Chapter 154 - The Silent Procession

Ferda listened carefully to her words.

"If you wish to express regret over this incident, then you should put forward someone whom the Crisis Response Headquarters would not dare challenge."

At first, he thought she was referring to Consilus, but he soon realized that was not the case.

Ferda frowned instinctively.

"Are you saying we should put Her Grace the Grand Duchess at the forefront?"

"It may be shameless, but that is the quickest and easiest solution."

Though Ferda was the man destined to become the consort of the Red Dragon and the future Prince Consort, he was ultimately nothing more than a representative.

Without the Grand Duchess herself, he was regarded as nothing more than a toy meant for amusement.

That was how the world saw him.

If the dragon herself stepped forward and spoke on the matter, no one would dare utter a single word of protest.

But that was impossible.

Ferda remembered how she had been at the ballroom.

She could not enter places crowded with humans.

She feared that being surrounded by them would force her to relive the mistakes she had committed, causing her to lose control.

And because of that, she could not bring herself to put Ferda in a difficult position.

Ferda had believed she was merely suffering psychologically.

But it was not simply a matter of the mind.

It was real.

Had Malcolm not been there, he would never have realized that there had been people who genuinely intended to break her.

If such things had happened even during the Festival of the Beginning of Spring, what would happen at the public hearing?

If those who had treated her like nothing more than a watchdog lost all fear and tried to tame her, then even Ferda did not know what he himself would do.

"Garnet."

Ferda turned toward Garnet.

The moment their eyes met, Garnet flinched.

"Do not ever bring up that suggestion again."

"...My apologies."

That proposal itself was no different from touching Ferda's reverse scale.

"We will resolve this matter with our own hands. That will not change."

"Understood."

Rejecting the easier path, Ferda continued to build his strategy.

False information leaked through Baron Giyot.

Internal intelligence gathered through Hellus, who was pretending to be a Sage.

Using those pieces, they would secure the advantageous high ground.

If he wished to give her a bright future, then Ferda had to bear the darkness himself.

Even if it meant shouldering the vilest of infamy.

***

"Lord Ferda."

While he was working, Luri called out to him.

"My Master has brought the item she promised you before."

Finally!

Ferda immediately abandoned his work and rose from his seat.

She carried a portrait nearly as large as her own body and placed it before him.

It was the item she had promised to give him once he returned safely.

It was none other than Valdrova's portrait.

"Did you truly request this painting?"

Luri asked, sounding utterly unable to believe it.

Ferda nodded.

"I wanted this painting."

"There were countless other items there. Why this one of all things?"

"I simply had that feeling."

Ferda gave only a vague answer without explaining further.

Luri glared at him with obvious dissatisfaction before speaking again.

"Do you know what kind of portrait this is?"

"I know it was meant to be shown to her first fiancé."

"Yes. It was the first time she ever revealed her face to someone and asked to have herself painted exactly as she appeared."

"So it's an unembellished depiction?"

"Yes."

Ordinarily, portraits displayed by noble houses were enhanced in various ways.

For example, if the subject had gained too much weight, the painter would make the waist appear slimmer.

Or if someone's hair had begun to thin and looked unsightly, it would be painted full and thick instead.

"I see... Is that why I wanted it so badly..."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's nothing."

Some trivial reason.

Luri chose not to press him any further.

"In any case, I'll arrange for a restoration specialist."

"A restoration specialist?"

"Since it's been torn, shouldn't it be repaired?"

She asked as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

But Ferda had absolutely no intention of calling one.

"No. This is enough."

Luri stared at Ferda with unmistakable disgust.

"If you're planning to hang up a torn painting, I'd oppose it even if you beat me to death."

"You don't need to worry. I won't be displaying it in a public place."

"..."

"I'll take it from here."

Luri watched as Ferda walked away carrying the portrait.

If he wasn't going to hang it somewhere public, then she already knew exactly where he intended to place it.

In that deep, dark place that was so oppressive it bothered anyone who merely passed by. 1

***

Ferda headed to the room he had once used for training.

It was dark, cramped, and only large enough for someone to sit inside, making it resemble a prison cell.

His training had consisted of nothing more than controlling shadows in a pitch-black room for the sake of the Mana Cultivation Method.

Unlike other mages, he had no extravagant magical equipment—only a chair and a box of candles.

The third object brought into that dark chamber was Valdrova's portrait.

Ferda hung the enormous painting in the place he had long intended.

He stepped back slightly to examine it.

"...Perfect."

The angle, the height—everything was flawless.

The portrait occupied half the wall, filling one entire side of the room.

After meticulously checking it as though it were a priceless treasure, Ferda quietly studied the painting.

How fascinating...

Viewed from too close, all he could see were brushstrokes.

Yet with only a little distance, Valdrova emerged vividly before his eyes.

It almost felt as though she would step out of the painting at any moment, calling, "Mr. Ferda," as she happily trotted over to him.

They must have summoned the finest painter of that era.

Yes.

Only someone capable of capturing everything could make her seem this alive.

That was why he had desperately wanted this painting.

In the end, Valdrova had granted that wish.

Now that he had received it and was observing it this closely, he finally understood.

Desire.

This painting contained fragments of Valdrova's desires.

It held the life she would never reveal, no matter how many conversations they shared.

Because it was completely unaltered, he could vividly feel exactly what she had been experiencing.

It was all contained within those small smiling lips.

The fear of her first experience.

The excitement of having a companion.

Hope.

But the future she had longed for never came to pass.

Her first fiancé—the Third Prince—had regarded Valdrova as nothing more than a tool to exploit.

Her sincere love was trampled.

Her hopes were betrayed.

Despair.

And so, Valdrova killed the Third Prince.

Toying with a dragon was indeed a crime worthy of death.

But had Valdrova been in her right mind, she would never have committed such a murder.

She had been consumed by the Bloodlust that destabilized her.

And in that state, she killed the Third Prince.

That was why his lingering spirit continued to haunt her.

Just as it had after the Dragon-Demon War.

"As I thought..."

She had once said this.

"Someone like me doesn't deserve to be happy."

After killing so many people and surviving...

How ridiculous she had been to think she could marry a human and abandon everything.

Valdrova despised her own naïveté.

She hated herself.

She was furious.

Ferda raised his index finger.

Just as she had done, he drew it diagonally across the painting.

He erased those innocent eyes that had naïvely regarded sin too lightly.

"Urgh..."

Ferda staggered.

It felt as though someone were choking him.

At the same time, moisture welled up around his eyes.

Tears flowed down his face.

His expression never changed in the slightest, yet those tears streamed down, burning hot.

The Shadow Circle within his chest shook violently.

I...

There was only one emotion capable of moving the Shadow Circle.

I killed a woman like this.

He regretted it.

He despised himself for allowing twisted hatred to consume him and kill such an innocent, pure woman.

Ferda feared that regret.

If he regretted it, he could no longer move forward.

But if I never regret it... then I will lose my way.

That was why Lucy Phyliaz, the First Witch, had called it a blessing.

Because this painting was born from regret, it would become a guiding light for the man she loved.

When he became trapped within the endless white night, it would become a single strand of darkness that allowed him to see beyond the light.

***

The day of the strategy meeting before the session at the Golden Council.

"The nobles will soon begin their entrance procession."

Alexander's adjutant reported.

"I know. I'm watching it with my own eyes."

Alexander had arrived at the Golden Council ahead of time and was observing everything from the balcony.

The road leading to the Golden Council was packed with countless people as they watched the nobles make their entrance.

Among the five senior councilors of the Crisis Response Headquarters, four wielded influence both inside and outside the Empire.

But only one of them could draw a crowd of this magnitude.

Valdemar Golt.

The Hero of the Masses.

The unshakable pillar of the Arken Empire.

With overwhelming charisma, he captivated both nobles and commoners alike.

Even his rivals eventually became his supporters.

If only I could make that greenhouse his power comes from mine...

Alexander believed that Valdemar's true source of power was his greenhouse.

A man could rule gloriously for an entire lifetime, but before death, everyone was equal.

Even Alexander himself had spent sleepless nights fearing the arrival of tomorrow.

Yet Valdemar had tipped the scales of death itself—something even the high priests could not interfere with.

That was why, despite being an old man, his eyes still burned with vitality.

"...Is everything prepared?"

"Yes. We've placed our agitators throughout the middle of the procession."

"Excellent."

Alexander tightened his grip around the glass in his hand.

He had shaped public opinion for this very day.

He had fostered one-sided hatred.

And then he had magnified it.

"The moment Regent Ferda arrives, we'll begin the agitation."

Once madness began, it could no longer be restrained.

An endless flood of condemnation and resentment.

Whether Ferda felt guilt or rage did not matter.

What mattered was throwing him into an emotional state before he even entered the Golden Council.

As far as Alexander was concerned, there would be no way for Ferda to escape it.

"Regent Ferda will be arriving shortly."

Alexander opened his eyes wider than ever before.

He eagerly awaited the sight of Ferda being swallowed by the torrent of condemnation awaiting him.

But the moment Ferda and his party appeared, Alexander's smile froze.

They were far too different from what he had expected.

***

The Royal Capital.

The nobles made a great fuss, saying that the road leading there was filled with the fragrance of flowers.

There had once been a time when Ferda, too, had been a child who believed those foolish tales without question.

He had wanted to follow his father to the Royal Capital.

He had wondered what those flowers smelled like.

Would they carry a warm, comforting scent like his mother's?

But what reached the nose of the man who had killed an angel and been left utterly broken was something far removed from flowers.

If one insisted on calling it a flower, then it could only be the kind that lured flies wandering through the gutters.

Back then, he neither knew nor cared what that smell was.

Now, however, he understood.

Garnet had once said that the Empire was like stagnant water left to rot inside a jar.

Yes.

That was exactly the smell.

Now that he breathed it in again, there was no doubt.

The procession of nobles heading toward the Golden Council stretched onward.

Since this was a gathering of those who wielded influence both within and beyond the Empire, it was only natural that each sought to display their status.

But for what?

Ferda could not understand it.

He could not understand why they had to dress themselves up like this.

Nor could he understand the citizens who cheered as they watched the nobles enter the Golden Council.

None of it followed any kind of common sense.

"Count."

"Yes, Your Excellency."

"Do those people over there know what is about to happen inside?"

"They know only one thing."

"And what is that?"

"They know that someone will die today, and that justice will be served. To people burdened by harsh lives, that is like rain after a long drought."

"And they all hope that the one who dies will be me."

"That is surely everyone's wish."

Everyone's wish...

It felt strangely familiar.

Then again, nothing had really changed, either then or now.

"Prepare yourselves. It's our turn to enter."

"Yes."

Ferda had prepared for a situation like this.

Consilus had reinforced him by assigning his own knights to stand behind Ferda.

At last, it was Ferda's turn.

He entered.

The entrance procession of the splendid nobles was every bit as extravagant as one would expect.

Dressing in ceremonial attire to display themselves before everyone was taken for granted.

Riding in luxurious carriages with relaxed smiles was only natural.

Standing atop his carriage, Ferda did not smile.

Neither did Consilus, who accompanied him at his side.

Nor did the knights following behind them.

Ferda's procession was shrouded in dull gray.

It was a gloomy sight the Empire had never witnessed before.

Upon the colorful stone-paved road, it looked as though masses of gray stains were slowly walking forward.

They resembled nothing so much as a defeated army returning home.

But they were not defeated soldiers.

Without question, they were the very people who had charged headlong to slay colossal monsters.

They were the warriors who had crossed countless battlefields and returned bearing news of victory.

Yet now, they laid bare the horrific appearance of soldiers who had endured suffering the Empire had never before witnessed.

Every one of them had nearly lost their lives.

Every one of them had watched someone else lose theirs.

Someone's close friend.

Someone's subordinate.

Someone's family.

What they all had in common was that, even in those circumstances, they had continued moving forward.

To protect what stood behind them, they entrusted themselves to the terror of death and the madness that engulfed the battlefield.

That was why half of one soldier's helmet had been blown away.

Why another's breastplate was deeply caved in over the heart.

The only thing that remained untouched was the standard carried by the flag bearer.

And even then, the only banner shining brilliantly was the flag of the Empire.

The watching crowd did not cheer.

Nor did they condemn them.

Even those who had been shouting at the top of their lungs that the Far East should be destroyed fell silent.

The planted agitators also remained quiet.

They understood that making a move in an atmosphere like this would be utter madness.

Every one of those soldiers had returned from battlefields where death lurked at every step.

They were patriots who had fought for the Empire.

And so, the entire crowd stood in solemn silence, offering a silent tribute to the fallen and the wounded.

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