Chapter 18: Betrayal (1)

It didn’t take long for Maximilian, the former branch leader, to be captured after fleeing through the broken window and imprisoned in the castle’s underground dungeon.

Less than half a day after his escape, soldiers brought him before the Border Count of Mosul.

A swift and efficient capture of a traitor.

The Border Count replaced the mercenary guild’s branch leader with a dim-witted, overly eager lowborn noble who’d follow orders like a puppet.

For now, a compliant figurehead was needed.

“How dare these insolent rebels attempt to assassinate His Excellency, the Border Count!”

Oh, sweet and intoxicating festival of blood…

The Border Count of Mosul, celebrating that his “kingdom” was finally running smoothly, raised a glass of wine alone.

Treason.

Rebellion.

Defiance of the heavens.

What better excuse to mobilize an army without issue? None.

These words carried power—more than mere words.

Armed soldiers moved with precision.

They began rounding up beastmen mercenaries, former mercenaries, and any beastman who looked remotely formidable based on appearance alone.

There were exceptions.

Healthy females and their young were deemed useful as “gifts” for the dear King of Bers. They’d be gathered separately and given special treatment.

Arresting every beastman would spark too much resistance.

The count knew some beastmen, even those not mercenaries, could take down several soldiers bare-handed.

“No need to wipe out their kind, Your Majesty.”

The witch’s whisper echoed in his ear, and Tolland decided to weave a looser net.

“Leave some for the sacrifices, don’t you think?”

She was right. The Border Count rejected being a swordmaster for just one night.

He craved an eternal realm.

“No need to take them all.”

“Agreed.”

The Border Count instinctively and experientially knew the line he mustn’t cross.

The rebellion was merely an excuse to slowly eliminate troublesome beastmen.

“A fitting way to deal with those filthy, fur-shedding creatures. Perfect.”

In a secret meeting with the King of Bers, the Border Count learned the empire had no future.

And how to handle beastmen.

The King of Bers had masterfully assigned roles to them—worthy of emulation.

Though frivolous, the king had the skill and cunning to claim his throne.

Garland.

His still-naive son might not understand, but the boy, who’d strived to earn his father’s favor since childhood, would ultimately follow his will.

No need to worry.

“Surabar, that tiger beastman… Useful for a beastman, but if he can’t be tamed, he’s a ticking bomb. Better for them to die.”

The giant monster in the Tishinos River was meant to deal with the troublesome Black Tail Mercenaries.

How could a handful of beastmen defeat a 300-meter-long monster?

Even if they survived, twenty-odd mercenaries couldn’t do much.

Heh… The Border Count glanced at the ring gifted by the King of Bers.

Engraved on the ring, worn on his index finger, was an owl’s face.

Hokhma.

Unlike the benevolent Elon, this silver owl held immense power.

The power shown by the King of Bers… the power that forcibly elevated Tolland, who’d never reached that realm, to swordmaster status.

With the silver owl’s blessing, he no longer needed to bow to the Emperor.

King. Ruler. True sovereign…

The Border Count decided to unleash his long-hidden ambitions without restraint.

“Where’s my son? Bring him. Now.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The steward’s address—“Your Majesty”—sounded like the sweet strains of an orchestra.

***

Lord Kaldor reportedly fainted, unable to bear the sight of his ships, port, and parts of the city’s outskirts crushed.

A tragic event, but not our fault, right?

Sympathy aside, we needed our payment for the job.

Thankfully, no one died or was seriously injured.

Perdual and others who fell while climbing the monster’s body were mostly fine—minor injuries treatable at a temple.

Maybe their experience with frequent injuries and mishaps made their bodies instinctively break falls.

I wouldn’t know—I haven’t been hurt that much.

After cleanup, Surabar and I sought the lord’s deputy.

“Payment? You dare mention that after this devastation?”

“Check the contract, Deputy. It states mercenaries aren’t liable for damages caused by the monster during the hunt. Isn’t that written?”

“You bastards!”

No payment, contract or not—the city was on the brink of bankruptcy, the deputy ranted.

After calming him and with Surabar finally grabbing his collar, we secured the promised payment.

Killing the monster wasn’t the end.

A mercenary’s job isn’t done until every coin is in your pocket.

We felt sorry for the lord and clerk facing the city’s restoration, but that’s their problem, not ours.

“Anyone need the temple?”

“None.”

“If the lord wakes up angry, it’ll be trouble. Let’s move now.”

Surabar made a quick, sharp call. Taking advantage of the city’s chaos, we’d return to Mosul.

As always, the Black Tails traveled light and were ready to retreat to our “base” in no time.

“From Mosul? Verified.”

“Thanks.”

A guard, checking only my ID without proper procedure, let us pass.

If they knew what we’d done at the river, they wouldn’t have been so lax.

Good’s good. Blending into the crowd, we slipped out of the city.

“Paramir? Is that Paramir?”

“…Huh?”

Turning, I saw a familiar face.

Someone who shouldn’t be here… Why?

“Sir Morik?”

Covered in dust, Knight Morik rushed toward me, beaming, arms open as if to embrace me.

“Paramir! Oh, Elon! You’re still in this city! Thank the heavens!”

Whoa! His sudden hug left me stunned.

I froze like a statue in his sweaty, sticky, manly embrace. What is this nightmare?

***

“Brother Maximilian isn’t the kind of man to do such a thing.”

Priest Moriah said, staring at the guard captain watching the castle’s underground dungeon.

As Mosul’s librarian and a high priest of Elon, Moriah held rank and authority the captain couldn’t ignore.

The captain sweated coldly.

Maximilian, the former mercenary guild branch leader, labeled a “key rebel” and locked in the dungeon’s deepest, dampest cell, was innocent.

The captain didn’t understand the situation—just followed the Border Count’s orders.

He had a family—a wife complaining of aches and children yet to graduate.

“I’ll keep it secret from the count. All I want is Brother Maximilian’s safety. If he dies miserably under torture, Elon won’t be pleased.”

“…I know nothing. I won’t speak of what happens here. I swear to Elon.”

The captain couldn’t meet Moriah’s eyes, but the priest could infer what had happened to his dear Maximilian.

Moriah couldn’t return to the library for a peaceful day.

The city’s atmosphere was ominous, unsettling.

As a priest of Elon, he couldn’t ignore the injustices unfolding.

That’s why he had to see Maximilian.

Brother.

To Moriah, Maximilian was a junior from the same parish, now an irreplaceable friend.

Born to a humble family, Maximilian never faltered, learning tirelessly as an apprentice priest in the Elon Sect.

Letters, mathematics, astronomy, astrology, herbology, even taboo healing arts akin to witchcraft, and Elon’s teachings…

Moriah taught him forbidden knowledge not officially recognized by the sect.

Having mastered all the sect offered, Maximilian chose to forgo the visible path of priesthood, following Elon’s true teachings instead.

It was Moriah who arranged a job for his cherished junior, writing a recommendation to the Border Count.

If Maximilian was truly guilty, Moriah couldn’t escape blame either.

But treason?

He’d never accept it without seeing for himself.

“…Priest Moriah, the depths are dark. Take this…”

“Thank you.”

Squelch, squelch.

The dungeon was filthy, with rats scurrying fearlessly at his feet.

Holding the candle the conscience-stricken captain provided, Moriah stepped into the abyss-like dungeon.

Through barred cells, he saw skeletons of those who died without seeing the sun’s merciful light.

Corpses with rotting flesh swarmed with rats, splattering blood among themselves.

Elon, where is your will?

No divine voice answered his prayers.

Moriah pressed on silently.

At the corridor’s end, he found stairs descending deeper.

A creaky, unlocked wooden door awaited.

It opened feebly, releasing a stench of decay so old it was untraceable.

Unable to bear it, Moriah covered his nose and mouth with a handkerchief.

He’d checked every cell, but Maximilian wasn’t there.

If he was alive, if Elon had protected him, he’d be here.

“Brother Maximilian, can you hear me?”

No answer.

His voice echoed back, distorted like a ghost’s in the enclosed space.

The candle burned steadily, but the deeper dungeon’s darkness seemed to swallow even that faint light.

The captain feared the count, but perhaps this dungeon’s darkness terrified him too.

“Elon…”

Reciting a prayer he knew even in sleep, the light, nearly consumed, began to brighten.

Able to discern objects, Moriah conserved his divine power, satisfied with the current light.

Wasting it might leave him unable to heal Maximilian—an inversion of priorities.

Then, a rustle.

Moriah snapped his head toward the sound, the dungeon’s darkest corner.

Ignoring the stagnant water and rats underfoot, he ran.

Scritch, squeak, rustle…

Rats clustered in the shadows.

Chanting to amplify Elon’s holy light, the rats scattered.

And there, beneath them…

“Brother Maximilian.”

Maximilian leaned against the cold dungeon wall, his eyes gouged out.