Chapter 78: The Tenth Prince's Sanctuary
Rebella ran alongside the knight. Drawing on every lesson from her training as an aspiring tracker knight, she made full use of her skills.
There were corpses on the ground. At least ten of them. Mercenaries, by the look of it, but their conditioning marked them all as knight-level talent. And they were dead. No signs of a fierce battle—just clean cuts from blades.
Her gaze fell on the weapons sliced neatly in two, and that alone justified every fight in her mind. The man before her was an Iron-Cutting Knight, a rare talent even in the Empire.
Rebella's doubts only multiplied. 'Why would someone like that...?'
Bayola had no real foundation. The Emperor's declaration had boosted her chances for the throne, but she was still worlds apart from the frontrunners. Even her great-uncle, Duke Kalaens, had abandoned her.
Her father's connections, then? If anything, that was even less likely. Her father was a veteran in the best light—objectively, a has-been. He was an excellent instructor, but as a knight, he fell just short of high knight level. In the brutal struggle for the throne, a single high knight couldn't accomplish much alone.
Yet here was an Iron-Cutting Knight, come not for Bayola herself but to aid her guard. It made no sense to Rebella.
The two emerged from underground into the open air. It was night. So they must have come to rescue her without raising a fuss.
"The western market district. They were bold to conduct experiments here of all places."
Like a true native of the Capital City, she pinpointed their location at a glance.
"Quick on the uptake. I'll pick up the pace."
The knight accelerated. Rebella matched him. Faint shouts echoed from behind. The knight's speed was now just barely within her ability to keep up.
Rebella forgot to scan her surroundings, focusing solely on regulating her breath as she ran desperately. She'd experienced the physical prowess of high knights to her utter exhaustion watching Strekl. An Iron-Cutting Knight wasn't necessarily superior to Strekl in raw athleticism, but he was certainly better than her.
Yet the knight was moderating his speed for her. Why? Tucking the question into a corner of her mind, she pushed on desperately.
How long had they run? When even her knightly stamina began to flag, the knight stopped.
"Here."
"What about the pursuit?"
"They won't come this close. Touch it carelessly, and it could spark a war."
The knight opened the door to a nondescript building that looked like an ordinary home. He entered a room with practiced familiarity and manipulated a mechanism hidden behind the bookshelf. The shelf slid aside, revealing a concealed space.
Seeing the man seated inside, Rebella swallowed hard. Even beneath his luxurious robes, his solid build was evident, paired with intelligent eyes. He was imperial royalty, a few years older than Bayola—a leading contender for the throne. The Emperor's tenth child.
"Prince Seonik...?"
"Come sit."
Rebella walked over awkwardly and sat across from him. A butler brought tea. Seonik sipped it while reading a book, not sparing her a glance.
Rebella peeked at the book. It was written in ancient imperial tongue.
A genius who had mastered the sword, magic, and scholarship. That was the common assessment of Seonik. Some even said that if he were just a few years older, or had a bit more time, none of his siblings could have rivaled him.
"Your Highness, what is all this?"
Seonik closed the book. His fathomless eyes turned to her.
"Do you know your condition?"
"I can guess."
"Your family... unfortunate. Once we root them out, we'll switch workshops. Had to save the most important one."
"Then my family..."
"You know, don't you?"
His gaze seemed to ask if she really didn't. As if he'd be disappointed if she claimed ignorance. Pretending nonchalance—a gambler's instinct—she asked anyway. Serving as Bayola's guard had been a gamble with her life from the start. Losing a bit of the stake wouldn't rattle her.
"People turning into demons... is that even possible?"
"Demons originally grew their forces by devouring humans."
"That's..."
She couldn't argue. Demons were a race that fed on other lives by nature. Humans becoming demons was only logical.
"Is some imperial experimenting with demons?"
"Yurel's shown unusual interest there. The workshop's backed by a mage he supports."
"So this area's safe, then."
Yurel and Seonik were both top contenders for the throne. The frontrunners were Imaril, Yurel, and Seonik, but the others weren't pushovers. A combination of personal forces, maternal clan support, and sheer luck could flip the board anytime. That's why they couldn't touch each other.
It had been the same before Rebella left for the West. The Capital City's dynamics hadn't changed much.
"But why me?"
"Because you're Bayola's guard knight."
"Are you after Her Highness's knowledge too, Your Highness?"
"In a way, yes. In a way, no."
Seonik's vague answers openly signaled he wouldn't give straight ones. Rebella hadn't expected crucial details anyway. He was throne-close royalty, and Bayola his rival.
"How's Bayola faring? The West doesn't seem suited to my little sister."
"She's doing well."
She had the Hero Party's guide and the Duchy war hero watching over her. No threats seemed likely. More importantly, right now, it was her own body that mattered.
"What happens to me?"
"You'll turn into a demon, slowly."
"I hear Your Highness is versed in magic."
"A normal curse, I could counter. But demon-related matters follow different rules."
"No way to stop it, then."
"The West. Untouched lands. You might survive there alone as a demon. You could even bid Bayola farewell."
Five years since the Union formed. But only a fraction of the West had been pioneered. Rebuilding half a ruined world in five years was impossible. It would take decades, maybe centuries.
Flee there, and she could survive even as a demon. At least deliver a final goodbye to Bayola.
"No more questions? I'll answer what I can."
"Does His Majesty know of this?"
"This is the Capital City."
"...I spoke out of turn."
Something happening in the Capital City—especially with Yurel's direct involvement—the Emperor couldn't be ignorant of. He was tolerating Yurel's demon use.
Rebella had left the West before Marhal raided Yurel's carriage, before the heaven-defying giant descended in the western skies. She didn't know Bayola's experiences there, or the talks between Ellis and Marhal.
All she remembered was the Emperor using demons.
"How much time do I have left?"
"Depends on your willpower. Want to hear about your family?"
"Did they receive the same orders as me?"
"Something similar. That's Yurel's aim. Satisfied?"
"Thank you. Finally... could I have a horse?"
Seonik raised a hand, and the butler left. Preparing, no doubt.
"We have time. From here, it's just my ramblings. Yurel's invested heavily in the West. Beyond investigating the Bachea Empire, he wants influence there. Imaril's interested too, but he's focused on rallying knights so far."
Rebella hung on every word. He was giving her priceless information—the last she'd pass to Bayola.
"Rumors say a Demon King-like figure descended in the West, splitting the skies. Demons fought the Hero, they say."
She knew who. Besides the Hero, only one other could pull that off.
"My third sister's ambitious plans went up in smoke when her warehouses burned. She'll be sidelined for a while."
Third Princess Neru had her maternal clan dominating imperial commerce. Teaming with other royals, she was a force.
'The top clans and their maternal houses unite to check him.' First Imaril, fifth Yurel, tenth Seonik. The unrivaled three.
The butler returned.
"Your Highness. It's ready."
"Good. That's it, then. Memorable meeting."
"For me as well."
"This way."
Through the secret passage, Rebella emerged near the Capital City's walls. The butler brought a horse—a fine steed she'd rarely seen the likes of.
"The side gate should be open."
Rebella mounted and rode. She didn't know how much time she had left. She had to hurry.
"Hyah!"
Rebella spurred the horse fiercely.
* * *
The migrant caravan stretched long, and the expected happened. Villagers began joining one by one. Young men first, then young women, children, and elders.
The young men who shouldered a domain's labor were slipping away. Why lords viewed migrants dimly.
Marhal had prepared perfectly. Bribes ensured no complaints from the lords. One broke his word and sent private troops, but upon seeing Strekl's full plate armor, he turned tail and fled.
"Big bro, play again. Encore."
"How long ago did I just play?"
"They haven't heard it!"
All faces he'd seen earlier. Over ten kids—figured they wouldn't remember at once. Childish trick.
Marhal pretended ignorance and pulled out his harmonica from his pocket. Prime age for playing or weeding fields. Stuck in wagons or walking all day, boredom was natural.
Marhal played. He'd performed for months in the West, and idly since—enough for the kids to roughly mimic the tunes they'd heard.
The novel instrument's sound lit up their eyes. Marin listened nearby too.
"Why're ya doin' that?"
"Nothin'. But ya really comin'? It's bare nothin' land."
"House burned when I was fifteen. Lost the tenant farm rebuildin' it, started from scratch. By thirty-three, plague wiped the village. Lived sewin' in a warehouse till my son-in-law found tenant land next door. How many times ya think this old bat's restarted?"
"Still..."
Marin hesitated. The old woman's stubbornness troubled her. Learning Marin was a landlord, she'd insisted on her land. No buildings? Didn't matter. Wanted to die there. Recalling her grandmother's death, Marin couldn't refuse or accept easily.
"Every village needs its elders. Farm know-how. Mediating fights. All in here."
The old woman tapped her head. Marin knew. In a world where even light colds or tummy aches killed non-superhumans, elders' wisdom outvalued books. No wonder villages honored them.
"Small as I am, I've lent a hand buildin' villages. Trust me once."
"Ain't good?"
"Lord Marhal?"
Marhal, harmonica paused, stood behind her.
"Gettin' old ugly's easy. Gettin' old wise? Tough. Right, granny?"
"Young'un knows somethin'."
"But Lord Marhal."
"Houses get built. Got materials, people—raisin' a few's no sweat. Granny knows buildin' too, yeah?"
"Built a village with my own planed timber."
"Whoa, strong one. So ya married proper?"
"Flipped every other gal, snagged the village's handsomest."
The old woman cackled. Marhal chuckled.
"Village managed by her'd be solid. No money worries—why not take her on?"
"Yessiree."
"If ya say so... But why here? Plenty better spots."
Like Marhal's Pioneer Village. Marin admitted it was great. Outsiders faced harsh vibes, but wanderers preferred it—safer eyes among wary locals than unpredictable transients.
"Village run by this young'un? Gotta be fine. Right?"
"Yep."
"But then no fun."
"Huh? No fun?"
Marin echoed. Deciding her future—fun as a factor?
"In a ready village, this ol' unknown'd get babied till death, eatin' gruel and sewin'. My village? Gnaw some meat, hear young'uns flatter. Better, no?"
"Ambitious granny."
"Ol' folks got no ambition? Bull. Want respect in old age—wrong?"
"Why my land, though?"
"Saw yer kin tendin' us ol' timers daily. Figured no neglect here. So, hate it?"
Helping kids and elders sped the march. Marin, kid-weary, chose elders. Grandmother's care made it easy. Memories surfaced.
"Nah. Welcome aboard."
Marin beamed.