Chapter 154: Procession of Silence
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 154: Procession of Silence
Ferda listened closely to her words.
“If you wish to put an end to this situation, you should put forward someone the Crisis Response Headquarters wouldn’t dare touch.”
At first, he thought she was referring to the Consilus family, but he soon realized that wasn’t it. Ferda’s brow furrowed reflexively.
“Are you suggesting I use Her Highness the Archduchess as a shield?”
“It is shameless of me to suggest it, but it is the easiest and fastest way.”
Ferda was the man who would become the Red Dragon’s consort—the future Prince Consort—but for now, he was merely a representative. In the eyes of the world, he was nothing more than a toy used for the dragon’s amusement, not the Archduchess herself.
If the dragon were to step forward personally and speak with her own authority, no one would dare utter a peep.
But he couldn’t do that.
Ferda knew how she had struggled during the ball. She couldn’t handle being in places crowded with humans. She feared that being reminded of her past transgressions would lead her to make a mistake. She feared she would cause trouble for Ferda.
Ferda had once thought she was simply struggling psychologically, but it wasn’t just a matter of her state of mind.
It is actually happening.
If it hadn’t been for Malcolm, he might never have realized there were malicious elements actually trying to break her. If that was the case at the Start of Spring Festival, what would a public hearing be like?
If those who treated her like a watchdog lost their fear and attempted to "tame" her, Ferda didn’t know what he might do.
“Garnet.”
Ferda cast his gaze toward her. Meeting his eyes, Garnet flinched.
“Don’t ever bring that up again.”
“……I am sorry.”
The suggestion itself had touched Ferda’s Reverse Scale.
“We will resolve this with our own hands. That will not change.”
“Understood.”
Leaving the easy path behind, Ferda continued to build his strategy. Misinformation leaked through Baron Kiyot; internal intelligence gathered through Helus, who was posing as a Sage. He would take the high ground using these tools.
To give her a bright future, Ferda had to endure the darkness—even if it meant being covered in a terrible stigma.
* * *
“Lord Ferda.”
While he was working, Ruri called out to him.
“I have brought the item the Master promised you.”
Finally.
Ferda pushed his work aside and stood up. She brought in a portrait as large as her own body and set it down in front of him. It was the item she had promised to give him if he returned safely.
It was the portrait of Valdrova.
“Did you really ask for this painting?” Ruri asked, sounding as if she couldn’t believe it.
Ferda nodded. “I wanted this painting.”
“There are so many other treasures there; why this of all things?”
“I just had a feeling,” Ferda glossed over the details.
Ruri glared at him with a dissatisfied expression before speaking. “Do you know what this portrait is?”
“I know it was something meant to be shown to her first fiancé.”
“Yes. It was the first time she showed her face to another and asked to be painted exactly as she was.”
“So it’s an unfiltered reality, without any embellishments?”
“Yes.”
Usually, paintings meant to be hung in a family estate undergo various touch-ups. If someone is overweight, their waist is painted thinner. If they are balding, their hair is made lush.
“I see. So that’s why I wanted it so badly….”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind.”
It was likely some trivial reason. Ruri didn’t press further.
“Anyway, I will hire a restorer.”
“A restorer?”
“It’s torn, so it needs to be repaired, doesn’t it?” she asked, as if stating the obvious.
However, Ferda had no intention of calling a restorer.
“No, this is enough.”
Ruri stared at Ferda with eyes full of revulsion.
“If you intend to hang a torn painting, I will oppose it even if it kills me.”
“There’s no need to worry. I’m not going to hang it in a public place.”
“…….”
“I’ll take it now.”
Ruri watched Ferda’s back as he walked away with the painting. If he wasn’t hanging it in a public place, she knew exactly where it was going. He was going to put it in that deep, dark place that felt oppressive just passing by.
* * *
Ferda went to the room he used as his training hall. It was as narrow as a prison cell, dark and meant only for meditation.
His training consisted of nothing more than controlling shadows in a room where no light entered, practicing his Mana Cultivation Method. Thus, instead of the noisy equipment other mages used, there was only a chair and a box of candles.
The third item brought into this dark room was the portrait of Valdrova.
Ferda hung the large painting in its intended spot. He stepped back slightly to check its position.
“……Done.”
The angle and height were perfect. The portrait took up half the wall, making the small room feel full. After checking it meticulously, as if enshrining a deity, Ferda examined the painting closely.
It’s strange….
If he looked too closely, he could see nothing but paint marks, but from a short distance, Valdrova appeared vividly. It felt as if she might jump out at any moment, calling out “Mr. Ferda” and trotting toward him.
She must have commissioned the greatest painter of the era. The artist had been skilled enough to capture everything, making it feel hauntingly lifelike.
He had desperately wanted this painting from her to confirm it. Valdrova had granted his wish in the end. Looking at it this closely, he felt he finally understood.
Desire.
In this painting was a fragment of the desire Valdrova once held. It contained the life she would never reveal, even if they spoke ten thousand words. Because it was raw, he could clearly feel what she had been feeling.
It was contained in those small, smiling lips.
The fear of a first experience. The fluttering excitement of companionship. Hope.
But the wish she had anticipated did not come true. Her first fiancé, the 3rd Prince, thought of Valdrova only as a tool to be used.
Trampled innocence. Betrayed expectations. Despair.
And so, Valdrova killed the 3rd Prince. To toy with a dragon was indeed an act deserving of death. However, if Valdrova had been in her right mind, she would never have committed such a murder. She had been consumed by the blood energy that made her unstable, and thus she killed him.
That was why that ghost lingered by Valdrova’s side. Just as it had after the Dragon-Demon War.
“As I thought….”
She had said this: “Someone like me shouldn’t be happy.”
After killing so many people and being the one to survive, she thought it was foolish to believe she could marry a human and throw everything away. Valdrova resented her own naivety. She loathed it. She was angry.
Ferda placed his index finger on the edge of the canvas. Just as she had done, he drew a diagonal line across it. He erased her naive eyes that had made light of her sins.
“Ugh….”
Ferda’s body swayed. His breath hitched as if someone were strangling him, and at the same time, his eyes grew moist.
Tears fell. Though his expression remained unchanged, the tears flowed hot. The Shadow Circle within Ferda’s chest surged wildly.
I….
There is only one emotion that moves the Shadow Circle.
I killed a woman like this.
He regretted it. He loathed himself for killing such a naive and pure woman out of misplaced hatred. Ferda feared that regret. If one regrets, one cannot move forward.
But if I do not regret, I will lose my way.
This was why the first witch, Lucy Philias, had called it a blessing. Because he regretted, this painting would become a lamp for the man who loved her. When he was trapped in the deep polar night, it would be a single ray of darkness that allowed him to see beyond the light.
* * *
The day of the post-war council at the Golden Council.
“The nobles will soon begin the induction ceremony,” Alexander’s adjutant reported.
“I know. I’m watching it with my own eyes right now, aren’t I?”
Alexander had entered the Golden Council early and was watching everything from a balcony. The road leading to the council was packed with people watching the nobles enter.
There were five high-ranking members in the Crisis Response Headquarters. All four were influential within and outside the Empire, but only one could draw such a crowd.
Waldemar Golt.
A hero of the people and the unshakable pillar of the Arken Empire. He captured the hearts of both nobles and commoners with his intense charisma, drawing even his rivals to his side.
If only I could have that man’s greenhouse….
Alexander believed Golt’s power lay in the "greenhouse." No matter how much one ruled and lived in luxury, all were equal before death. Even Alexander himself had lost sleep, terrified of tomorrow.
Golt had tilted the scales of death, something even high priests couldn’t touch. That was why his eyes remained full of life even as an old man.
“……Is everything ready?”
“Yes, we have agitators standing by in the middle of the procession.”
“Good.”
Alexander gripped his glass tightly. He had shaped public opinion for this very day. He had fostered one-sided hatred and inflated it.
“Once Regent Ferda enters, we will begin the incitement.”
Once madness begins, it becomes uncontrollable. A flood of criticism and resentment. Whether he felt guilt or anger, the priority was to put Ferda in an emotional state before he entered the Golden Council. There would be nothing Ferda could do.
“Regent Ferda will arrive shortly.”
Alexander opened his eyes wider than ever. He hoped only to see them swallowed by the vitriol they would receive.
But as soon as they appeared, Alexander’s smile froze. It was far too different from what he had anticipated.
* * *
The Royal Capital.
The nobles were the type to make a fuss, claiming the road leading to the capital smelled of flowers. Ferda, too, had once been a child who believed the whims of those immature people. He had wanted to go to the capital with his father. He wondered what that scent of flowers would be like. Would it be a warm scent like his mother’s?
But what reached the nose of a man who had withered after killing an angel was far from flowers. If one were to call it a flower, it must be the kind that attracts flies hovering over a gutter.
Back then, he didn’t know what that smell was and didn’t care much, but now he knew. Garnet had said the Empire was a jar where stagnant water was rotting. Yes, that was the smell. Smelling it now, he was certain.
The procession of nobles gathering for the Golden Council continued. As it was a place where those who wielded influence gathered, it was only natural for each to show off.
For what purpose?
Ferda couldn’t understand it. Not the reason they had to dress up like this to enter, nor the citizens who cheered as they watched the nobles enter the Golden Council. None of it was based on common sense.
“Count.”
“Yes, Regent.”
“Do those people over there know what is happening inside?”
“They know only one thing.”
“And what is that?”
“They know that today, someone will die and justice will be served. To them, it is a drop of rain in a drought-stricken life.”
“And they likely hope that the one who dies is me.”
“That would be everyone’s wish.”
Everyone’s wish…. He felt a sense of déjà vu; nothing had changed from then to now.
“Prepare yourselves. We are going in now.”
“Yes.”
Ferda had prepared for this situation. Consilus added his own knights to lend strength to Ferda’s back.
It was Ferda’s turn, and he entered. The induction processions of the colorful nobles had been appropriately flamboyant. Dressing in ceremonial attire to show off to everyone was the standard. It was expected to ride in a carriage with a relaxed smile.
Ferda, atop his carriage, did not smile. Neither did Consilus, who accompanied him. Not even the knights following behind them.
Ferda’s procession was a sea of somber, dull gray. It was a gloomy light never before seen in the Empire. It was as if masses of gray and stains were walking upon the colored stone floor.
They looked like returning defeated soldiers.
But they were not defeated. They were undoubtedly those who had charged forward to kill a super-sized monster, those who had roamed the battlefield and raised the cry of victory.
They starkly displayed the appearance of soldiers who had experienced a horror never before shown in the Empire. Every one of them had nearly lost their lives, and every one of them had watched someone die. They were someone’s friend, someone’s subordinate, someone’s family.
What they had in common was that they had moved forward even in such circumstances. To protect what was behind them, they had surrendered their bodies to the fear of death and the waves of madness exhaled by the battlefield.
Because of that, someone’s helmet was half-blown away, and someone’s breastplate was sunken near the heart. The only thing intact was the flag held by the standard-bearer. And even then, the only thing shining most brilliantly was the flag of the Empire.
The watching crowd did not cheer. And they did not criticize.
Those who had been shouting at the top of their lungs that the Far East must be destroyed fell silent, and the agitators were quiet. They knew that to move in this atmosphere would be an act of madness.
Because they had all looked upon a battlefield where death lurked, and because they were patriots who had fought for the Empire, everyone simply bowed their heads in solemn silence to honor the fallen and the wounded.