CH-114
114 Inexplicable
The young man Shurik's words stunned both individuals present.
Then his gaze shifted towards the alchemist, as if the answer lay hidden within that glance.
The old king felt his blood run cold, an icy dread crawling up his spine.
The initial fervor and joy he had felt upon first seeing the translucent figure in the flask were instantly doused by a chilling wave of clarity.
Yes, he had publicly announced a search for a successor.
If he were to suddenly die during this "man in a flask" experiment, the alchemist could easily claim to be the king's chosen heir. Then, he could rightfully seize the throne.
The alchemist, standing nearby, saw the shift in the old king's expression and realized the young man's words had successfully planted seeds of doubt.
He hastily defended himself: "Your Majesty, I have never coveted your throne! I only seek to complete a feat of alchemy worthy of the history books..."
Before he could finish, Shu Li interjected calmly: "What reward have you accepted?"
That simple, understated question pierced the old king's heart like an icy needle.
"Indeed... you have asked for nothing from me."
The king recalled all his interactions with the alchemist.
Though the king had promised titles and gold upon success, the alchemist had never once asked for a reward.
The alchemist: "..." He was utterly speechless. He knew the king was growing impatient with the experiment's slow progress, yet he had kept his head down and worked tirelessly, without complaint or demand for compensation, waiting for the final payoff. Now, with just a few pointed words from this youth, the king's suspicion had sprouted and was rapidly growing.
The alchemist shot a glance at Shurik. He hated the youth's calm, indifferent expression. He hated how, with just a few sentences, he had maneuvered him into a corner, step by step, like a cold, venomous snake.
But more than that, he hated the king. He had poured his heart and soul into this experiment, spending countless sleepless nights in the alchemy workshop, exhausting himself, never once indulging in any luxury or relaxation. And now, because of a few words from a stranger he'd met only once, his entire dedication was being dismissed.
He clenched his fists, but still immediately knelt before the king. "Your Majesty, my unwavering loyalty these many days cannot be faked. And the homunculus is indeed developing and growing. Is that not proof of my efforts?"
"Furthermore, how can you trust this youth of unknown origin?"
He looked at the king, but his finger pointed accusingly at Shurik. "Is he not suspicious?"
The young man merely chuckled softly from the side, offering no further words.
The king noticed this and asked coldly: "What are you laughing at?"
"I laugh at the naked ambition, and at Your Majesty's willful ignorance and clinging to false hope."
The young man's words were few, but their impact was immense.
He continued: "If the alchemist desires neither wealth nor status, but only the completion of his experiment – even to the point of murder and arson – why would he willingly hand over the final product to someone else?"
The young man raised his voice, questioning: "Simply because you are the king? The most powerful man in the Duchy of Sermon?"
"If, after achieving his goal, his power surpasses yours, why would he ever submit to you again?"
The alchemist's eyes widened. He fell to his knees with a thud and crawled closer to the king, his voice trembling.
He detested Shurik's manipulations.
Yet he knew his life hung on the king's whim. He had to persuade the king to spare him.
He felt wronged, aggrieved, and utterly frustrated.
He had worked so diligently.
All he wanted was to seize the closest thing to a miracle his alchemical career would ever see.
He trusted the king would not mistreat him.
Success meant fame and fortune!
That was his original wish.
Yet, strangely, the youth's words had acted like scissors, cutting open a seam to reveal ambitions he himself had never dared to fully acknowledge or examine.
Yes, if the homunculus was born, if that power belonged solely to him... perhaps he could even rule himself.
The thought flickered for only a moment before exploding in his mind. The alchemist's pupils constricted.
He desperately suppressed the surge of greed, his reason screaming that he couldn't let anyone detect this shift.
Thus, the alchemist could only force down his emotions, his mind racing to find reasons why the king shouldn't kill him.
If loyalty wasn't enough, what else did he have?
Right now, he was the only one capable of completing the experiment.
He had the skill, the experience, the results.
He himself was the most valuable asset.
The king had invested too much to give up now.
He just needed to convince him.
Just—
"Right now, the only one who can complete the experiment,"
Shurik suddenly spoke again, cutting off the alchemist's desperate internal plea,
"is you. That's why Your Majesty won't bear to kill you, isn't that right?"
Hearing this come from the young man's mouth was entirely different than if he had said it himself.
If he said it, it was a statement, a plea, a display of loyalty.
If the young man said it, it was an insinuation, a manipulation, a reduction of him to a mere tool!
"Your Majesty!" he cried out, his breathing ragged. "He speaks with a honeyed tongue, his words are cunning! He is a serpent, a demon! He is deliberately cornering me into a trap of disloyalty and deceit! Please, do not believe him!"
He broke down in tears.
Who could have imagined that on this otherwise peaceful night, when he had been contemplating the demise of that miracle youth, he himself would be the one facing life and death, all because of a few words from his target?
The king remained silent, his face grim and unreadable. "...Naturally, I do not trust Shurik. I don't even know his origins."
The alchemist's heart eased slightly, relieved. He kowtowed. "Thank you for your trust, Your Majesty!"
But the king wasn't finished. "Yet, he makes a compelling point."
"Your Majesty—?!"
The king drew the sword beside his throne and walked towards him. "You claim loyalty, and that you only wish to see the experiment succeed. Then I will give you that chance. As long as you can cultivate the homunculus, I will not let you die during this time."
What did that mean?
A string snapped in the alchemist's mind.
Was the king saying that once the homunculus was successfully created, he would be put to death?
The king raised his voice towards the guards. "Someone! Bring shackles for his hands and feet!"
The alchemist's heart turned to cold, lifeless ash.
In truth, while Shurik had been speaking, the king had been intently watching the alchemist's face.
He had been thinking: Is this man deceiving me?
Does he dare to covet my scepter?
The alchemist, of rural and unsophisticated background, had maintained an expression of wronged innocence the entire time. Only when Shurik mentioned he could become king did the alchemist's expression flicker for a single instant.
That single instant was enough to condemn him.
Scum!
How dare some mud-born wretch even dream of my throne?
The king was inwardly furious.
Yet, Shurik was right.
The homunculus experiment was nearing its final stage. Regardless of success or failure, the king was now inextricably bound to this alchemical abyss.
He currently couldn't do without the alchemist.
"You've always said it takes forty weeks to fully cultivate the homunculus?"
The king's cold voice filled the alchemist with despair. "I will no longer rush you. You said forty weeks, so forty weeks it shall be. We will wait patiently."
He paused, then added: "However, from now on, you will only provide guidance from the sidelines. I will personally handle the hands-on work."
The king had observed the process several times and saw no particular difficulty. Wasn't it simply a matter of killing, extracting the heart, and collecting the blood?
The alchemist's head shot up, his eyes wide with shock and disbelief.
Shurik, meanwhile, remained silent, merely watching coldly.
The king then slowly turned, his gaze falling upon the young man's face like a blade of cold steel. "And you? I don't trust you."
"I will achieve immortality!"
With a flick of his wrist, the king's blade gleamed coldly in the candlelight, seeming to repel even the warmth of the light. He pressed the sword against Shurik's neck, his voice harsh. "Tonight, you shall be the sacrifice."
If this youth's heart blood could indeed accelerate the awakening of the homunculus, then the king had to admit his special nature. He could indeed bring about miracles.
But by then, the king would already possess the elixir of immortality. The youth's prophecy would be rendered meaningless.
And if nothing happened at all, then the king had even less reason to fear the youth's baseless predictions.
The sword rested against the young man's neck, holding him immobile.
The blade was so sharp that merely pressing it against the skin drew a thin line of blood. The blood trickled down, rapidly staining his collar.
The king's expression was ruthless. Even if the Lord Himself stood before him, he would dare to step over Him.
"I will make you understand what it means – the inviolability of royal authority!"
The three of them walked past the yielding knights in the corridor, leaving the royal council chamber and heading straight for the blood-soaked alchemy workshop.
*
Tonight, the moon was bright.
The stars were sparse and clear.
Tonight, the wind was strong.
The trees groaned like mourners.
The shadows of the three men, like a silent, dark river, flowed, intertwined, and separated among the courtyards and corridors.
For the alchemist, gripped by the despair of impending death, the path to the alchemy workshop felt agonizingly long, as if he would never reach its end.
Yet, amidst this tomb-like silence, the young man held at sword-point by the king spoke.
Initially, the alchemist hadn't paid much attention to Shurik's persistent arguments. But now, he realized the young man's voice, echoing in the vast corridor, was thin yet dense, clear, penetrating, limpid, and solemn.
It was like a priest's sermon, each syllable vibrating against the eardrums and the heart.
"He was originally just an apprentice at an apothecary."
The young man Shurik stared at the extra, discordant shadow on the ground, his voice slow and steady, like a long, flowing streak of light across the night sky.
His steps remained unbroken, his voice low, yet it reached everyone's ears clearly in the night.
He didn't ask for permission. As if speaking only to himself, he continued: "To satisfy his thirst for alchemy, he worked during the day – doing odd jobs, preparing medicines, performing simple medical procedures. At night, he would curl up in a small corner of the apothecary, studying ancient texts bought from the black market by the dim candlelight, attempting experiments over and over."
There was no inflection in his voice, no noticeable pauses for breath.
The young man spoke as if reciting a prayer he knew by heart, effortlessly continuing the unfamiliar story.
The king's brow furrowed slightly.
The young man hadn't named anyone, but the king inexplicably recalled the alchemist once mentioning he had been a somewhat renowned physician in his hometown.
"The ancient texts contained forbidden knowledge, instructions on how to create life within a flask."
"He was ecstatic, as if he had found a priceless treasure. He used the apothecary's equipment, adding ingredients listed in the book into the flask day after day. But the flask remained inert, a dark, bottomless pit, swallowing all his savings without any sign of progress."
"Alchemy, alchemy – it refines gold, but it is a monster that devours gold."
The alchemist's steps faltered. He stared at the young man, his face draining of color, as if the night wind had pierced right through him.
He had never told this story to anyone, yet the young man before him seemed to have witnessed it all, recounting every detail with terrifying accuracy.
"Left with no choice," the young man continued calmly, walking ahead of the king towards the workshop, as if on a pilgrimage, or preaching towards the sanctuary, "he borrowed more and more money from the physician, his boss. Desperate for funds, he even turned to gambling, sinking deeper and deeper."
"But he was a failure."
"One day."
"The physician finally grew suspicious. He noticed missing equipment from the apothecary, found the apprentice's secret handling of patients' blood unsettling, and worried about his growing gambling habit. Without a word, the physician stormed into his room and discovered the hidden flask."
The alchemist's face contorted. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breathing became labored, and his lips trembled uncontrollably.
He hunched over, his back feeling impossibly heavy.
The young man's voice hammered against his eardrums, making him feel as dizzy as if he were standing on a precipice.
"He tried to explain. But the physician was furious. As he raised the flask to smash it, the apprentice finally snapped. He killed the physician, then killed the physician's wife. He should have killed their young son as well, but the child wasn't home. He couldn't wait. He simply took all the money he could find, along with the heart blood of the physician and his wife, and dripped it into the flask."
The young man paused, his gaze cool, as if he had witnessed the entire scene. "That day, something within the flask stirred for the first time."
"The apprentice knew then, he would succeed."
"He needed even greater success!"
"He stole the physician's signet ring. He killed and bled his way across the land, heading straight for Levanci, knocking on the palace gates and gaining an audience with the king."
The king found himself holding his breath during this sermon-like narration.
The young man still didn't look at anyone.
His gaze remained fixed straight ahead.
He didn't accuse, nor did he interrogate. He simply spoke, with chilling composure.
Words of madness, of blood, of sin fell from his lips devoid of emotion, making them feel all the more piercing.
The king stood between them – before him, the miracle youth he threatened with his sword; behind him, the sinner he had ordered shackled hand and foot.
The youth had laid bare the sinner's soul.
On one side, divine revelation. On the other, utter madness.
And he stood between divinity and damnation, being torn apart.
The old king felt genuine fear.
As he listened to this story, a chill crept into his heart. The chill wasn't directed at the story, nor at the ugliness of human nature, but at this young man.
Who was he?
How could he know such precise details?
The two had never met. Even if he were guessing, he couldn't possibly be so accurate with every detail.
Unconsciously, the king moved his sword away from the young man's shoulder.
But the young man continued walking forward, his head held high.
Until he spoke: "We've arrived."
There, before them, stood the alchemy workshop.
Both the king and the alchemist felt their breath catch simultaneously.
*
The visible part of the alchemy workshop was a simple, unremarkable stone building, grey and ancient. Its windows were sealed tight to prevent prying eyes.
However, hundreds of meters below the workshop, within the abandoned, labyrinthine pipe systems of old, lay a secret passage used for disposing of bodies.
The remains of young men and women had once piled up like mountains in that dark, damp space, emitting an unbearable stench.
Thus, the alchemist was forced to periodically incinerate the bodies, reducing them to ash. This served both to quell the foul air and to clear space for more corpses.
This building, too, would eventually be burned and buried.
But not yet.
At this moment, neither the king nor the alchemist wanted to enter. It was as if they feared having their sins exposed before them, or that this was a trap set by the miracle youth.
Stepping into this den of iniquity felt like inviting inevitable punishment.
For the alchemist especially, it seemed that the moment his feet touched the blood-soaked stones, the vengeful spirits of his victims would rise and drag him down, never to let him escape.
But the king wouldn't allow the young man to be alone with the homunculus.
He finally stepped through the doorway.
The young man Shurik stood before the forbidden miracle in its flask. He reached out and pulled away the thick red velvet cloth covering it.
As the fabric slid away, the young man held his breath.
It was a massive flask, about fifty centimeters tall, its glass body crystal clear.
Suspended within was a semi-translucent, curled-up entity, floating silently, soundlessly, like a pure white heart growing within the vessel.
This being, fed on blood, showed no trace of crimson. Instead, it was snow-white and sacred, a tangible manifestation of some divine wonder.
Faced with this sight, Shurik instinctively turned his head to look at the king and the alchemist. But as he twisted his neck, he felt again the sharp, cold sting of the wound left by the king's sword.
He reached up, intending to check the depth of the cut and see if the bleeding had stopped. His fingertips met warm, slick liquid.
The blood flowed into his palm, spreading along the lines of his hand.
Under the astonished gazes of the king and the alchemist, the youth, who seemed like a divine messenger descended to earth, slowly extended his bloodstained fingers towards the mouth of the flask.
His blood dripped, drop by drop, into the opening.
In that instant, the entity within the flask trembled faintly, as if responding to a summons.
Its form actively rose to meet the drops of Shurik's blood.
The blood was absorbed through its translucent skin, the crimson path visible as it seeped inward. Then, gradually, it flowed towards the center of its chest.
There, a tiny red heart, no bigger than a small bean, pulsed visibly.
The blood merged, the heart throbbed, and then the entity returned to its transparent state.
This sight was all too familiar to the alchemist and the king.
But amidst the profound silence, the small entity slowly opened its eyes.
What kind of eyes were they?
Clear and tranquil, like light born of nature itself, utterly detached from all worldly things. They were like the first light of dawn, or the lingering glow of sunset.
Its gaze met Shurik's directly.
In that moment, time itself seemed to stand still.
The young man's limbs grew rigid, his blood seeming to flow in reverse. His entire consciousness felt like it was slowly drowning within that gaze.
Yet the homunculus, like a newborn chick imprinting, simply gazed intently at the young man before it.
The king, unable to contain his excitement any longer, roughly shoved Shurik aside.
The entity in the flask merely swayed slightly, then calmly closed its eyes once more.
It was as if to say, if it hadn't been a trick of the light, then that single opening of its eyes had been solely for Shurik.
As the homunculus slowly closed its eyes again, silence returned to the alchemy workshop.
A moment later, the king began to laugh.
"Ha... hahahaha!!!"
It started as a choked sound in his throat, then a low chuckle, finally escalating into uncontrollable, booming laughter.
The king's shoulders shook violently, as if struck by an immense wave of joy.
He turned to look at Shurik, his gaze no longer cold or fearful, but burning with an almost obsessive fervor.
"It *is* you! It's your blood!" he exclaimed. "Just now, it opened its eyes! It responded to you..."
He raised his hand once more, lifting his sword.
The blade gleamed with a cold, blue-white light in the candlelight.
His eyes held only pious madness and greedy hope.
"Give me your heart's blood!"
"I want immortality!!!"
Meanwhile, the alchemist, who had remained at the doorway without entering, was engulfed by terror.
The king had gone mad.
And he was about to die!
He whirled around and, while the king's attention was fixed on Shurik, began stumbling away from the palace, his shackles clanking with each desperate step.
But he hadn't made it more than a few dozen meters when two agile figures burst from the shadows.
One moved with the silent, predatory grace of a wolf.
The other swooped down like an eagle from above.
Their killing intent was swift and decisive.
"I'll handle him."
Kyle's words had barely left his lips when the pommel of his dagger slammed heavily into the back of the alchemist's head. The alchemist stumbled, a cry just escaping his lips as he collapsed to his knees.
The secrecy surrounding the alchemy project meant that both the king and the alchemist disliked having patrols nearby. This provided an immense advantage for their covert mission within the palace.
To truly halt this alchemy, the alchemist had to die.
Kyle flipped his dagger, preparing to drive the blade into the alchemist's back, when he sensed movement in the bushes beside him.
He turned sharply, just in time to see a young man, covered in grass and leaves, silently rising from the undergrowth.
He, too, held a dagger, his gaze as cold and relentless as an endless blizzard.
It was Phillips.
In truth, both Claude and Kyle had been aware of his presence. They had simply maintained a silent, mutual understanding not to acknowledge it.
Claude had initially wanted to hint at driving him away. After all, their identities were tied to the Empire's surveillance, control, and intervention in Sermon. For a citizen of the Duchy, their assassination mission would be unacceptable.
But Kyle had stopped him.
It wasn't just because of the few days they'd shared in the carriage.
Kyle had noticed this young man back when he first infiltrated the successor group.
One couldn't say whether it was resilience or sheer stubbornness.
Many of the children in the group, though initially drawn by the glory and hope of becoming a successor, had been treated poorly by the knights. They were denied adequate rest, and those who lagged behind were subjected to insults and even whips.
Some, unable to bear the hardship, had already fled.
Only Phillips, despite receiving the most lashings, had persevered all the way here.
Throughout the journey, he displayed the knowledge and bearing of a wealthy upbringing, yet he remained secretive about his identity and trusted no one easily.
Was his desire to change his fate by becoming a successor truly so strong?
Or... could he be the old king's illegitimate son?
Kyle entertained various theories.
Though curious, he hadn't dwelled on it much.
Not until he and Claude infiltrated the palace and discovered, to their surprise, that this young man had secretly followed them the entire way.
Kyle had initially dismissed him as just another stubborn candidate. But this silent persistence and unwavering resolve surpassed anyone he had ever seen.
So, for the remainder of their infiltration, Kyle quietly cleared obstacles in Phillips's path, tacitly allowing him to trail behind. Until now, they stood together outside the alchemy workshop, having just heard Shurik's story.
Kyle now understood his identity.
Phillips, his expression dark, asked in a low voice: "Let me be the one to kill him."
Kyle didn't waste words. He simply stepped aside.
The alchemist, looking up, recognized Phillips's face. "You... you!?"
"Phillips!!" He scrambled to escape. "Spare me! I was blinded by greed when I... when I accidentally killed your parents! Give me a chance to atone..."
Before he could finish, Phillips's blade flashed, piercing straight through his chest.
The alchemist fell onto his back, dead outside the alchemy workshop.
Phillips knelt beside the corpse, as if all strength had left him. For a moment, he couldn't move, tears streaming down his face.
"I didn't see you here tonight," Kyle stated flatly, turning his back.
He wasn't one to offer comfort, nor did he intend to. His only concern was disposing of the body quickly and finding Claude.
But this brief delay proved costly. Inside the workshop, only the king's corpse remained. Claude and Shurik were gone, and the flask on the table was empty.
Regardless, Kyle began dealing with the evidence. He swiftly pulled out the king's sword and drove it into the alchemist's chest, disguising the original wound.
He was about to stage the scene as a mutual kill when Phillips silently joined in, already having set the workshop ablaze.
The fire roared in the night like a demon's shriek, its heat searing their faces.
Kyle said, without looking back: "I'm not a good person."
It was a clear dismissal, hoping Phillips wouldn't follow.
But the young man followed anyway, and Kyle said nothing more.
They began tracking Claude's direction, following the trail of blood while erasing any suspicious signs.
"How did they get so far?" Kyle frowned. "No one was chasing them."
In their minds, Claude must be trying to get Shurik to safety.
Whether for the mission's sake or for Shurik's own, he needed to be rescued.
But when they tracked them to the high castle walls, they witnessed Claude pushing Shurik over the edge.
*
Inside the alchemy workshop.
Claude had attacked from behind, his movements swift and precise, like a practiced assassination. He had succeeded quickly.
As he killed the king without hesitation under the watchful eyes of others, Claude's voice remained unnervingly calm. "Since you can see the past and the future, you must also know I've killed countless people."
Still, he didn't want to reveal the ring to Shurik, nor let him know he intended to steal the homunculus.
"Get out and find Kyle. He'll heal you."
After being thrown off by the old king and losing a significant amount of blood from his neck wound, Shurik's vision was swimming in and out of blackness. He lacked the strength to struggle. Instead, he said weakly: "You want to secretly steal the homunculus without Kyle knowing, don't you?"
Claude had expected this, but his heart still sank.
He had no intention of lying or making excuses. He quickly produced the silver ring to save time and avoid being discovered by Kyle.
The silver ring contained a magical array.
Resonating with the ring, the homunculus floated out of the flask on its own.
Before entering the ring, like a newborn animal not yet accustomed to opening its eyes, it drifted with its eyes closed, following the scent of blood on Shurik's neck. It drew close and began to lick the wound.
The heart in its chest grew redder with each swallow of blood.
Claude noticed the blood flow from Shurik's neck had slowed. Though the man before him was pale, he seemed to have regained some spirit.
Finally, the homunculus slipped into the silver ring of its own accord.
Faced with this, Claude felt a wave of relief. The mission was a success.
Just then, Shurik suddenly cried out in pain, clutching his head.
"What's wrong?" Claude asked.
If Audora healed that wound, it would likely leave no trace.
Shurik said with difficulty: "My neck hurts so much... crouch down and take a look for me..."
Claude knelt down, about to examine Shurik's bloodied neck. But before he could react, the silver ring was snatched from his hand once more.
The young man pushed himself off the ground, agile as a fox. He quickly put distance between himself and Claude, then turned and fled.
Claude's heart clenched. He immediately gave chase.
He had known this person could carry someone his own age for an hour, proving he had stamina. But he hadn't expected such agility.
"Give it back!"
Claude chased him all the way to the castle battlements. There was nowhere left to run.
Unless he could transform into a bird and fly away, he had no choice but to return the ring.
Shurik knew this too. Leaning against the wall, gasping for breath, he still spoke with unwavering determination: "Claude, you know this is an instrument of harm. Taking it back to the capital will only lead to more sacrifices. What benefit does this bring you?"
"Give it back." Claude didn't want to argue further. He drew his dagger, threatening: "We are not friends. I don't mind adding one more to my kill count."
Shurik knew this was no idle threat, yet he continued passionately: "Claude, is fulfilling your father's expectations worth sacrificing others' lives? A man of honor knows what he should and shouldn't do. Acting like this only invites contempt."
Claude froze.
Those words stung.
Just his father's expectations?
He let out a cold laugh, his gaze turning sharper. "If you truly understood me, would you say such things so lightly?"
Shurik: "..."
Claude's voice was low and hoarse, clearly struggling to control his rising emotions. "What can you give me? I have no other family, only my father. Do you want me to lose my last remaining relative as well? What do you understand? If you can't stand it, then just kill me!"
Did he truly enjoy this life of constant danger?
Did he even want to go on living?
Shurik fell silent, seeing the desperation in Claude's eyes – a despair born of helplessness and bitterness. For a moment, he couldn't speak.
Seeing his hesitation, Claude seized the opportunity and lunged, grappling with Shurik for the ring. As they struggled, the silver ring was wrenched back into Claude's grasp. Shurik, weakened and dizzy, stumbled backward.
His vision went black, his head spinning. He never expected his footing to slip, sending him tumbling over the edge of the battlement.
"Shurik!"
Claude lunged forward, managing to grab his wrist just in time.
But Shurik's hand was cold and slick with blood from blood loss, impossible to hold.
Shurik dangled in mid-air, the forest floor dozens of meters below him like a gaping maw of a beast.
A cold wind rushed up from below. Life and death hung by a thread.
It took Shurik a long moment to process what was happening. Claude, gritting his teeth, leaned further over the edge, straining to grab Shurik's arm, to hook his shoulder.
The veins on Claude's arms bulged. "Snap out of it! Help me by grabbing the stones on the wall! Use them for leverage!"
When Shurik's eyes regained focus, Claude was already half-hanging over the wall himself. Shurik murmured, almost involuntarily: "How are you still holding on...?"
Claude didn't want to discuss trivialities.
The gaps between the battlement stones were tight, offering no handholds.
He just wanted Shurik to realize the gravity of his situation. But after calming down, Shurik only looked at him with a deep, profound gaze.
"It seems my time is up. There's no saving me."
"Claude, they say dying men speak true. I know you don't like me, but I still want to say: Don't trust your father. Don't trust that half-brother of yours."
"They will harm you. They will have you exiled, trap you in the Northern Territory, and ruin everything for you."
"Don't trust them!"
A spark of anger ignited in Claude's heart. "Are you insane? Right now, you need to—" grab hold of me...
Before he could finish, the young man's grip on Claude's arm suddenly loosened, and he was swallowed by the darkness.
Claude's hand grasped at empty air.
The wind whipped at his clothes. The sea of trees below silently received the falling figure.
It was some time before Claude noticed Kyle and Phillips standing behind him.
"Why did you push him?"
Claude pressed his lips together, his blood running hot and cold. "I didn't push him."
Kyle's gaze was icy. "But we saw you reach out, and then he fell."
Claude wanted to say he was trying to save him, but the scene might not have looked that way. He never bothered to explain himself, and right now, he was especially agitated.
"If you didn't push him, then why didn't you save him?" Phillips's eyes were sharp as knives.
Kyle followed up: "Or was he in your way?"
In the way?
Kyle was implying he had chosen not to save him.
Claude abruptly looked up. "I've already said what I needed to say."
The air grew cold.
Claude said nothing more. He lowered his arm, his fingertips trembling slightly. The silver ring in his palm felt icy cold.
He turned and walked away, but his steps felt heavier than ever before.
On the journey back to the capital, the atmosphere among the three was suffocatingly heavy, as if a mountain pressed down on them.
For members of the Shadow Division, especially for Claude, no successful mission had ever felt so utterly terrible.
*
Several times when his vision darkened, Shu Li knew something was wrong.
A profound sense of weightlessness washed over him, accompanied by a strong urge to vomit.
When he opened his eyes again, Shu Li stared blankly at the ceiling of the ship's cabin. "..."
His entire body ached and throbbed, as if he had genuinely fallen from a great height.
It took him a while to notice that Leslie's spot was empty, while Fenean and Naxi were still fast asleep.
"..."
So tired. So sleepy.
He felt dazed and disoriented, unable to grasp the boundary between dream and reality. His blood still raced with the unreality of it all, his heart pounding as frantically as it had during the fall.
"Bishop Alis, are you awake?" Fenean noticed Shu Li out of the corner of his eye. He greeted him, then stretched lazily without waiting for a response.
His arm landed on Naxi, startling the little fox awake.
Naxi, with its back to Fenean, puffed up its fur and swatted symbolically at Fenean's arm with its front paw.
The swat was harmless, and Fenean didn't even notice.
Hearing the familiar sounds, Shu Li's heart gradually calmed. "Where's Leslie?"
"He went to exercise," Fenean said, squinting towards the bed, his voice low and languid. "Sleeping on the sofa is so uncomfortable..."
Shu Li couldn't help but smile.
Fenean could endure weeks of rough travel without complaint, yet sleeping on a sofa made him grumble.
Knowing this well, Shu Li extended an invitation: "Want to crawl into my bed and get some more sleep?"
At this, Fenean immediately transformed into a large cat, diving headfirst into Shu Li's covers. He expertly tucked himself and Shu Li in.
As he did so, he said: "It's still early. We can sleep a bit more."
Shu Li was amused by his laziness. He lay there cooperatively for a few seconds before sitting up. "Fenean... I'm going out to get some fresh air. My head's still a mess."
Fenean didn't even lift his head, just hummed softly. "Remember to come back. I'll be waiting for you to call me for breakfast."
"Alright."
After placating Fenean, Shu Li went over to rub the warm, fluffy head of little Naxi.
The small fox purred contentedly, its eyes closing in pleasure, its tail swishing twice with satisfaction.
It was truly adorable.
Once outside, he soon heard the sound of nets being hauled in from the deck. The captain, along with the sailors and volunteers who had come to help, were pulling in the nets cast before dawn.
They were sailing along the coast. With the water temperatures rising in late spring, it was the season for fish migration and spawning – a peak time for fishing.
The ship was currently anchored at sea. The sea breeze, gentler than at night, blew steadily, carrying the light of dawn. It was quite refreshing.
They had already hauled in a large batch of fish.
Golden sunlight bathed the workers, creating a scene reminiscent of a warm oil painting, momentarily washing away one's worries.
Shu Li instinctively drew closer, wanting to see if he could help, or at least get a look at the freshly caught fish.
But he hadn't gone far when he spotted a familiar, irritating figure – Claude.
The man stood with his arms crossed, leaning against the deck railing near the small gangplank used for boarding, his gaze calmly surveying the surroundings.
For some reason, Shu Li suddenly recalled how, in his dream, he had tried to warn Claude about his father and brother, only to be called a madman.
Old and new grievances surged within him.
Without thinking, acting on a strange impulse, Shu Li strode quickly towards him. "Claude," he called out, causing the Duke to turn his head.
Then, in full view of everyone, he unceremoniously shoved Duke Claude into the sea.
As the splash echoed, a deathly silence fell over the deck.
Mercenaries, sailors, and church personnel alike exchanged bewildered glances, completely unsure of what had just transpired.
After two seconds of frozen shock, everyone tacitly averted their gazes, pretending they had seen nothing, and returned to their tasks.
Shu Li didn't wait for their reactions. Seeing Claude surface, frowning at him, he felt his own mood lift considerably. He now felt like returning to his cabin for a nap.
Claude caught a glimpse of his rather smug grin. "..."
Utterly inexplicable...
By the time Claude climbed back onto the deck, something even more unusual had occurred. A crowd had gathered around him.
But they weren't there to offer concern or comfort. Instead, they all came to advise Claude not to be angry with Bishop Alis.
"If the Bishop truly meant you harm, he wouldn't do it so openly."
"Exactly! See how straightforward and sincere the Bishop is!"
"Bishop Alis is truly a man of his word. He would never scheme behind your back. If he dislikes something, he acts directly. Such conviction!"
Claude: "..."
After a few seconds of silence, Claude pushed past them with a cold face and went back to his cabin to change.