive?”
“....”
Gellion scrutinized Dubel’s enigmatic smile and eyes intently. Even with the wisdom of years, he couldn’t discern if that gaze pointed to oath, conviction, or something else entirely. Deeply sunken, those crimson pupils burned like blood, smoldering. The final embers, perhaps?
“Gellion, before I go, may I presume to make one request?”
“...A request?”
“You needn’t heed it if you choose not to.”
“Speak it.”
Dubel glanced toward Emilia’s quarters. He wished for one last glance before leaving, but she wasn’t at the window. For her sake, it was best to lead Brikal away swiftly. Still, he had one plea for Gellion.
He hoped this girl, summoned here without kin or allies, would find a steadfast patron. Of course, what right did he have—the one who had held a blade to her throat—to make such a request? Even if branded hypocrisy, he wanted to leave this final plea.
“Please, look after Emilia well. Just as you offered solace to this faltering soul... for her as well.”
“...Emilia? The traitor?”
Gellion had yet to pass judgment on her crimes. He simply followed the will of the duke he respected above right or wrong. And knowing Dubel had been the one to bring her down, he couldn’t help but question.
Dubel spotted Brikal emerging from the annex and donned his iron helm. Gripping the reins, he turned his horse’s head. Time for a final farewell.
“...In this era that devours convictions, does guilt or innocence even matter anymore?”
With those words, Dubel spurred his horse to the procession’s vanguard.
Gellion, unable to plumb the depths of his heart, could only watch his receding figure. He murmured in bewilderment, “...In an era that devours convictions, guilt means nothing...?”
Even he, seasoned by long years, struggled to grasp it. An era devouring convictions—was that not a critique of the times? Knights lived on oaths and beliefs as sustenance. The era was the kingdom’s history; to critique it was to critique the kingdom itself.
Moments later, understanding dawned. Gellion’s beard quivered faintly as he stared after Dubel, already too far to call out to.
“D-Dubel... what do you intend?”
All the one left behind could do was pray for his safety and well-being. As in those old days, back-to-back defending Lady Ronsha, he wished honor and glory to accompany him.
Clop, clop.
The capital’s east gate came into view. Half a day from Duke Rosel’s vast territory—closer than expected. Normally a three-hour ride, but the endless tribute-laden wagons had slowed them.
Was it a birthday feast for the duke’s daughter or a mere tax collection? The treasures piled high in the carts no longer stirred Dubel’s anger. What right had he, no different from Brikal, to complain? He had played the lackey, after all.
Then, one of the king’s limbs, aide Raoul, drew his horse close. “Sir Dubel.”
“Yes.”
“Once we reach the palace, kneel and beg His Majesty’s forgiveness.”
“...Forgiveness for what?”
“Come now. His Majesty may pardon you, but you know well the methods he uses to break his own.”
Raoul worried out of courtesy for their shared years. King Brikal spared no means to tame his appendages. Having observed him, Raoul knew he’d unleash every vile act to bend a strong man like Dubel. Many sacrifices would follow. But Dubel, the kingdom’s mightiest knight, was worth taming. Yesterday’s events would surely remind him of his oath to Hurion.
Raoul urged him repeatedly for minutes, but Dubel remained silent.
“Come on. Has your loyalty wavered?”
“...A ruler who ignores bitter counsel treads the path to ruin, does he not?”
“Why must you be the one to speak it?”
“If no one else will, someone must.”
Raoul fell silent at Dubel’s words. He too recognized the state of affairs but lacked the will to risk his life for remonstrance. Bitter words required power to carry weight. Dubel fit the role, but their bond bred worry.
“Sigh... at least heed my words.”
Yielding to Dubel’s obstinacy, Raoul reined back his horse.
Soon after, the procession passed the east gate and entered the palace grounds, peaceful for three days.
Dubel, at the fore, dismounted and removed his helm. The wagons halted in the front courtyard; coachmen and porters efficiently unloaded the cargo.
From the first of three golden carriages stepped Brikal, greeted by the chief steward and regent with bows. “Was the banquet uneventful, sire?”
“Quite.”
“To the throne room, then. You must rest from the journey; we’ll give a brief report on state affairs for the three days.”
“Very well.”
Brikal glanced at Dubel before striding toward the throne room. And as Dubel silently followed to its heart...
He drew his sword.
Shing.
To avoid becoming the dull frog dying unaware in the iron pot as its flesh cooked.
To halt the crimson petrifaction corrupting to his very marrow.
To preserve human dignity in this era that devoured convictions.
And for atonement.
Dubel leveled his blade at Brikal’s throat. The sword once swung for the tyrant now turned upon him.