Chapter 162: Epilogue
By late April, flowers burst into bloom, and the world donned its bridal gown.
That’s a saying often heard among the people of Ethanbel.
As April comes to a close, the rain in the royal city transforms into a sweet nectar that nurtures all things—not too hot, not too cold, just the perfect drizzle that banishes the summer heat, awakens old trees to sprout new buds, and turns the landscape into a riot of colors, filling the air with fragrance and lush greenery. In the past, people wished this picturesque scene could remain forever in their eyes.
But this April in the royal city, although the scenery remains as beautiful as ever, lacks the vibrant and peaceful atmosphere of previous years.
In the southern part of the city, along a few long streets near the high walls, what was once a bustling avenue now reveals nothing but ruined walls and buildings reduced to blackened wastelands by fire.
The fine rain drizzles softly, pattering quietly on the broken mud-brick paths, moistening the ashes scattered across the ground. Burly men with bare chests hustle through the mud; some lift stones, others shoulder wooden beams, drenched by the rain as they follow behind carts.
Occasionally, corpses are unearthed and carried away. Most of them wear silver armor, while some are commoners. The dead are laid side by side on the street, covered with white cloths, and the putrid stench of decay wafts through the air from afar. The strong men all pinch their noses, unwilling to approach, but relatives of the departed pay no mind, kneeling beside a corpse with tears long dried, lost in thought, ignoring anyone trying to console them.
Such scenes are commonplace throughout the city.
In the central area, the tall, resplendent royal palace looms over the city, and the broad square in front, although cleared of corpses, remains marred by large patches of dark red bl**d meat mixed with rainwater, a striking sight that lingers under the morning light.
The stone statue of an elder in the square has a smashed head, and beside it lies a severed horn from a war chariot yet to be cleaned up. The power center of Ethanbel is shrouded in a nauseating stench, and no matter how many soldiers and servants work diligently to clean it up, that smell won’t dissipate before the end of April.
The mood among the citizens is rather unstable.
In less than three months, unprecedented disasters have struck the royal city twice. Boswell has been devastated, resulting in many lives lost, sending those who were accustomed to peaceful lives into extreme panic.
During these days, I’ve witnessed more than one wave of marchers parading through the streets, accusing nobles, Elizabeth, and the Church. While the marchers haven’t committed any overly radical acts, there are daily clashes with the arbitration office. Most of them are people who lost family and homes, but there are always a few troublemakers among them. Occasionally, I hear rumors of unexpected deaths—who knows what’s true?
Once, those people surrounded Longdoll Street.
I stood at the window and spotted Rect making an appearance. He kept his stance low and negotiated with their leader for quite some time. Eventually, it seemed they reached a verbal agreement; the group didn’t escalate things further and left before dusk.
There are also rumors that they are planning to besiege St. Zayeli Cathedral shortly to demand an audience with the Pope, seeking some answers himself.
But that “shortly” seems to never arrive.
Victoria has been exceedingly busy lately, to the point where she barely has time for me. Since leaving the church, I’ve only seen her three times.
The first time was that night when she visited me at Mansion No. 3, looking utterly exhausted. We had a brief chat about how the Iron Guard retreated from Flesk Fortress and vented their frustrations by killing some prisoners, though most managed to escape in the chaos. As for the affairs of the Leikmon family, including the over 30% casualties of the guards, they’ll now be managed by Old Leikmon’s son.
Things seemed to stabilize after that.
Then we talked about Duke Lex. He was lucky to survive but had been locked away by Victoria for some unspecified purpose. I didn’t ask what that purpose was, frankly, I didn’t care as long as Victoria was okay.
Before leaving, Victoria returned the protective brooch to me.
It bore a distinct sword mark.
“I’ll have someone bring over your scythe. Thank you, Pepé.”
“Sure.”
Our conversation was short and simple—no need for many words.
In my next two meetings with her, both were in the mornings on Longdoll Street. I saw her from a distance, she saw me too, but she hurriedly boarded the war chariot without even a hello.
I felt a bit annoyed but then remembered how busy she really was, and my heart ached a little.
All I could do was refrain from bothering her.
These days, I spent most of my time aimlessly at home, avoiding people, only occasionally venturing out to buy food and catching some gossip at the market. I learned that a Cardinal named Saint George arrived in the royal city a few days ago.
Given the timing, it probably bodes ill.
But that’s not my problem; let Angel worry about it.
As for Margaret, I haven’t seen her since then. She must have left… Perhaps she’s deliberately avoiding me, unsure of what to say when we meet.
But that’s for the best.
If I saw her, I wouldn’t know what to say either.
The courtyard of Mansion No. 3 has been refurbished.
It really didn’t suffer much damage; they just restructured the lawn, and the flower beds have been revamped. During my period of unconsciousness, Victoria had already instructed people to wrap things up, so by the time I returned, the mansion looked just as it always had.
Except for the missing honey fruit tree.
And Aili hasn’t come by again.
Goat Cheese still appears and disappears like usual, but every morning I see its silhouette outside my window.
The letter it brought back was tucked away inside the nun’s robe I wore back then, but during the fight, that outfit got ripped apart by the wind, and the letter was lost.
The contract I discussed with Victoria ultimately never came to fruition, but that doesn’t hinder the deepening relations between Shanter Castle and the royal city. Cooperation can continue, depending on whether my father has the resources.
So I wrote another letter.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell them that I’m actually at the center of all this chaos; I didn’t mention what I’d done to avoid making my mother worry unnecessarily. I just told them that I’m eating well, sleeping soundly, and that the events in the royal city haven’t affected my life—I’m still behaving myself, studying hard every day.
Thinking about it, I skipped mentioning the contract, afraid they might guess I hadn’t received the previous letter and worry needlessly. I then asked about my father and brother, threatening to return home if they didn’t inform me.
After finishing it, I had Goat Cheese deliver the letter to the empire, comforted by the thought that they probably wouldn’t find out I was fighting for my life in the royal city. Little did I know, I’d soon be slapped in the face with reality.
On the last day of April, a new news report arrived.
Opening the front page, I found a life-like black and white drawing.
This was my first time seeing an illustration in the news report.
The girl in the drawing had exquisite features and flowing black hair. She firmly grasped a pitch-black giant scythe, her Pope Knight cloak billowing behind, with the iris pattern clearly visible. At her feet lay a grotesque monster, seemingly on the brink of d*ath, entirely black and bizarre in appearance. The girl stood on its head, her scythe raised high, as if about to cleave the monster’s head off in the next moment.
Below the image, a striking line of text read:
[The sixteen-year-old girl unafraid of the abyss’s corrosion—the shining star piercing through the royal city’s night—Pope Knight Silvya.]
The left page of the report was filled with dense text, more than three times the length of the section detailing the disasters in the royal city.
With mixed feelings, I skimmed through it and found the article emphasized the heroic image and the brutal nature of battle, along with the girl’s indomitable spirit.
I didn’t want to delve into the specifics.
And in the lower corner of the left page, a small, unassuming box briefly noted the d*ath of Cardinal Nero.
[Nero Brown Tailorfoot, once a venerable cardinal and devoted follower of the deity, returned to the embrace of the divine yesterday morning. His lifetime…]
The entire piece was short, filled with grandiloquent language, yet it made no mention whatsoever of Nero’s cause of d*ath or his actions, even lying about the time of d*ath.
After breezing through the report, I tossed it aside, not wanting to speak for a long while, not even knowing how to feel.
Eventually, a solitary, boring thought bubbled up from the depths of my mind.
Well… I probably have really become famous now.
This is hardly a cause for celebration.
These days, it seems like nothing is worth celebrating.
In truth, my mood has been rather low.
Occasionally, in the dead of night, I still dream about that silver-haired, red-eyed little girl. Sometimes she talks to me, sometimes she tugs at me to sing, and sometimes she insists I tell her stories about the grand castle. These dreams are always short, cutting off midway and waking me up, leaving me unable to resist staring at my reflection in the mirror, fixating on the white strand of hair on my forehead, lost in thought for a while.
Then it leads to a whole night of insomnia.
During those sleepless nights, I find myself recalling everything Angel told me, thinking about them until dawn breaks.
Eventually, my thoughts began to take shape.
I was captured by the “research organization” of the Gate of Truth and taken to their “clinic” as an experimental “patient” for studying the power of “bl**d.”
I and Iliush were probably the most adaptable subjects for their experiments. After confirming this, they transferred us to Silgaya for further experimentation, eventually awakening in the abyss due to some twist of fate.
Did that experiment succeed?
I think it failed.
Because I’m not under the Gate of Truth’s control, and I even killed one of their council members. As for Iliush… she didn’t seem to be under control either. Not only that, but even the chaotic power within her is hard for her to manage, overtaken by the “will of the abyss,” ultimately leading her demise amidst her own chaotic surge of power, just like an explosion in a novel.
She might be a worse experimental subject than I am.
Then… what’s a successful case supposed to look like?
I guess, maybe like Teresa.
Or maybe, even now, there have been no successes.
I still can’t figure out what the Gate of Truth is truly after. The questions are just too numerous, and there’s a lot that confuses me, much of which even Angel doesn’t comprehend, requiring deeper investigation.
But for now, it seems all the facts tell me I’ve finally brushed against the door to the truth. The next step only requires me to keep on this path, and eventually, everything will fall into place. One day, that Romani Doctor and all those guys in black cloaks will be dug up by me.
What are those bl**d-colored pills? What does the Gate of Truth want from their “clinic”? What kind of power do they seek to create, and how do these experiments relate to the deities? Why did we turn into the abyss…
All these things, I will clarify one by one.
But…
Sometimes when I’m on the verge of drifting off, I wonder…
Is this really the truth?
……
Volume Four: The Girl and the Land of Dragons
