Chapter 19: Betrayal (2)

Rain poured from dawn.

An old wound from battles against the Demon King’s Army throbbed, waking Morik.

The cityscape outside his window was dark and shrouded in gray.

The old knight forced his body, heavy as his armor, to move.

Each year added weight, and now each day felt too burdensome to bear.

Washing his face with effort, Morik sighed, realizing no part of his face was free of wrinkles.

He knew it was natural, but the rain made it impossible to hide his gloom.

Like mold creeping from the cellar’s edges—ignored and unneeded—time consumed Morik relentlessly.

Even the chickens didn’t crow in the rain.

Though morning had come, the city lingered, reluctant to stir.

Yet, through gaps in the storm clouds, faint sunlight spurred Morik, the castle’s servants, and maids to begin their somber day.

Walking the castle halls, Morik passed silent servants who offered quiet, habitual bows.

Soldiers on dawn duty, draped in ineffective raincoats, trudged between late shifts and early starts.

A familiar sight, no longer worth noting, yet it deepened Morik’s misery.

“Good morning, Morik.”

“…Good morning, Regart.”

Regart eyed Morik like an unwelcome guest before continuing on, as if the old knight could do nothing of note anymore.

Morik wanted to call out the irony of “good morning,” but he didn’t.

What defined a “good morning”? He didn’t want to waste time quibbling over greetings.

Truthfully, it wasn’t about wasting time—he didn’t want to squander his dwindling passion on meaningless things.

But what was worth pouring his spirit into? He still didn’t know.

Once, he believed it was guarding his lord, Tolland, and protecting the Human Empire from the Demon King’s Army.

Now? He wasn’t sure.

Morik felt lost—emotionally and literally.

Recently, Mosul buzzed with strange, unsettling events. No, “strange” didn’t cover it.

Wicked. That was the only word Morik could find.

He’d seen newly knighted, arrogant young knights leading soldiers to “hunt” beastmen in the city. A horrific, cruel spectacle.

Not from afar—right before his eyes.

At first, he roared: How dare they commit such atrocities against the city’s citizens? Did they not fear the Emperor’s wrath, the Border Count’s, or Elon’s righteous fury?

The response? Cold mockery.

Never had Morik faced such scorn and ridicule from youngsters. Furious, he sought the Border Count immediately.

This couldn’t stand.

How could such things happen in a land watched by the gods? Was this a sign of the apocalypse?

Clank! Opening his sworn lord’s door, he found Tolland entangled with a scantily clad man and woman, like snakes.

Tolland, yanked back to reality, rose with a scowl and faced his old friend.

Morik knew then—something was terribly wrong.

But there was no turning back.

“Your Excellency!”

Morik knelt before Tolland, as he had when swearing loyalty long ago.

Yet, this act differed. His heart had changed.

Once, Morik swore true loyalty, vowing never to abandon his lord, his friend, even if the gods forsook them.

Now? Kneeling before the Border Count, his silent cries and furious inner voice reached toward the celestial gods.

Gods, is what I heard true? Were the words of those mocking young knights and soldiers—pointing fingers at this old man—pure truth?

“What is it?”

Tolland’s eyes, once filled with compassion, affection, and trust, now held only annoyance, irritation, and simmering, unspoken rage.

Morik felt fear (Fear? Of what? An angry lord? Or something else…). He barely voiced the words he’d rehearsed down the long hall.

“…Your Excellency, I’ve witnessed young knights and soldiers hunting and killing innocent citizens in the city. When I confronted them, they claimed it was your order. This ignorant old knight struggles to comprehend what’s happening in this sacred city under your protection…”

Morik hoped Tolland would rage, curse the insolent knights and soldiers, and throw them into the dungeon.

He wanted him to denounce their horrific acts in this city blessed by Elon, to confess their sins and send them to the guillotine.

But Tolland merely picked at his ear, his face showing only annoyance.

“Is that all, Knight Morik?”

Morik realized something more terrifying than his own death was unfolding.

“You’re old. You should understand.”

“Indeed. Morik, you no longer need to serve me or the city. You’re of age—retire. Stop bothering me unannounced. Understood?”

“…Understood.”

That was the end.

Morik couldn’t recall how he returned to his room. Everything was shrouded in dark clouds.

Regart, the steward, thanked the retired knight for his loyalty, service, and dedication, saying he could keep his armor and sword.

Keep them? 

Laughable. 

The sword and armor were bought with his estate in his youth, long before Regart became steward.

Sigh.

Still reeling from the shock of his brief talk with his lord, Morik had no time.

Even Regart, met in the hall, looked at him as if he were a bothersome obstacle or a spent mercenary.

No time was given to bid farewell to those he’d known in the castle as a knight.

Everything I knew is gone. Vanished!

Morik planned to leave the city today.

He wasn’t without people to see, but he dismissed the thought of them.

Garland. 

The clumsy yet pure young man from the goblin extermination, who cared for his soldiers. Morik intended to meet him.

Knock, knock. 

He rapped on Garland’s door, his heart pounding fiercely.

***

Garland reflected on his meeting with his father.

For three days, he hadn’t left his room.

The Border Count neither worried nor visited, and the assigned servant left minimal meals at his door twice daily.

No one knocked or sought him.

“My son, I trust you understand my will.”

“…Yes. I’ll follow your will, Father.”

“That’s right. That’s my son.”

The father he revered was gone. Tolland Hamilton had fallen.

And Garland couldn’t defy his orders.

He couldn’t forget the witch at his father’s side, filing her nails with a prim expression, her soulless eyes—like a crow pecking at a corpse—chilling him as she left the office.

“Father…”

Garland recalled the sins he’d committed at his father’s command.

An innocent beastwoman, her belly swelling, lying comfortably in bed—her image haunted him.

“They dared to burn our city and build their own kingdom—rebels.”

Tolland’s words. Garland obeyed.

But the man, Mosul’s guardian and the Emperor’s loyal knight, had lied. 

A flimsy lie even a child could see through.

Yet Garland willingly fell for it, eagerly arresting the innocent woman and delivering her to his father.

She was sent to the Kingdom of Bers via an expensive dimensional stone.

The King of Bers’ delighted face still lingered in his mind, whether his eyes were open or shut.

Garland wished he could fall into a pit like the one Paramir accidentally triggered during a trap.

But leading soldiers to the slums, breaking down doors sword in hand, and arresting that woman—those memories couldn’t be cast into any pit.

The King of Bers’ joy, his father’s satisfaction, the steward standing by like scenery, and…

Medeya, boldly claiming his late mother’s place at his father’s side, tormented Garland endlessly.

Before the gathered onlookers in his father’s office, he recalled his actions.

He crushed the Elon sigil his mother gave him, threw it into the fireplace, and spat on it.

His father was immensely pleased—a satisfaction Garland had never seen before.

The Border Count—no, the King of Mosul—gave his son something to replace what he’d discarded.

Hokhma, the god orbiting the stars, the silver owl.

Garland couldn’t bring himself to discard the amulet his father personally placed around his neck, leaving it on the table instead.

The silver owl’s star-embedded eyes stared at him.

“My son, you will be king. After me.”

The King of Mosul had said so.

King? Impossible.

Tolland Hamilton, sworn to the Human Empire’s Emperor, was merely a knight, a general, a vassal managing Mosul in His Majesty’s name.

Calling himself “king” was treason, unless it was child’s play in an alley. Undeniable treason.

Yet the King of Bers called the Border Count “king,” and neither Tolland, the steward, nor the witch found the title odd or objectionable. A terrifying reality.

Garland couldn’t comprehend—or rather, couldn’t accept—what was happening in the city and his father’s transformation, despite understanding it all too well.

In his sleep, he cried out for his mother. 

Awake, he tried to pray to Elon in a daze, but the prayers he once recited naturally, from both heart and lips, wouldn’t come.

When he forced the words, an invisible hand seemed to seal his mouth.

Swallowing cold soup left by the servant, Garland saw himself in a ruined mirror.

His hair was disheveled, his unwashed body filthy and repulsive.

The radiant, promising young man who once drew all eyes was gone—taken by darkness, shadow, and a sinister conspiracy.

“Garland, don’t leave your father alone. Elon will protect you.”

No, Mother, you were wrong. Your final words didn’t come true…

In the mirror, Garland saw a vile sinner who betrayed the gods, his mother, the Emperor, and his true father.

It was irreversible.

The silver owl beneath the mirror watched him.

Glaring at it, he gritted his teeth and reached to wear it.

If he couldn’t turn back, he’d move forward, even into the abyss of hell…

Knock, knock.

Elon’s will came for Garland.