Chapter 8

"Stop grinning. I'm talking about you."

"That's enough."

The guarantor, Heinkel, declared the duel over the instant Randel found a sword pointed at his throat.

"Aaaah…! AAAAARGH—!"

The moment Randel's screams rang out, healers from House Cornwell rushed over.

"Hurry and stop the bleeding!"
"AAAAH! AAAAGH! Let go of me! I'll kill him! AAAAARGH—!"
"Hold his arm down! Cast Sleep! Hurry!"

At the senior healer's roar, a calming spell was cast over the frenzied Randel.

"Gghhrrr…"

Mind clouded, Randel slumped limply as a wheezing groan escaped him.
Only then did the healers sigh in relief and begin treating his wrist.

"So, can that actually be reattached?"

I asked while looking at Randel's severed hand being wrapped in cloth.

"N-No, sir. We'll need to make a prosthetic, so we're preserving its shape for reference…"
"Oh. That's all?"

I replied with slight disappointment.
Even after two hundred years, they still couldn't even reattach severed limbs.
Healing techniques really hadn't advanced much.

"…You feel absolutely nothing even after seeing a severed body part?"

Heinkel muttered those words, and only then did I realize my mistake.
Come to think of it, Klein Leinrant had been a sheltered noble who had never even seen a corpse before.

'In my previous life, corpses were something I saw every single day. It's a little late to pretend I'm scared now.'

Just as I was wondering how to cover it up—

"T-This… this is impossible!"

I turned toward the hollow voice.
Count Cornwell stood there in a daze, staring blankly at the scene before him.

"H-How much money did I spend hiring that knight…?! H-How could this happen…?!"

"Count Cornwell. I don't think this is the time to be worrying about that."

Heinkel's cold words dragged the disbelieving Cornwell back to reality.
Seeing the duke's stiff expression, Count Cornwell finally seemed to understand the situation.

"Y-Your Grace, that is…!"
"The victor of the trial by duel is Klein. According to northern tradition, the defeated shall carry out the victor's demands."

At Heinkel's declaration, Count Cornwell clenched his teeth.

As if losing Dalton, the greatest talent of his house, wasn't enough, now even Randel—his direct retainer—had fallen.
And to make matters worse, he now had to lower himself before the ducal house and beg forgiveness.

Quite humiliating, no doubt.
Probably the most humiliating moment of his life.

'But what does that have to do with me? I nearly got killed because of your side.'

I shrugged with a faint sneer.

Cornwell had already accepted the duel.
If word spread that he refused to honor its outcome, everyone knew exactly how the noble society would treat him.

"…Understood."

Count Cornwell forced the words out.

"In the near future, I shall offer compensation alongside a formal apology. The letter will be delivered personally by the heir of our house, Dain Cornwell, and—"

Heh. This bastard really is like a rat.

Even now, he was still trying to wriggle his way out.

"What kind of bullshit are you talking about?"

I spoke toward Count Cornwell's back as he desperately tried to salvage the situation.
At my voice, Cornwell flinched and began nervously reading my expression.

'Just moments ago he was acting so proud, and now look at him.'

Strong before the weak, weak before the strong.
Just thinking that trash like him had been lurking in the North under the banner of "heroic bloodline" disgusted me.

"Young Master Klein. Right now, that is…!"
"'The loser must obey the victor's demands unconditionally.' That is the fundamental principle of a trial by duel."

As I spoke, I pointed toward the ground at my feet.

"Kneel, and loudly confess your crimes."

"W-What…?!"

Count Cornwell glared at me with bulging eyes.

'Wow. Look at those eyes.'

Seeing him glare like he wanted to kill me at any moment almost made me laugh.
What? Now that you're the one being forced to do what you planned for me, it twists your stomach that badly?

"Didn't you hear me? Shall I repeat myself?"
"Young Master Klein. Even for a trial by duel, such disgrace is—!"

A voice interrupted from the side.
One of the lesser nobles attached to Cornwell's faction.
A parasite flattering another flatterer.

"This is Leinrant territory. By whose permission are you speaking to me right now?"

"T-That is…!"

The noble recoiled instantly when I shot him a cold glare.

"Delkan Cornwell."

"…!"

I called his name without honorifics.
Worthless burden. Shame of the family.
Hearing such disrespect from the second young master he had always looked down upon must have been a tremendous shock.

'Originally, I planned to stop here. But I've changed my mind.'

Watching Cornwell tremble uncontrollably, I slowly clenched my fist and spoke.

—As the guardian of the North, the master of Leinrant, and the victor of this duel, I demand this of you.

I mixed demonic energy rising from my heart into my voice.
The low, heavy tone pressed down on his body even harder.

—Confess your sins yourself. Kneel, and beg for forgiveness.

This voice was not meant for the living, but for summoning the dead.
The moment Cornwell heard it, his eyes began shaking violently.

"Ah… aaaah…!"

'Originally, it's a technique used to summon the souls of the dead. But it can be used like this as well.'

Life seeks survival and fears death.
And the Voice of the Dead, engraved deep into the soul of the living, attacks not the mind—but the spirit itself.

"U-Uuugh…!"

—Bow your head. Beg for mercy. Feel the weight of your sins and regret them.

I whispered directly into Delkan's ear.
Demonic energy and commands poured into him at point-blank range.

Anyone else would have collapsed long ago, but even while staggering like he was about to faint, Cornwell still resisted.

'When authority obsession reaches this level, I guess it becomes willpower. I don't know whether to admire it or call it hopeless.'

While I lamented internally, Cornwell finally broke completely and collapsed to his knees before me.

The pupils once filled with rage and pride were now completely empty.

The necromancer's interference technique fueled by demonic energy—
"Voice of the Dead."

The shock had shattered his mind.

"M-Myself and my family… harbored irreverent intentions to harm the Young Master… and to cover it up, we insulted Lady Claire, the Second Duchess…"

"And?"

I looked down at him as he knelt there.
Cornwell burst into tears and slammed his forehead against the ground.

'He held out for a while, but he broke harder than expected.'

Voice of the Dead was a technique that instilled extreme terror into humans.
And I had whispered it directly into his ear at point-blank range.
No wonder his mind collapsed.

'He'll probably stay like this for at least ten years or so. House Cornwell is going to suffer.'

"I-I confess the sins… sins of myself and my house…! Please… I beg for the Young Master's forgiveness…!"

After confirming his kneeling figure, I looked around.

"A-Am I hallucinating right now…?"
"C-Count Cornwell actually…?"
"With a confession like that, that house is finished."
"Hah… to think one of the branch family's major powers would collapse like this…"

Some let out sighs.
Others gasped in awe.

With that alone, I had more or less identified friend from foe.

Raising my voice, I shouted toward them all.

"All of you standing here, listen carefully—!"

Unlike with Cornwell, this voice contained no demonic energy.
Yet the murmuring crowd fell silent instantly, and every gaze turned toward me.

"My name is Klein Leinrant!"

The nobles, who had been glancing back and forth between me and the prostrated Cornwell, engraved my name into their minds.

"The second son of House Leinrant, and the son of Archduchess Claire la Dailasis!"

To me, this shout was a declaration of departure.
A proclamation that I would no longer hide beneath the shadow of the ducal house.
And a vow that House Leinrant itself would change because of me.

The massive iron gates split apart to either side with a metallic groan.

Sunlight poured into the dark castle through the opening—
and then a shadow blocked the light as it stepped inside.

Thud—! Thud—!

The footsteps of the massive figure sounded like those of a mighty beast commanding the mountains.
Crushing the old marble floor beneath his feet, he strode forward before finally stopping at his destination and bowing his head.

"So, you've come. Father Garrison."
"Cardinal Murok."

The old man's voice echoed through the empty cathedral.

Sun-cross emblems and holy statues lined the hall.
And within the darkness, the only thing shining in vivid color was the stained glass, making it obvious what kind of place this was.

"The surveillance target was attacked. By a necromancer's zombies."
"I am already aware. It was an arrangement made to achieve our goals."

At the cardinal's calm response, Garrison swallowed hard.

"What do you mean by arrangement?"

As Garrison asked, the face hidden in shadow turned toward him.

"The northern region is a land of heretics where the Holy Church has yet to take root. In order to bestow grace upon that place, borrowing the Empire's power was the wisest method."

"The wisest method…"

A low voice devoid of emotion repeated the cardinal's words.

"So that necromancer was planted there by the Empire?"
"Correct."
"And you permitted it because you considered it the wisest method."
"It was for the sake of the Church. If sacrificing a few heathens can save many more, then there is no better—!"

Cardinal Murok's explanation suddenly stopped midway.

Because Father Garrison's hand had wrapped around his face.

"W-What are you— Mmph…! Mmphhh—!"
"A guardian of doctrine and holy scripture, reduced to compromising with heretics for the sake of petty politics."

Crrrk! Crack!

Grabbing the cardinal's face with one hand, Garrison lifted him into the air.
The cardinal kicked and punched wildly, desperately trying to escape his grip.
But Garrison's arm, thick as a temple pillar, did not budge in the slightest.
Instead, it only tightened further.

"Mmph! Mmphhh! MMMMMPH—!"

His body turned bright red as he convulsed violently.

"G-Garrison! Mmphhh—!"

Like a frog thrown into a boiling pot, he thrashed desperately—

Crunch—!

Father Garrison's hand crushed the cardinal's head outright.

Splatter!

The headless body and fragments of shattered skull scattered across the ground.

"Grrr…"

Yet even after that, Father Garrison still seemed unable to calm his rage, grinding his teeth as his body trembled.

"Feeling a little better now?"

At the voice from behind him, Garrison turned around.

"Archbishop Palliman."
"Don't you ever tire of this? At this point, you've killed more clergymen than the necromancers have."

Even while staring at the cardinal's corpse, burst apart like an overripe fruit, the young black-haired man showed no emotion whatsoever.
Still smiling, he walked toward Father Garrison.

"Was this your doing?"
"I didn't orchestrate it. I merely permitted it."

Palliman answered with that same smile.

Garrison approached him slowly, blood still dripping from his hand.

"You've always been like this, Palliman El. A cowardly archbishop who never has the courage to act himself, only to stand back and watch."
"And aren't you merely a madman bound by the past, chasing nothing but ghosts, Father Garrison Bierkman?"

BOOM—!

The instant Palliman finished speaking, a fist slammed down right beside his face.

The shockwave alone pulverized the marble floor into dust.
Yet despite witnessing that overwhelming force from point-blank range, Palliman's smiling expression never changed.

"What is it you want?"
"Information. About your 'surveillance target.'"

Answering Garrison's question, Palliman held out a small glass cross.

"What's this?"

Inside the transparent cross swirled crimson liquid together with black smoke.

"A cross containing ectoplasm. It belonged to the Imperial necromancer you killed."
"What a joke. You probably slipped it in there yourself."

Garrison glared at him as he spoke, but Palliman merely shrugged casually.

"The red substance is blood. Traces of the Soul-Returning Art currently being researched intensively by the Empire. A technique used to animate corpses."
"And the other?"
"The black substance is soul. A technique that manipulates spirits rather than corpses… the prototype of necromancy itself."

At those words, Garrison fell silent.

"Two different traces remained within a single cross. Which means…"

"There were two necromancers at the scene."

After saying that, Palliman looked directly at Garrison.
His crescent-shaped eyes curved even further.

"The second young master of House Leinrant, Klein Leinrant… is a necromancer."