Fall (2)

At that moment, another Messenger who had been standing by Hathir sprang forward and blocked the attack with his body.

Of course, he didn’t just throw himself blindly. He drew his Shadowsteel Blade from tradition and met the incoming Shadowsteel Blade with his own to defend. Surprisingly, he succeeded in protecting Hathir.

Though he suffered a grievous injury with his fingers torn and severed, it was a small price to pay for such a perfect ambush.

“Urgh!”

“Chief!”

“Tch.”

Hathir turned his gaze toward the direction the arrow had come from. Azadine had revealed himself at the second-floor window of the audience chamber in the royal palace.

“Ah, Azadine!”

“You bastard! How dare you aim at the Chief!”

The Messenger Clan members were enraged that one of their own had shot the Shadowsteel Blade at their leader, but Azadine too was shocked to see his fellow Messengers throwing themselves in harm’s way to protect Hathir.

“Are you insane? You throw your bodies for the one who bound us with the Curse of Servitude!?”

“How dare you!”

“A traitor like you has no right to question us.”

The Aragasa saw salvation just ahead. Even if it wasn’t through just means, they had long been persecuted through unjust means—there was nothing left for them to see clearly.

All at once, the entire clan aimed their bows at Azadine. No matter how skilled he was, Azadine couldn’t possibly dodge or block all these attacks. Especially since many of them were using Shadowsteel Blades.

‘How long have they been preparing for this? That many Shadowsteel Blades… Damn it.’

Azadine sensed death approaching.

–Sweeaaak!

Arrows rained down upon Azadine almost simultaneously.

Just when Azadine had accepted his fate, an unexpected change occurred.

Manza-Jadek, whose massive frame was closer to an ogre than a human, threw himself in the way and shielded Azadine from the arrows.

“Y-Your Majesty!”

Azadine, who had once been wary of Manza-Jadek’s ruined spirit, was deeply moved.

When the entire clan sought his death, it was not one of his own, but rather their enemy—their king—who threw himself forward to protect him.

“Don’t worry. Isn’t it the duty of those older to protect promising young ones? Putting on some weight worked out well. Even after taking arrows, I’m still…”

There was no way he was actually fine.

The arrows lodged in his body were Shadowsteel Blades. Arrows that could blow off even an ogre’s head wouldn’t simply fail because of some added fat.

Yet the Shadowsteel Blades failed to pierce through Manza-Jadek because he was drawing on his spiritual power to cast powerful defensive magic, and even using forbidden sorcery—blood magic—banned by the King’s Church.

He was already mortally wounded, but he moved his body and stopped the bleeding through blood magic.

However…

“I had hoped to spend my remaining time in peace, but you lot are far too rowdy.”

Hathir grumbled as he twisted his hand in the air.

The arrows embedded in Manza-Jadek’s body began to spin violently. Like a school of carnivorous fish gnashing into prey, the arrows writhed in unison and shredded his wounds.

“Gaaaargh!”

Manza-Jadek screamed. The blood magic holding his body together shattered, and blood gushed from his wounds like a waterfall.

The shock of the sudden bleeding sent his eyes rolling back and convulsions wracking his body. If he went into shock, there would be no coming back.

Thus, the Golden King of Vthuma fell, willingly sacrificing his body to protect one soul-less, impious youth of the Messenger Clan.

“Urgh!”

Azadine picked up the fallen Shadowsteel Blades around him and fired them in rapid succession at the Chief.

Even if he was the Chief—an overwhelmingly powerful figure—Shadowsteel Blades were still deadly weapons.

However… the clan members blocked Azadine’s arrows. They threw their bodies forward to protect Chief Hathir without hesitation.

‘Damn it!’

Azadine didn’t want to kill his own clan. If only Hathir could be brought down, could this nightmare be stopped?

But that wasn’t going to happen. They all threw their lives on the line to protect Hathir.

Even if it meant drowning this world in the evil of the Nether, if it could cleanse their resentment, they would follow Hathir’s will without hesitation. Even if he had deceived the clan and ruled them through curses, as long as they could destroy other peoples, other nations, they would guard him with their lives.

What made it worse was that Hathir didn’t even try to dodge.

‘Please! Move aside! Why are you going this far!?’

With tears of blood in his heart, Azadine fired one Shadowsteel Blade after another, aiming to break through the defense and strike down Hathir.

But because of the clan’s wall of defense, he couldn’t even scratch him.

And then—

–Thwack!

A Shadowsteel Blade pierced through Azadine’s bow and the left arm holding it. His wrist bone snapped, and the front of his forearm was blown clean off.

“Gah!”

In an instant, blood gushed out.

Azadine had endured many wounds before, but this was the first time he’d experienced the horror of losing an arm.

At first, it didn’t even hurt. Even though his arm flew off before his eyes, it felt distant, like it was happening to someone else.

But to stop the bleeding, he had to clamp his armpit shut and press the wound with his right hand immediately.

The wound was too severe. If left unattended for more than ten seconds, he would certainly bleed to death. But while stemming the bleeding, Azadine couldn’t do anything else.

He couldn’t even defend himself.

–Sweeak!

A clan member’s blade flew at Azadine.

Azadine couldn’t draw his sword to swing back—he could only dodge. But the wound was too deep, and he had lost too much blood. His body no longer obeyed him.

The blade struck Azadine’s body. Although he wore armor, which stopped it from cutting his flesh, the sheer force knocked him down.

Under normal circumstances, that blow wouldn’t have brought him down. But Azadine’s current condition was far from normal.

“Die, traitor!”

The clan members raised their blades to finish Azadine off.

But then, with a thunderous blast, the attacker was flung away from Azadine.

A deafening roar followed as stone debris rained down inside the palace.

It was a stone mortar projectile—an artillery shot fired from a carved stone ball. Shockingly, someone had turned a siege cannon toward the royal palace and fired.

“Your Majesty!”

Soldiers and knights poured into the audience chamber.

Among them were soldiers from the Blue Turban Party, their eyes glowing yellow, all in a frenzy.

Though the Messengers rained arrows upon them, these soldiers did not die even when struck in the head.

Now that the throne of Yaegas had been tainted with the language of the Nether, these followers of Grimslone were gaining power instead.

“Kh!”

“What shall we do?”

“Our goal is achieved. Let’s withdraw.”

Hathir, having already completed the desecration of the throne, no longer intended to remain here.

Someone might sit on the throne in the Golden King’s stead and breathe life into the Heavenly King’s Book of Truth once more to restore the Throne of Yaegas—but the Golden King’s children, the princes, lacked the strength to match their father.

Now that the Light of the Crown had vanished, Vthuma stood on the brink of ruin.

“What about the traitor…?”

The Messengers looked at the collapsed Azadine and asked Hathir for his decision.

Hathir cast a cold glance at Azadine, who lay unconscious with his left arm severed.

“With that wound, he’ll die anyway. And even if he lives, what use is a one-armed Messenger? More importantly, hurry. Blink once, and we’ll be surrounded.”

The Messenger Clan leapt out the windows to escape the approaching Vthuma soldiers.

Though the soldiers tried to pursue them, they had no means of catching those who moved across heights twice a man’s height as if it were flat ground.

“Damn.”

Karzen, who had led the returning soldiers, clicked his tongue as he watched the Messengers flee.

The king had been assassinated, and the perpetrators escaped.

A few were struck down or wounded by Azadine’s arrows and remained… but the death of the Golden King Manza-Jadek would bring a tremendous catastrophe upon Vthuma.

Moreover…

With the Light of the Crown gone, the ominous shadow reflected in the sky grew stronger still.

When Azadine opened his eyes, he found himself lying on damp earth. He looked around and saw iron bars surrounding him—his body bare.

“My arm…”

His left hand and about an inch above the wrist had been severed.

Amber-colored sap clung to the wound, stopping the bleeding. It was Grimslone’s sap. It had sealed Azadine’s injury and prevented his death. Without it, he would have perished.

“Am I a prisoner now?”

Azadine muttered unconsciously.

[You are.]

The Emperor’s Voice answered in his place.

“What happened? Where am I?”

[This is Amun-Jadek’s prison.]

“Amun-Jadek?”

[He is the son of the Golden King Manza-Jadek and currently the most likely heir to the throne.]

“Hm.”

Azadine sat up and turned his head. His condition was better than expected.

“What’s the situation now?”

[With the Light of the Crown gone, the Naga have intensified their assault using Nether monsters. The Vthuma army lost its center. Fortunately, thanks to the Blue Turban Party—composed of Grimslone’s followers—we managed a disciplined retreat from Vthuma. The army is now taking shelter in nearby farms and fortresses, having lost the capital.]

“And the public sentiment?”

[The people are furious at the Messenger Clan. They believe you killed the king they loved and respected and ushered in the Age of Jupiter. Even though you fought against your own clan, they won’t distinguish between individuals.]

“Well, the Golden King is dead, after all.”

Azadine recalled the king’s final moments.

Though he was abandoned by his own clan, it was not his own people but the Divine King of Yaegas who had thrown himself forward to save him.

Even if madness had taken him in the end, he had truly been a great king.

Considering such a figure was killed by the clan, it was inevitable that the people’s hatred toward the Messengers would intensify.

Kingslayer. Soulless blasphemer.

The weight of the stigma that now followed the clan settled heavily on Azadine.

“What about the Emperor’s Voice—what will it do? Is the contract with the clan still valid?”

Would the Emperor’s Voice still recognize the Aragasa—those who had forsaken their divine mission and now relied on Nether sorcery—as Messengers?

When Azadine asked, the Emperor’s Voice replied.

[The contract with the Aragasa has been annulled.]

“……”

Though he had expected it, hearing the contract had truly been broken made his mind reel. So the Curse of Servitude hadn’t come from the Emperor but rather from the Elders—Chief Hathir himself?

Was it really a contract that could be broken so easily?

“Then what about me?”

[You are the only Messenger who remains.]

“Really?”

Azadine looked down at his severed hand.

With this wound, he would no longer be able to draw a bow properly. And yet, he was now the Emperor’s only remaining Messenger.

A bitter smile crept across his lips.

Thanks to Grimslone’s sap, perhaps. Despite losing so much blood, his condition was relatively stable.

“Ugh…”

Was it because he looked at the wound?

Suddenly, the missing left hand throbbed in pain. Strangely, even though it was no longer there, it itched and ached as if it still existed.

There was pain at the stump too, but even more unbearable was the phantom itching and throbbing of what was no longer there.

Driven mad by the itch, yet unable to scratch it—Azadine was caught between agony and frustration.