#42. The Demise of the One Dyed in Red Petrification (完)
"Eek!"
From behind Brikal, Dubel drew his sword and aimed it at him. The regent and the foundation director let out pathetic yelps as they fled. They ran far away, as if the king's safety meant nothing to them.
And at the same moment.
From the second floor of the throne room, countless archers rose in unison, nocking their arrows. Several massive ballistae capable of piercing steel were visible among them. Their formation was impeccably disciplined, as if they had foreseen this all along.
Standing tall behind Brikal's back, Dubel scanned the archers and spoke.
"...Was this too foretold by the saintess's prophecy?"
Even with the cold steel pressing against his throat, Brikal replied calmly to Dubel's words. From yesterday's events alone, he had realized it. That steel would clash in the throne room today. A tyrant who had clung to his throne through oppression for so long possessed such keen instincts.
"No prophecy was needed. I saw it in your eyes yesterday."
"...And yet you didn't flee from me."
"Even if I fled from you, could I escape the reach of that blade?"
Had he tried to run, Brikal's body and head would already have been severed by now. Those who flee say nothing.
Hundreds of arrows were trained on him, but Dubel's sword tip did not waver. Just as Brikal had anticipated the rebellion, Dubel had expected this too.
And he didn't care.
If he feared mere arrows, he wouldn't have drawn his sword in the first place. To him, who had regretted far greater fears already, arrows and ballistae held no terror.
"...Do you think those arrows can break my will?"
"I know. If you set your mind to it, batting away hundreds of arrows would be child's play. But even you couldn't easily block dozens of ballista bolts."
As he said, even a body ascended to nirvana couldn't guarantee survival against ballistae head-on. Yet Dubel's sword tip showed no tremor whatsoever.
Brikal turned to face Dubel, the blade pressed to his throat as if ready to strike at any moment.
"I have no intention of blocking them."
"...So you'll meet your end here? Don't be rash. I have no desire to witness the futile death of the Royal Guard Captain."
"Death is futile by nature."
Brikal swallowed his fear and issued a threat. Dubel's flaming red eyes seemed to crave blood, filling him with dread, but he had no choice but to confront it head-on. When a dragon one had raised bared its fangs, it was only right to draw one's own—that was his creed.
"What is the reason for this? What happened at the Rosel estate?"
"This has nothing to do with Duke Rosel. It concerns only one knight's conviction."
"Conviction, you say? I've seen plenty of knights meet early ends chasing that noble folly. I thought you, at least, would lean toward oath over conviction. Are you breaking your oath?"
[Oath]
The word Brikal drew like a fang to bare his own teeth. He wielded it as leverage, holding hostage Dubel's memory of swearing his loyalty to his father.
Dubel fell silent. Then the razor-sharp blade pressed into Brikal's neck flesh, drawing a trickle of blood.
"...Do not speak of oaths so lightly. They are not so trivial as to grace your lips."
Dubel's flaming aura blazed at the word "oath," and he issued his stern warning. But Brikal's sharp eyes saw it: he had yet to find a perfect resolution between oath and conviction.
Thus, with a venomous smile, he probed that confusion.
"Hah, do you even have the right to speak of oaths? To one who broke King Hurion's oath and now points a sword at me—oaths no longer hold sway over you."
"...It matters not."
"Tell me, then. Why has a knight broken his oath?"
Brikal spoke with mocking nonchalance. He felt the tip of Dubel's sword trembling the more he invoked the oath. For Dubel was a knight who valued his vow to Hurion above life itself.
Deepen the confusion, and he would self-destruct—Brikal was certain of it.
"...I have not broken it."
"Sure, whatever. As long as I'm still alive, the oath holds, I suppose. But drawing steel against me stains it nonetheless."
Dubel ground his teeth. At this filth daring to invoke an oath with his rotten mouth. Of course, his own mouth wasn't clean either. It was just revolting how this man kept pouring sewage into the pool he now sought to purify.
"...You won't shake me with oaths."
"Then why are you doing this?"
"Do you believe it's right to punish for crimes of a future that hasn't yet come to pass?"
The core question of this crisis. Brikal scowled at it.
"Hasn't come to pass? No, it's punishment for what will happen."
"I don't doubt the prophecy. I'm asking if correction isn't the better choice over punishment."
"Prophecy is the will of the Lord God. Are you denying the Lord God now?"
Dubel let out a despair-laden sigh at Brikal invoking the Lord God. Revulsion surged as this twisted conviction poured from lips mere inches from his blade. If only now—just once—he showed any will for correction, Dubel would temper his strike with mercy.
He had learned at the Rosel estate that correction was preferable to punishment. But Brikal's sneering face showed no such will. Instead, he mocked Dubel as if he had two lives to spare, exploiting the guilt of a broken oath.
"Insolent fool. Rebelling while pretending to be noble—what's the difference from hypocrisy? A knight forsaking his oath—King Hurion would turn in his grave with rage."
Emphasizing "Hurion" deliberately, Brikal spoke, and Dubel's eyes twitched once. How dare this king, mired in indulgence and luxury, neglecting the kingdom, mock a knight for forsaking his oath? The hypocrisy made Dubel's teeth chatter.
And he felt relief. This trembling rage was what he had hoped would load his blade. Better this consistent ignorance revealing truth than a coerced false confession born of survival instinct. To Dubel, who had wished for his lord's company even as his own flesh cooked in an iron pot unknowing, this dull tongue was almost welcome.
Thus, Dubel smiled.
"...W-What's so funny?"
At the eerie smile, Brikal raised his hand, signaling the archers to hold fire. Yet Dubel's smile did not fade.
"I'm relieved. I feared Your Majesty might actually accept my conviction."
"W-What did you say?"
Dubel lowered his sword. He didn't sheath it—just held it loosely. But Brikal kept his hand raised, not rescinding the hold-fire order, wary of any contingency.
Dubel gazed at his blade with eyes full of regret and spoke.
"Do you know?"
"..."
"That Emilia is not the kind of person to commit treason."
"...Are you saying the saintess lied?"
Terrified at last by Dubel's smile, Brikal raised his voice. But Dubel's composure held, as if he had laid all burdens down.
"...The prophecy matters not. I've realized that to be human is to trust relative conviction over absolute prophecy. To agonize within conviction—that is what makes us human."
"A-Are you committing blasphemy right now?"
"...Blasphemy or not, it matters not. Emilia is not a woman who would commit treason."
Emilia is no traitor.
This single unspoken line flashed before him like a montage of past errors. The mistake of pointing his sword at Emilia in this very throne room that day. Unable to voice it, he had aimed at her, deeming conformity to the era a human life, even if not proud.
But now he understood. A human life was one lived by one's principles.
Crackle, crackle.
Then, from behind the throne, Saintess Yuria came rushing in desperately, barefoot without her white holy shoes. Just like that day in the throne room, she stood by the throne, covering her mouth in shock as she looked down at Dubel. Her grayish-white pupils trembled greatly, as they had then.
Dubel met her gaze. Had she foreseen this disastrous fate? Or ignored it despite seeing? Or could she no longer see the future?
He said nothing to her eyes rippling with sorrow and grief. He understood. The meaning of her tears.
Thus, no resentment, no hatred. Instead, Dubel smiled at her—a wanderer's smile, detached from the world. Terror flickered in Brikal's eyes at it.
"C-Calm down. Dubel, this benefits no one...! Do you truly wish to die...?!"
No hint of attack showed in Dubel, smiling with sword loosely gripped. Yet Brikal trembled. That serene smile sought not leniency or correction—but punishment.
Dubel gripped the hilt tightly. Swallowing his smile, he glared at Brikal with flaming red eyes. His crimson pupils blazed as if signaling the end.
"Death holds no fear for me anymore, Brikal."
"W-What? S-Stop this, Dubel...! Are you truly breaking your oath!? Betraying King Hurion—?!"
"For me now awaits only a hellish abyss."
At Dubel's murmuring words, Brikal's legs buckled. The killing intent pouring from him felt like it was shredding his body to pieces. He had used the oath to Hurion as a sturdy shield, wielding Dubel as a limb for years. Dirty deeds, vile tasks—Dubel had followed without complaint to uphold it. Thus, the shield left by his father seemed more unbreakable than mithril.
But now he saw the crack. Dubel hadn't failed to break it—he had chosen not to. The oath to King Hurion no longer bound him.
Only now did he realize.
"And at the end of that hellish path lies eternal regret."
Whoosh!
In an instant, Dubel's sword vanished from sight, and Brikal screamed at the chilling sensation slicing his flesh. His left field of vision flashed red.
"Argh—!!"
The left eye filled with greed was gouged.
The left ear that heeded only flattery was severed.
The left arm clutching gold and jewels flew off.
Blood gushed from eye, ear, and arm. Dubel gazed at the disassembling man and uttered his final words.
Fearing his lifeline could snap at any moment from today's events, hoping he would bow his head and live in dread.
"I'll take half of you... as my companion on the road to hell."
Thud!
He kicked Brikal's abdomen with his foot, sending him crashing helplessly down the throne steps. The king lay fallen before the throne.
At once, ballistae and hundreds of bows twanged, blackening the throne room with arrows. Hundreds of arrows and dozens of ballista bolts flew toward Dubel.
Thwuck!
Bloodstained red vision.
Esophagus vomiting red blood.
Flesh spilling red blood.
Thud. Dubel dropped to both knees on the throne room floor.
Arrows couldn't fatally wound his extremely honed body, but the ballistae pierced his steel armor, transfixing his upper and lower abdomen.
He could have blocked them. His pupils, which tracked hummingbird wings, clearly saw their trajectories.
But he didn't.
And like Emilia collapsing in this throne room that day, he knelt.
In his blood-red vision, the grand priest healing Brikal's body came into view. Yes, he must not die. His life wasn't for Dubel to claim. The filthy flesh fragments before him sufficed.
Instead of hellroad travel funds, those fragments would do. Praying this wound taught him his lifeline wasn't eternal, Dubel released his sword.
The best decision as the guard captain sworn to King Hurion.
"Cough..."
One cough halved his life. Vision blurred, ears sank like into a pond. Death approached.
Yet strangely, no fear, no regret. Rather, relief.
In his arduously lifted gaze, Saintess Yuria, red-eyed and tearful, appeared.
"...Saintess..."
Why weep? If prophecy, it was mere inevitability. Even without, just the end of that accursed "fate."
Why such sorrowful tears?
"Cough..."
He could no longer lift his head. No strength in his grip.
"Haa..."
Dubel sighed and smiled redly. This was the end of the knight teetering between oath and conviction.
The pathetic end of one who couldn't choose a path and muddled through. Death was natural for striking his lord, but more lamentable was betraying that service, rendering his life void.
Yet it had to be done—must be done—so no regrets.
Only hoping this sparked Emilia's smile returning. That by Duke Rosel's side, who upheld conviction unlike him, she overcame fate.
That Brikal's spared knees never straightened before her again.
"Emilia... sorry... I..."
With blood, he vomited sincere apology she wouldn't hear onto the stone floor. At last, Dubel closed his eyes.
With countless embedded arrows.
With countless errors committed.
With that day's endless regrets.
He closed his eyes. In this era that devoured conviction.
Like his fallen disciple.
Thus, Master Dubel slumbered eternally.
Drip... drip...
Blood from Dubel's closed eyes.
Tears from the saintess's burning eyes.
Warmed the cold throne room stone.
So the knight Dubel, who wandered the crossroads of oath and conviction, met his end.
At wandering's close.
Upholding his oath to King Hurion.
And his own conviction.
As a knight of half-faded honor.