Chapter 154
A Silent Procession
Ferda listened carefully to Garnet's proposal.
“If you wish to express your regrets over this incident, then all you need is to put forward someone the Crisis Response Council would never dare challenge.”
At first, Ferda thought she was referring to Count Consilus.
Then he realized she meant someone else.
His expression darkened instantly.
“You're suggesting we put Her Highness the Princeps forward?”
“It is shameless, but that would be the quickest and easiest solution.”
Although Ferda was destined to become the Red Dragon's prince consort—the future royal consort—he was still nothing more than her representative.
He was not the Princeps, merely a toy to be used in political games.
That was how the world saw him.
If the dragon herself stepped forward and spoke on the matter, no one would dare utter a word in opposition.
But that was impossible.
Ferda remembered how she had been at the ball.
She could not bring herself to enter places crowded with humans.
She feared being reminded of the sins she had committed in the past and making another mistake.
More than anything, she was afraid of causing trouble for Ferda.
Until then, Ferda had believed she was merely suffering psychologically.
But it was not simply a matter of the mind.
‘The danger is real.’
Had Malcolm not been there, he would never have realized that there had been people who genuinely intended to break her.
If such things had happened at the Spring Festival...
What would happen at a public hearing?
If those who had once treated her like nothing more than a watchdog lost their fear and tried to tame her again...
Even Ferda did not know what he would do.
“Garnet.”
Ferda turned his gaze toward her.
The moment their eyes met, Garnet flinched.
“Never bring up that idea again.”
“...My apologies.”
The proposal itself had touched one of Ferda's deepest taboos.
“We'll resolve this with our own hands. That will not change.”
“I understand.”
Abandoning the easiest path, Ferda began constructing his strategy.
False intelligence supplied through Baron Guillot.
Internal information gathered by Helus while pretending to be a sage.
He would use both to seize every possible advantage.
If he wished to give her a brighter future, then he would bear the darkness himself.
Even if it meant covering himself in everlasting infamy.
“Lord Ferda.”
While he was working, Luri called out to him.
“My lady has sent the item she promised you.”
Finally.
Ferda abandoned his paperwork without hesitation and rose from his seat.
Luri carried in a portrait nearly as large as her own body and placed it before him.
It was the gift Valdrova had promised to give him once he returned safely.
Her portrait.
“You truly asked for this painting?”
Luri sounded genuinely unable to believe it.
Ferda nodded.
“I wanted this painting.”
“There were countless other treasures. Why choose this one?”
“I just had a feeling.”
He gave only a vague answer.
Luri frowned in dissatisfaction before speaking again.
“Do you know what this portrait is?”
“I've heard it was meant to be shown to her first fiancé.”
“Yes. It was the first time she allowed someone to see her face and asked to have it painted exactly as she appeared.”
“So... it's completely unembellished?”
Portraits displayed in noble households were normally idealized.
If the subject was overweight, the waist would be painted slimmer.
If the hair had begun thinning, it would be restored to a full head of hair.
“I see... So that's why I wanted it so badly.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing. Just a feeling.”
It was probably some trivial reason.
Luri chose not to press further.
“In any case, I'll arrange for a restoration expert.”
“A restoration expert?”
“The painting has been torn. It needs to be repaired, doesn't it?”
She sounded as though she were stating the obvious.
But Ferda had no intention of restoring it.
“No. This is enough.”
Luri stared at him with unmistakable disgust.
“If you're planning to hang a torn painting, I'll oppose it even if you kill me.”
“You needn't worry. I'm not going to display it publicly.”
“I... see.”
“I'll take it from here.”
Luri watched as Ferda carried the portrait away.
If it was not going to be displayed in a public place...
She already knew where he intended to hang it.
In that deep, dark place where merely passing by was enough to make one uneasy.
Ferda entered the room he used for training.
It was dark and barely large enough to sit in, more like a prison cell than a chamber.
His training consisted only of manipulating shadows in complete darkness while practicing mana cultivation techniques.
Unlike other mages, who filled their workshops with elaborate equipment, the room contained nothing but a chair and a box of candles.
The third object ever brought into that dark chamber was Valdrova's portrait.
Ferda hung the enormous painting exactly where he had planned.
Stepping back, he examined it.
“Perfect.”
The angle.
The height.
Everything was flawless.
The portrait occupied nearly half the wall, filling the space with its presence.
After checking every detail as carefully as though tending a sacred relic, Ferda studied the painting itself.
“How strange...”
From up close, all he could see were individual brushstrokes.
Yet with only a few steps backward, Valdrova herself emerged vividly before his eyes.
It felt as though she might step out of the painting at any moment, toddle over to him, and say,
“Mr. Ferda.”
The greatest painter of the age must have created this masterpiece.
Yes.
Only someone capable of capturing everything about a person could produce something that felt so alive.
That was why Ferda had wanted this painting so desperately.
In the end, Valdrova had granted his wish.
Now that he could finally examine it this closely...
He thought he understood.
‘Desire.’
Within this portrait lay fragments of Valdrova's deepest desires.
A lifetime she would never reveal, no matter how many conversations they shared, had been preserved within it.
Because it had been painted exactly as she was, he could clearly sense what she had been feeling.
It was all reflected in those small, smiling lips.
The fear of a first experience.
The excitement of sharing one's life with another.
Hope.
But the future she had longed for never came to pass.
Her first fiancé, the Third Prince, had regarded her as nothing more than a tool to be exploited.
Her sincere love had been trampled.
Her hopes had been betrayed.
Despair.
Valdrova had killed the Third Prince because of that.
Toying with a dragon was undoubtedly an offense worthy of death.
But if Valdrova had been in her right mind, she would never have committed such a murder.
She had been seized by the violent impulses that made her unstable, and in that state, she killed the Third Prince.
That was why his ghost still lingered around her.
Just as the ghosts of the Dragon–Demon War did.
“As I thought…”
She had said:
“Someone like me doesn’t deserve to be happy.”
After killing so many people and surviving when they had not.
How shameless of her to think she could marry a human and abandon everything behind her.
Valdrova resented her own naivety.
She loathed it.
It enraged her.
Ferda raised his index finger to the upper edge of the portrait.
Just as she had done, he traced a long diagonal line across it.
She had erased the innocent eyes that had taken her sins too lightly.
“Hmm…”
Ferda staggered.
His breath caught as though someone had wrapped their hands around his throat, and at the same time, moisture gathered around his eyes.
Tears streamed down his face.
His expression did not change in the slightest, yet the tears ran hot.
The Shadow Circle within his chest thrashed violently.
‘I…’
Only one emotion moved the Shadow Circle.
‘I killed a woman like this.’
He regretted it.
He despised himself for allowing misguided hatred to drive him to murder such an innocent and pure woman.
Ferda feared that regret.
If he surrendered to regret, he would no longer be able to move forward.
‘But if I feel no regret, I’ll lose my way.’
That was why Lucy Philiase, the First Witch, had called it a blessing.
Because he regretted, this painting would become a guiding light for the man who loved her.
Whenever he became trapped in the depths of an endless white night, it would become a single strand of darkness that allowed him to see beyond the light.
***
On the day of the postwar hearing at the Golden Council—
“The nobles will begin their ceremonial entrance shortly.”
Alexander’s adjutant reported.
“I know. I’m watching it with my own eyes, aren’t I?”
Alexander had entered the Golden Council in advance and was observing everything from a balcony.
Countless people lined the road leading to the council hall, watching the nobles make their entrance.
There were five supreme commissioners on the Crisis Response Council.
Four of them wielded considerable influence both within and beyond the Empire, but only one could draw a crowd of this size.
Valdemar Golt.
The Hero of the People and an unshakable pillar of the Arken Empire.
With his overwhelming charisma, he had captured the hearts of nobles and commoners alike, even drawing his rivals over to his side.
‘If only I could possess that greenhouse of his…’
Alexander believed the source of Valdemar’s power lay in his greenhouse.
No matter how much power one wielded throughout one’s life, all were equal before death.
Alexander himself had spent sleepless nights fearing that tomorrow might never come.
Valdemar had tipped the scales of death that even high-ranking priests could not interfere with.
That was why vitality still shone in his eyes despite his advanced age.
“…Is everything prepared?”
“Yes. We have placed agitators throughout the middle of the procession.”
“Excellent.”
Alexander tightened his grip around the goblet in his hand.
He had shaped public opinion for this very day.
He had fostered one-sided hatred and inflated it beyond reason.
“When Regent Ferda arrives, we will begin the incitement.”
Once madness began, it could not be restrained.
A flood of condemnation and resentment would pour down upon him.
Whether Ferda felt guilt or anger did not matter.
The priority was to put him in an emotional state before he even entered the Golden Council.
There would be nothing Ferda could do about it.
“Regent Ferda will arrive shortly.”
Alexander opened his eyes wider than ever.
All he wanted was to watch Ferda and his followers become swept away by the abuse directed at them.
But the moment they appeared, Alexander’s smile froze.
Their entrance was far too different from what he had expected.
***
The road to the imperial capital.
Nobles loved to make a fuss, claiming that even the road leading there smelled of flowers.
There had once been a time when Ferda, still an innocent child, had believed every word of their nonsense.
He had wanted to follow his father to the capital.
He had wondered what those flowers might smell like.
Would they carry a warm scent, like his mother?
But what reached the nose of a man left ruined after killing an angel was nothing remotely resembling flowers.
If it was a flower, then it had to be the kind that attracted flies circling a sewer.
Back then, he had neither known nor cared what that stench was.
Now, however, he understood.
Garnet had once described the Empire as a jar filled with stagnant, rotting water.
Yes.
That was the smell.
Now that he breathed it in again, he was certain.
The procession of nobles entering the Golden Council continued without end.
As it was a gathering of those who wielded influence throughout and beyond the Empire, it was only natural that each of them sought to flaunt their status.
“For what purpose?”
Ferda could not understand it.
Why they had to dress so extravagantly merely to enter.
Why the citizens cheered as they watched the nobles pass into the Golden Council.
None of it followed any rational sense.
“Count.”
“Yes, Regent.”
“Do those people know what will happen inside that building?”
“They know only one thing.”
“And what is that?”
“They know that someone will die today and that justice will be carried out. In their harsh and barren lives, that is like rain after a long drought.”
“And they’re hoping that I’ll be the one who dies.”
“That is what everyone wishes.”
Everyone’s wish…
Ferda felt a sense of déjà vu.
In the past and the present alike, nothing had changed.
“…”
“Prepare yourselves. It’s our turn to enter.”
“Yes.”
Ferda had prepared for precisely this situation.
Consilus added his own knights to the procession, lending strength to Ferda’s presence.
At last, Ferda’s turn came.
He entered.
The ceremonial entrances of the nobles had all been suitably extravagant.
Formal attire designed to display their splendor was the bare minimum.
Riding in carriages while wearing calm, leisurely smiles was simply expected.
Ferda stood atop his carriage without smiling.
Neither did Consilus beside him.
Nor did any of the knights following behind them.
Ferda’s procession was a dull gray.
A somber color never before seen in the Empire.
Across the multicolored stone road, it seemed as though masses of gray and grime were marching forward.
They resembled defeated soldiers returning from a lost war.
But they were not defeated soldiers.
They were the very men who had charged into battle to slay a colossal monster.
They had crossed battlefields and returned bearing news of victory.
What they displayed without concealment was the wretched appearance of soldiers who had endured horrors never before witnessed within the Empire.
Every one of them had nearly lost his life.
Every one of them had watched someone die.
Each had been someone’s friend.
Someone’s subordinate.
Someone’s family.
What they all shared was that, even in those circumstances, they had continued moving forward.
To protect what stood behind them, they had thrown themselves into the fear of death and the waves of madness unleashed by the battlefield.
That was why half of one man’s helmet had been torn away.
Another man’s breastplate bore a deep dent directly over his heart.
The only object left undamaged was the flag carried by the standard-bearer.
And even among those banners, the only one that still shone brilliantly was the flag of the Empire.
The watching crowd did not cheer.
Nor did they condemn them.
Even those who had screamed until their throats were raw that the Far East should be put to death fell silent.
The planted agitators also held their tongues.
They knew that making a move in this atmosphere would be madness.
Every man in that procession had returned from a battlefield where death lurked at every step.
They were patriots who had fought for the Empire.
And so, the entire crowd could only lower their heads in solemn silence, honoring the dead and the wounded.