"Marcus, you co tell him."
Zote ordered a halt to the Sergeant about to carry out the execution; he wanted to give Henrik a good lesson.
Marcus fell silent for a while.
"The essence of power is to make people suffer, sir,"
he responded indifferently.
"Indeed, that is true. I admire you, Henrik, whether rcenary or adventurer, it doesn’t matter. They’re all the sa. To beco famous among those things is no easy feat. Surely, it was this woman who whispered in your ear and filled your heart with thoughts of usurpation."
With one stroke, Zote decapitated Henrik’s wife. Blood gushed from her neck like a fountain; her long-haired head rolled across the ground over a dozen tis, and even her beautiful visage was now a tragic head covered in bloody mud, eyes wide open in death.
Henrik’s murderous intent seed to burst forth with his ragged breath, as if he would rise and kill on the spot, but several Sergeants held him down, their iron grips like clamps, leaving him completely immobile. His abdominal wound also burst open completely, blood pouring out, along with so of his innards.
Absolute Blade.
A powerful figure, wailing in grief.
Zote knew he had finally succumbed.
"The population of Aran has dwindled, I will spare your son’s life. But that’s all I’ll do, perhaps... they won’t be as despicable as you."
Zote casually ordered a lackey to sever the arm of that child, not yet six, who was only crying.
There is nothing a blade cannot solve.
The only question is whether the blade is fast enough.
And that child could no longer wield a blade.
"Hang him! Burn the entire city, all docunts, all records! Master the past! Then you can control the future! Dominate... ti."
With the festive show over, Zote had more important matters to attend to. The die had been cast, he must rally his forces. It wouldn’t be many years, perhaps less than two, until the decisive battle at the Royal City.
He left without looking back.
Marcus heard the child’s cries, watching his father being dragged away like a dead dog. But... what could one of that age understand, unable even to hold a blade.
As night fell,
the great fire in the city still raged uncontrollably.
The Witch Hunting Secret Departnt worked tirelessly through the night destroying everything written by intellectuals that was against the Royal Court, against the Secret Departnt. These people always liked to keep records.
Marcus was stationed at the city gate, camping in the snow below the city walls on guard against any stray, resisting forces that might attack.
Too many had been hung at the city gate; Duke Soterlan was but a bundle of tortured flesh barely retaining human form.
Henrik, who had kept him company, had long since bled to death.
The amputated child, thinking his father hadn’t entirely died, propped his sole hand under Henrik’s shoe, praying for his father’s resurrection, imploring the Dragon Lord for a miracle.
No one dealt with him; Zote’s commands were unquestionable.
In Marcus’s force field senses, the child had been crying there for half an hour, and due to the loss of blood from his amputation, he was extrely weak and close to death.
He carved his own likeness into a wooden stake with his force field from mory, but no matter how he tried, it was futile.
All of this was ending.
He could sense it coming.
Since his own visage had completely blurred.
Yet in his mory, there remained the standard features of the Aran people.
The boy must be an Aran.
Of course, not himself...
He had to put a full stop to this abyss.
Suddenly standing up, he stepped through the snow, making footprints as he approached the corpse of Henrik.
"Your father is completely dead, even the ’Eternal and Ti Dragon’ cannot bring him back to life."
"You lie..."
"Unlike others, from this mont on, you have to be a man, now!"
Marcus dragged the child away from the snow; he would soon die of hypothermia.
In an inconspicuous civilian dwelling within the city, the Secret Departnt had no interest in destroying the hos of these commoners.
As a sergeant, he secured supplies that would last for three days, alcohol, and even... smoked at slices for warti.
He settled him in, covering him with a blanket.
Marcus looked at the bleeding bandage where his arm had been severed. Although it was winter, there was still a significant risk if left untreated.
"You listen carefully, if you cry or make the slightest sound after this, it ans you’re not mature enough, you’re not ready, you’re not cut out for this. You’re a cripple, and the best ending for you would be as a begging tool for the Thief Guild, which is already as good as a fairy-tale ending. But I have a better ending for you, if you can perform a miracle now, then you will surely be able to do so in the future. Otherwise, you should die today to avoid a futile and miserable life."
Marcus unscrewed the cap of a bottle of strong liquor, over eighty percent proof, that giants would drink.
Is there truly such a thing as a miracle?
Besides...
Does a boy of this age really understand what he’s saying?
The child wore a look of confusion, and Marcus couldn’t discern any subtler expressions, only silence.
Marcus poured the strong liquor on the wound to disinfect it, the high-proof alcohol burning away any potential infection.
The room was eerily silent.
Marcus permitted the sound of grinding teeth, but there was not even that.
Silent as death.
If it weren’t for the slightly rapid breathing, Marcus would have thought he had already died.
"You’re going to be... a legend.
In three days, the Royal Court Army will co to station here; there’s enough food here to last till then, more than enough.
This is a letter of recomndation from the Eternal Sect, you’ll enter the Sect’s institution for upbringing, but you’ll be treated as a noble, and not have to do any backbreaking labor.
Never forget today.
Never."
Marcus stressed again and left the civilian dwelling.
When he ca out...
He suddenly felt sothing he hadn’t felt in over a decade.
His own sins could only be purified by the Eternal.
But...
It seed not to matter anymore, wasn’t that face, in essence, his own?
He had created a miracle.
Just like now, twenty-eight years later.
Today.
Having escaped from the Northern Prison, the Royal Court’s special pursuit team for Zote had been disbanded, completely losing their target, or perhaps the Eternal Sect had ddled.
However, this special pursuit team had so contracted personnel, and these hired adventurers had naturally scattered when the tree fell and the monkeys dispersed.
Only a Heroic Level adventurer who had arrived just a few days earlier remained.
Even without funds from the Royal Court, he would continue.
The mories from that ti were too vague.
But his life started from that snowy day, it seed like that day, he was truly born.
He didn’t have his own na.
He simply adopted a new term according to the signature on the old letter of recomndation.
Heroic Level adventurer, Living Dead, Magnus.
There’s nothing in the world that can’t be solved with a knife.
The only consideration is whether the knife is fast enough.
So it seed.
It really was like that.
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