Succession 4
Tuk, thud, thud-thud-thud.
A freshly severed head rolled across the blood-soaked floor amid shattered ice shards and the chaos of battle. Jeron’s face hadn’t changed even in the instant before his neck was sliced. His mouth hung slack, his eyes unfocused. It was as if he hadn’t even registered his own death. No one could have imagined a sword suddenly bursting from his left hand. Nor that he’d closed the distance in a flash, shoving aside the knight commander Marek.
Everyone in the room was caught off guard.
“Ah... Aaaah...”
“Young master!”
“Kyaaah!”
The reactions came a beat too late.
“The eldest young master is... d-dead...”
“His head severed in a single stroke...?”
The nobles stumbled back, murmuring in hollow voices. Any faint curiosity had long vanished.
“Knights, what are you doing? The murderer who killed the young master is right there! Seize him!”
Some retainers bellowed at the top of their lungs. Their lord, to whom they’d sworn loyalty moments ago, had lost his life in an instant. It made their earlier stand in front of Jeron seem pointless. They hadn’t caught even a hint of movement, leaving them to raise voiceless cries.
Of course, no knights rushed forward with roars.
“M-my... my arm...!”
“Aaaah... Spare me, please...!”
Most of the knights lay collapsed, each missing a limb. From the shattered entrance to the dais at the far end, severed arms and legs littered the blood-drenched red carpet. In the midst, Jeron’s head—the head of the eldest young master who’d been alive just moments before.
The few surviving knights stood frozen, trembling uncontrollably.
“You worm!”
Unable to stand it any longer, Knight Commander Marek stepped forward.
Thud!
The ground cracked. Shards of broken marble flew up. With the knights immobile and the retainers only shouting while eyeing each other warily, he had no choice but to act. The moment he decided, his surging aura reinforced his body, and he exploded forward.
A brilliantly vivid blue aura blazed along his silver blade. The aura of a top-tier Sword Expert carried a density and power worlds apart from the lesser knights below.
His target: the boy gazing at Jeron’s headless corpse just below the dais. Even a master like him couldn’t emerge unscathed from a rear ambush. With that certainty, Marek raised his sword within striking distance.
And as Licht finally turned, noticing too late—
Kwaaaaa—!
Light shot forth. Beneath the blue blade, a streak of pure white light whipped out long and thin. The spiraling beam twisted into a crescent-shaped sword beam.
Marek swung desperately. His blade’s aura surged forward, morphing into an aura blade.
Kwaaaang!
A ferocious explosion and raging gusts. Vision whitened in an instant. People who’d reflexively shielded their eyes lowered their arms.
In the center of the banquet hall, Marek—pushed back somehow—knelt with his sword plunged into the floor.
“The Alder Knight Commander...”
Someone murmured.
>
As the words suggested, Marek’s condition was far from normal. His polished plate armor was twisted and bloodied. The long scar from the sword beam halted right before him. Behind him, the limbless knights stared in silence, forgetting their screams.
Sernos, retreated to a corner unnoticed, panted heavily.
But setting all that aside—
“Aura blade...”
“Wasn’t he supposed to be a mage?”
“What the hell is he...?”
Alder Duchy’s finest knight had been repelled by a mere outsider boy. The fact struck everyone like a thunderbolt.
Naturally, all eyes converged on one spot.
In his right hand, Orkin’s golden holy sword. In his left, a blue ancient sword that had endured a millennium. Holding two blades, he now overlooked the banquet hall. Simply standing there in silence exuded an indescribable majesty.
Licht let the attention and stares slide off him impassively as he thought,
Can’t kill them all.
The foreign nobles gathered here, and especially Alder’s retainers. Licht would leave, but Millein—the true heir—would remain. For his future, the family’s pillars had to be spared. Even the sycophants who’d latched onto the eldest early weren’t few in number.
“The crime of killing his father was not enough; he even ordered the assassination of his legitimate half-brother, the second son.”
Finishing his thoughts, Licht spoke. His voice was clear and resonant.
“Jeron Alder, the eldest son, has paid for his sins with his life.”
Some nobles swallowed hard.
Licht slowly turned his gaze. Heads followed in unison.
“Millein Alder.”
There stood Alder’s legitimate heir, the boy now rightfully poised to inherit the ducal seat.
“From this moment, he is the successor.”
As the legitimate proxy granted authority by the second son, Licht declared.
Millein, who had bowed his head briefly, raised his eyes. The gazes poured down once more. But this time, with different intent. His eyes, scanning the room, had sharpened to crystal clarity.
***
Eldest son Jeron Alder had died three days before his succession ceremony.
By the hand of a single uninvited guest.
Unbelievable.
If they hadn’t witnessed it themselves, they’d have dismissed it as rumor. But everyone there had seen it: Jeron’s head flying, Knight Commander Marek repelled by pure white sword energy.
Alder’s side demanded secrecy from the attending nobles alongside consolation payments, but whether it would hold was anyone’s guess.
At the same time, a massive investigation unfolded. Sernos the Archbishop’s oath to the gods, letters scattered far and wide. The truth emerged swiftly.
Two Expert knights under the eldest son, plus over ten Sword User regular knights—gone. Grievous crimes threatening their lives, but the culprit Jeron was already dead. No retribution possible.
Thus, Licht avoided making enemies of Alder. Millein, selected as the next duke after Jeron, vouched for him vigorously.
A week passed.
In the grand hall of the lord’s castle, the ducal succession took place.
No outsiders, just family retainers—as with the previous duke. With the legitimate eldest dead for his heinous acts, the justification was ironclad.
“To think this space where Father always sat would become mine...”
Now officially Duke Alder, Millein sat on his father’s office sofa with a wry smile.
“I didn’t expect Lady Rene, the eldest daughter, to give up so easily.”
“Even so, she couldn’t have imagined her brother the duke committing such atrocities. Ordering the assassination of her father the duke...”
“She’ll lay low for a while.”
“She’d better. To protect her last remaining neck.”
Del and Jamel, standing behind, chimed in. With the biggest thorn gone, they seemed far more at ease.
“B-but... who’s that over there...?”
Jamel turned with a dazed look.
In one corner of the office, Sernos knelt trembling.
“Spare him for now.”
“Archbishop Sernos...?”
“The Holy See will handle it. Don’t interfere. Alder Duchy is just a victim now.”
“Ah...”
Millein nodded slightly. His collusion with Jeron to kill Duke Alder had been Sernos’s rogue act, not a papal order. Without even a proper funeral, he’d been buried. Disposal from the Holy Kingdom was imminent.
“What of the other retainers?”
Licht, seated opposite, asked the trio.
At Millein’s glance, Jamel and Del spoke.
“The neutrals flipped right after the investigation...”
“Even the factions friendly to the duke are coming over. Most switched midway; the originals from the start are still mulling, but it won’t take long. A little thought on why we’ve spared them should make it clear.”
“No need to worry. More importantly, Lord Licht.”
As Jamel finished, Millein straightened.
“Allow me to greet you properly. Thank you—truly. How can I ever repay this grace...”
Millein bowed deeply. Del and Jamel followed suit.
“I promised to reward you once it was done.”
“...Reward?”
“Yes. Now a ruler of a nation, you must keep your word. Personally, I want to as well.”
Licht didn’t reply. He knew Alder’s situation was dire. The duke dead, the original heir gone. Two Expert knights and over ten Sword Users killed, plus the maimed—over twenty total. Even with Sernos, limits existed. Regrafting limbs was grueling even for an archbishop-level priest.
Plus massive payouts for silence strained the coffers.
“It’s fine. I didn’t do it for payment.”
“Still...”
“Just swear you won’t come after me. That’s enough.”
Separate from the Holy Kingdom, maintaining friendly ties with Alder Duchy. Though the family devout Isteria followers, new head Millein—like Licht— wasn’t much for faith.
“Come after you? I swear on my neck—it’ll never happen!”
Millein exclaimed in horror.
Licht nodded faintly.
“When do you plan to leave?”
“Tomorrow or the day after.”
“May I ask where to?”
“Palenia Holy Kingdom. Precisely, north of it.”
Millein hummed thoughtfully at Licht’s answer. But the hesitation was fleeting.
“Those two mercenaries who escorted us before.”
“......”
“Even a few coins—I must reward them. Could they stop by the lord’s castle tomorrow morning?”
“That’s no trouble.”
Millein exhaled in relief.
A few more exchanges followed: drop by anytime after dawn, any other needs?—persistent questions.
“Lord Licht. I can’t presume to know your thoughts, but...”
Gazing at the table between their sofas, Millein extended his hand.
“I wish you success in all you do. Sincerely.”
Licht eyed the proffered hand. What if he said he’d kill the pope? What reaction then?
Pointless.
A futile thought. Kars’s execution sword from before still sat in his subspatial pouch. He didn’t know how things would unfold, but...
It’ll come in handy someday.
Licht clasped Millein’s hand in a firm shake. Courteous words accompanied it.
Crimson light now streamed through the window. Red sunset signaling an end—and faint dawn heralding a beginning.
***
Dark night. Beneath faint moonlight, three shadows raced across vast plains. Only the whistling wind and thunderous hoofbeats sounded.
“Halt.”
Neigh!
The lead man pulled his reins. The two following stopped smoothly, habitually.
“Mana trail’s broken.”
Murmuring, the man abruptly spread his hand. From his bosom came a beautifully engraved golden triangular relic.
“The fragment.”
“Yes.”
Without turning, he tossed his free hand back. One of the two still mounted received the broken metal shard deferentially.
“Engraved into his body, yet he betrayed us.”
“With Kars dead, he won’t be visiting easily now.”
“Not Bryce, but Kars’s death means... their forces are far stronger than expected.”
Simon, head of El Sion’s slum info guild. The fragment was a piece of the sword he’d wielded in life—faintly bearing traces of the mana from the boy he’d faced.
Wooong!
Placed atop the triangular relic—now barely recognizable as round—the fragment floated, glowing faintly. Thin mana threads unraveled like yarn, twisting upward before sharply veering toward one point.
“Found it.”
The threads pointed north from El Sion: Bailen, capital of Alder Duchy.
The man and his two companions had infiltrated El Sion not long ago.
“No, wait.”
“Two threads...?”
But soon they faltered. This holy relic—near-divine, dormant in the Holy See’s stores—tracked unique mana pulses from objects.
Yet the threads split in two, pointing different northern directions.
“What now?”
“Split up?”
“No.”
The man dismissed their suggestions curtly.
“Track as is. Splitting risks defeat in detail again.”
7th Seat Executor Kars was dead. Shortly after mission completion, en route to El Sion on papal orders. With two of thirteen Executors gone, no room for carelessness.
It’d take time, but certainty was better.
“Depart now. Mission: pursue Licht Barbalte.”
He wheeled his horse.
“Abandon capture. Execute on sight.”
Neigh!
Hoofbeats echoed anew. Beneath the vast plains, pale moonlight shattered on pristine white armor.