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Chapter 83: The Tale of Turbulence and Fish, Part 6
“Still refusing to speak?” Conrad chuckled softly, drawing a dagger and tapping it lightly against the girl’s cheek. The blade shimmered with an icy glow, its cold radiance like frost spreading across still water.
The chill seeped into her skin, and the girl stirred faintly. Drawing in a shallow breath, she forced out her answer, each word strained but resolute. “…It’s my responsibility… my own failure to protect them. I alone will bear this burden. Only cowards like you rely on others—and sacrifice them—to save themselves.”
“I see,” Conrad said, unperturbed. Her half-open eyes burned with defiance, as though a flame flickered within their depths. “But I’m not known for patience, little one. The Gray Wolves have seventy or eighty members. Do you truly believe every single one of them shares your loyalty? They’re mercenaries, after all. Loyalty to strangers is hardly part of their creed. No matter what you do, the outcome won’t change. Why endure this pain? Surely you’d rather cry to your weak Lady Marsha than face death here?”
Cinnabar’s lashes fluttered briefly.
Conrad waited for her response.
But the girl merely gritted her teeth and shook her head, ever so slightly. “Others are others… I am me.” Her voice was barely audible, yet unyielding.
“Then farewell, little one.”
At that moment, Cinnabar tensed, her body rigid with fear. Her face turned ashen—after all, she was only human. Even seasoned mercenaries felt terror in their final moments. Yet, despite her dread, she held firm, biting down hard to keep silent. Her hands clenched into fists, trembling with resignation as tears traced twin paths down her cheeks. She closed her eyes tightly, awaiting the inevitable.
Conrad turned away.
Behind him, the junior Dark Priest of Blackfire nodded once. To them, the Gray Wolves were already defeated, their fates sealed. Captives meant nothing; these were mercenaries who valued survival above all else. While Macaro and Buga might guard their secrets fiercely, the rest of the company wouldn’t hold such resolve.
They both understood this truth.
With deliberate calm, Conrad raised the dagger, driving it toward the girl’s chest.
The Blackfire Priest watched dispassionately, as if the blossoming crimson stain spreading across her torso wasn’t the mark of life fading, but merely another brushstroke in a macabre masterpiece. He heard the gurgling sound escape her throat as Cinnabar struggled weakly, her fingers clawing at empty air. Her eyes flew open wide, then dulled, losing their spark as consciousness slipped away.
Strength and awareness drained rapidly from her body, yet even in her last moments, a thought lingered: I wonder if he knows... that I’ve died. Life truly is fragile.
A wave of exhaustion washed over her, but she felt something placed upon her chest—a weight, cold and foreign.
“What is that…?” she whispered faintly, her voice trailing off into silence.
---
“What is that?” Conrad echoed, glancing back.
The Blackfire Priest stood over the girl’s corpse, placing a black-red gemstone glowing faintly at its center. From the gem, tendrils of light resembling plant roots extended outward, weaving through the wound left by the dagger. The dark energy seeped into her veins, spreading along her limbs until a pale red mist enveloped her entire body.
“The Blood of Gods, Envoy,” the priest replied curtly.
“You intend to raise her as a Soul Puppet?”
“No.” The priest shook his hooded head. “This woman demonstrated elemental resonance with her weapon and defeated one of our high-ranking cultists despite being only lower-tier silver-rank strength. Such potential at her age is rare. What I’ve given her is the bloodline of Kabei, the Thunder God. If she awakens as a Divine Messenger, this gamble will prove worthwhile.”
“High-tier divine blood?” Conrad’s eyes narrowed skeptically. “How did someone like you—a junior priest—acquire something of this caliber? Surely such artifacts are beyond your rank.”
“Chance favors chaos,” the priest intoned flatly. “Luck plays its part when order crumbles.”
Conrad snorted softly, watching as the black-red beams encased the girl’s body in a cocoon of light. “Failure rates are high.”
“Should it fail, we lose nothing more than a quality corpse,” the priest responded indifferently.
“Suit yourself.” Conrad turned, his gloved hand resting casually on the hilt of his rapier. “I’ll begin the assault shortly. You’d best stay clear. Neither Buga nor Macaro are ordinary foes. Fighting them could cost me dearly.”
The priest acknowledged the hierarchy without protest, stepping aside silently. After a pause, however, he added, “What of the group that departed earlier? Is the real ‘Aiko’ among them?”
“The likelihood is significant.”
Conrad strode toward the edge of the forest, speaking without looking back. “It makes no difference either way. None shall escape this place alive. If I want them dead, they die.”
The priest smirked silently beneath his cowl.
---
In the quiet mountainside, the stillness was broken by a single question:
“So, Sir Brandon knew beforehand that man was the eldest son of Duke Lantonilan?”
“Not exactly,” Brandon sighed, addressing Antietta. “I suspected, but Lady Yura reminded me. She’s a star seer—and Aiko’s betrothed. I recall seeing them once at the Black Tower, though I hadn’t remembered until now.”
Of course, the truth was far different. Brandon had never seen Yura or Aiko at the Black Tower. But it mattered little; no one would dare challenge his claim. Besides, he hadn’t lied entirely—he’d indeed connected Yura’s presence to the revelation just moments ago. Historically, Yura was no obscure figure. She became one of Eruin’s most renowned Astrologers, her prowess unmatched.
In the annals of Amber Sword, Brandon recalled Yura as one of the Chosen Ones. Born blind, her condition symbolized humanity’s inability to fully embrace divine power without cost. Throughout Vonder’s history, only two Chosen Ones bore no physical imperfections: Geert, the King of Flames, and another born in this era, wielding Madara’s frigid Mercury Staff—the future emperor. All others, while formidable, carried scars of their divine gifts.
Had Brandon revealed Yura’s eventual mastery of combat techniques and awakening of elemental affinity, reaching a peak level of 150, few would believe him. Her role aiding Rhun’s forces against Valkyrie and the Regent Princess would seem absurd.
Could her Chosen One powers awaken during this battle? The thought crossed Brandon’s mind fleetingly. He considered recruiting her, but dismissed the notion. By now, Yura’s heart belonged to Aiko. Though Duke Lantonilan remained loyal to the crown, recent events hinted at fracture. Calculating dates, Brandon realized intervention was impossible.
Still, he wasn’t overly concerned. Aiko and Yura would eventually unite Eruin, ushering in its golden age. Tragically, both geniuses perished young. Yura left behind a daughter, Alathra Lantonilan Ophelia, who later led Eruin’s final resistance after the deaths of the Regent Princess and Valkyrie. By then, Brandon had joined Grace, the state of the Church Knight Order, retreating from the frontlines.
Antietta processed Brandon’s explanation, skepticism lingering in her gaze. “So, beneath the guise of mercenary conflict lies noble intrigue. Was ‘Mane Wolf’ Macaro always Duke Rhun’s retainer? Is the Gray Wolves nothing more than Aiko’s personal guard? And what does the Cards Mercenary Group seek—mere assassination?”
“No,” Brandon corrected. “Most of the Gray Wolves likely remain unaware. Recall the purge orchestrated by Duke Anlek, where nearly all of Rhun’s family perished. You know of that massacre.”
“Of course,” Antietta murmured, her expression darkening. “Noble blood stained that month’s coup. How could I forget?”
“Rhun foresaw the purge and sent his sole heir away beforehand. He sacrificed others deliberately to shield his lineage.” Brandon’s tone remained clinical, devoid of emotion.
Silence followed. Antietta understood the brutality of noble politics. Rhun’s actions, while harsh, were pragmatic.
Roma observed from afar, seemingly disinterested.
“So, they aim to use the heir to pressure Rhun?” Antietta ventured.
“Perceptive,” Brandon praised. “As long as Rhun supports the crown, those seeking power must first destabilize him—the pillar of royal authority.”
“And thus…?” Antietta frowned, troubled. Chaos benefited their cause, yet as citizens of the realm, she dreaded the worst-case scenario.
“Within three months,” Brandon stated plainly.
“Did Macaro know all along?” Antietta asked, realization dawning. “He lured the Blackfire cultists intentionally, using the mercenaries as bait?”
“It appears so.”
Antietta drew a shaky breath. Over a hundred lives—loyal followers of decades—were mere pawns in this deadly game. Though she understood the necessity of ruthlessness in such struggles, the reality chilled her. Glancing at Brandon, she wondered: Did this knight she followed share the same philosophy?
But Brandon’s gaze remained fixed on the valley below, where trouble awaited.
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