#43. The Beginning of Turbulent Times
In King Brikal's bedchamber, the royal high priest Kairen withdrew his priestly staff and addressed Regent Akaron.
"I've completed all the emergency treatments, so there's no immediate threat to his life... but he's unconscious from shock, and I can't guarantee when he'll awaken. He lost a significant amount of blood as well."
Akaron's face darkened with sorrow at the sight of Brikal's gruesome state—his left ear severed, left arm gone, and left eye vanished. It was a miracle he was even alive; one might think the Demon King had returned in the flesh.
"Uncertain when he'll awaken..."
With no family to Brikal's name, the regent would temporarily assume control in the event of such a calamity. Yet Akaron trembled, gripped by fear. Brikal's collapse meant the victims of his tyranny would soon catch their breath—and their blades might turn toward the one holding temporary royal authority: himself.
"Mobilize all the other priests and pool your healing powers. The longer recovery takes, the greater the risk to the throne."
For Akaron, who had hidden behind Brikal sucking sweetly on the honey of power, the king had been a reliable patron. The tyranny ensured a steady flow of benefits without effort; Brikal was like a honeycomb ripe for the taking. But now that hive teetered on the brink of collapse, filling him with dread. Without the tyranny, there'd be no worry—but thrones built on oppression crumbled when it vanished. Thus, anxiety etched deep lines across Akaron's face.
"Sigh... He needs to recover as soon as possible."
"I'll request assistance from the priestly foundation as well."
"Very well."
Kairen departed, and Akaron lingered, staring down at the prone king before swallowing a heavy sigh and exiting the chamber. He had no intention of stepping before the hive. Until the day he could safely sip honey from behind it once more, he would bide his time, drifting with the current like driftwood.
'Please, let nothing go wrong...'
With that thought, Akaron returned to the throne room. His first priority was containing the crisis.
Stepping out from behind the throne, he saw Saintess Yuria slumped and sobbing, and before the throne's steps, Dubel knelt in death—the captain of the royal knights.
His illustrious reputation had ended in blood, but Akaron saw it as a festering wound finally bursting. Even fields tilled by tyranny sprouted weeds.
'Dubel... why choose such a path...'
He pitied him, truly. It would have been easy to stay by his side, feeding on scraps and living comfortably. What change had driven him to reject those scraps and embrace death instead? Choosing the hard road over the easy one—Akaron gazed regretfully at Dubel's body, pierced by arrows and a heavy crossbow bolt.
Gazing down from this lofty throne, even as a parasite ensuring life and wealth—who wouldn't cling to it? Humans agonized, yes, but that didn't make the untroubled inhuman. Akaron, having cast aside such torment, couldn't comprehend Dubel's choice.
"Guards! Cut off that traitor's head and hang it in the Central Square."
He pitied Dubel, but treason was treason. Without a stark example, others might fan the wind Dubel had stirred into a storm. The lesson had to be clear—and by 'Brikal's method,' no less. Even with the king down, it proclaimed his will unchanged. Barbaric? No matter. It was the tyrant's resolve.
"Hey! What are you waiting for? Repon!"
Vice-captain of the royal knights Repon hesitated, prompting Akaron's bellow. Finally, Repon and the senior knights approached Dubel.
"Repon, do it yourself."
"Y-yes? Me, sir?"
They said even a stray dog could swing a sword after three years at the academy. Having witnessed Brikal's tyranny for a year, Akaron was well-versed in breaking men his way. By executing his own superior, Repon would prove—and be tamed by—his loyalty. Failure meant Dubel's will lingered in him; success would stain his blade with blood, teaching the traitor's fate. A sword wet with a superior's blood wouldn't easily repeat the sin.
"..."
Repon gripped his sword, staring down at Dubel.
"Do it now! Are you sympathizing with the rebels?!"
Akaron barked again at the dawdling Repon, and at last, the blade arced wide, severing Dubel's neck.
Even a body honed to perfection became mere meat without life.
Thud.
Dubel's head tumbled—the price of upholding conviction and oath.
Whoosh!
Repon flicked the blood—his superior's—from his blade.
He knew Dubel yearned for conviction in this barbaric age. Over drinks, he'd often pondered the righteous path. Repon understood, yet couldn't grasp a belief bought with life. Such a needless death was tragic. Better to have slain the king outright.
Perhaps his oath with Huriyon to protect the king had led to this half-formed conviction. Knowing Dubel's constant regret after felling Emilia, Repon admired him. In savage times, an honorable death was a knight's pinnacle.
Repon ordered his knights bitterly.
"...Handle it as Lord Akaron commands."
"Yes, sir."
Thus, Dubel paid for his conviction with public display in the Central Square. The sturdiest shield guarding Brikal had shattered.
The knights and archers withdrew, leaving only Regent Akaron and Saintess Yuria in the throne room. A chill silence blanketed the blood-wind-swept hall.
Akaron eyed Yuria, still slumped and unable to rise.
"...Couldn't bear to watch, Saintess?"
"..."
Yuria, tears dried, shook her head. Her sacred white locks swayed mournfully. Her gray eyes, light extinguished and unfocused, fixed on Dubel's bloodstains.
"...I didn't see it."
Akaron queried dubiously.
"You foresaw the hero's rebellion, yet missed Dubel's treason—enough to bring calamity upon His Majesty?"
"..."
Yuria fell silent. Suspicious, but Akaron harbored no doubt. Saintesses, bound by divine power, couldn't lie. True, depleted power might allow it, but no sane one committed such blasphemy—lest the empire's holy foundation bring judgment. It couldn't be hidden anyway. A powerless saintess heard no divine words, couldn't prophesy kingdom affairs, and depletion would eventually surface. Concealing it post-facto meant summary execution; in 500 years since the foundation's rise, no saintess had been so foolish.
No reason to hide: depleted, one returned to the foundation, relinquished the role, and lived as ordinary folk. All saintesses yearned for release from foresight's burden and weight—it was a blessing, not a curse. Discovery would implicate the king too, so absent regicidal intent, concealment made no sense. Thus, the king personally drew a drop of her blood to check her power. Vital to the royal line's survival.
"Yes... I didn't see it."
"Sigh... I see. Surely the Lord hasn't abandoned Elond Kingdom?"
He knew saintesses didn't see all events. Prophecies weren't absolute omniscience. But foreseeing the hero's rebellion yet missing its extension in Dubel? Inexplicable.
"...I don't know. The Lord's will is beyond my grasp..."
Empire-sent saintesses merely relayed divine words until power waned. They couldn't interpret silence.
Akaron followed her gaze to Dubel's blood. Frankly, he suspected the Lord might have forsaken Elond. Brikal, succeeding wise king Huriyon, was depraved, debauched, arrogant beyond measure—blaspheming when drunk. How could the Lord look kindly? Perhaps that's why no warning came: punishment for Brikal's hubris in staring down the divine.
If true, doom loomed over Elond, worrying the regent. His cushy life sucking honey behind Brikal might end.
"We can only pray He hasn't. Please beseech the Lord for King Brikal's swift recovery."
Yuria nodded wordlessly. Her pale pink lips pressed shut, vitality fled.
A saintess's prayer reached the Lord—but not all were granted. Efficacy was His alone.
"Then."
Akaron vanished into the throne room's shadows, off to marshal every healing art to restore Brikal to the throne.
"..."
Alone, Yuria stared blankly at the bloodstains.
Dubel had never believed Emilia's rebellion prophecy. He'd regretted that day—choosing oath over conviction.
She knew he'd sought Emilia's traces diligently. Yet she'd never told Brikal. Foreseeing this ruin, she hadn't stopped Dubel's remorseful wanderings.
That soul-freezing regret wasn't his alone. Mired in her own venomous swamp of remorse, she'd let him be.
And so, this end. Prioritizing conviction over oath, he'd met death to end his regrets.
She doubted not that her own end neared. For her—a frail, cowardly soul choosing survival over truth—such ruin was inevitable, a natural fate.
At that moment, as Dubel upheld conviction with his life, Lebion del Rosel sat with Rusillan Grand Duke, unaware of the throne room's events—hoping she'd join the revolution's dawn.
And at the same hour, Biela sat with Daltan, hoping he'd join her path of atonement.