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Chapter 42
Countess Razella, unaware of the hidden thoughts of the other ladies, was the only one to express sincere concern.
If possible, it would be best to avoid the Duke altogether.
If his temperament was truly as the rumors described, then one wrong move might provoke something disastrous.
She resolved to persuade her husband to keep as much distance from Duke Ditrio as possible.
At the same time, she pitied the young lady destined to become the Duke’s consort.
If his disposition was as cruel as said, there could never be a peaceful married life.
Countess Razella made up her mind that she herself would at least try to help that young lady.
Had the other noblewomen known of her decision, they surely would have scolded her for wasting sympathy.
But to Countess Razella, Duke Ditrio’s imminent return to the capital was a source of grave unease.
At the break of dawn.
Between shadow and light, the cry of a beast rang wide across the land.
“Tsk, the atmosphere feels unusual tonight.”
“Has there been a war without such days? Stop the nonsense and keep your post.”
“Aren’t you afraid at all? They say the Rioneph army is right at our doorstep.”
“Of course I’m afraid. But if I want to protect my family, then I have no choice but to protect this country.”
“What’s the point of men like us holding on to such lofty duty? Hah, maybe I should’ve run away earlier like that physician next door said.”
The soldier who spoke first grumbled bitterly about his lot.
Just then, the beast’s cry echoed again—this time closer.
The two soldiers exchanged uneasy glances.
“Did you hear that?”
“Y-yeah. Clear as day. It’s definitely a wild beast… strange, isn’t it?”
In all their years guarding the gates, they had never once come across a wild animal here.
Hearing such a sound where it should never be heard, the soldiers grew tense and scanned their surroundings.
The first soldier’s earlier words about the strange atmosphere no longer sounded exaggerated. A chilling unease spread in the air.
The one with a family spoke cautiously.
“I owe you an apology. You were right—it’s truly unsettling. I think we should report this. I’ll go quickly.”
“Hey, wait—gahk!”
The other soldier, reaching out to stop him, collapsed with a dying scream.
The one who had meant to report froze in place. A metallic tang of blood tickled his nose.
Trembling with fear, he turned his head.
“Urrgh!”
He too gave a strangled cry before dropping lifeless to the ground.
Above the fallen soldiers gleamed a pair of golden eyes—eyes like suns that had swallowed the light itself.
The gates of Jenova fell open in an instant.
The soldiers inside, unprepared for such a sudden assault, were slaughtered before they could even raise the alarm.
By the time the King of Jenova learned of the invasion, his palace was already under Duke Ditrio’s complete control.
Though his ministers tried to force him to flee for the sake of the future, they were intercepted by the Duke’s capable subordinates.
Thus the King of Jenova was brought to his knees before Duke Ditrio.
His face twisted with humiliation, he managed to utter:
“Spare the others—!”
But he never finished the plea.
Kirzen’s blade fell mercilessly, ending his life.
No scream, no final words—just a swift and empty end.
The shocking death of the Jenova king silenced all present.
Even Jerome, who had always prided himself on being a capable retainer, could not bring himself to speak.
“……”
The dreadful silence hung heavy across the palace hall. Kirzen gave a small, involuntary laugh.
From his fingertips to his toes, his body bore the marks of cutting through the enemy to reach this man.
So it was this simple after all…
Why had he ever thought it such a difficult path?
A hollow emptiness washed over him like waves. Kirzen closed his eyes.
From afar, he thought he heard the toll of a bell marking the end.
Slowly drawing breath, he declared:
“We return to the capital.”
The war that had seemed endless at last was over.
News of the Jenova king’s death spread rapidly throughout Rioneph.
The King of Rioneph was so delighted that he spent his personal fortune to host a grand festival.
For years, Jenova—a brother nation—had been the constant point of comparison with Rioneph.
Especially since the reign of the former king, Jenova’s rule had been praised for its benevolence and care for the people.
Even foreign rulers had called him a model king worthy of imitation.
This had eaten away at the King of Rioneph, who nursed a festering inferiority complex.
And then, one slip gave him his chance.
At the border between the two kingdoms, Jenova soldiers, while purging a band of raiders, crossed into Rioneph territory.
The Rioneph king, who had long regarded Jenova as a thorn in his eye, seized the opportunity eagerly.
He had wanted nothing more than to drag down the man who had looked down on him.
Thus he declared war—and finally, his wish was fulfilled.
Now there was no one left to compare him against, no shadow cast over his glory.
That fact pleased him greatly.
Only one headache remained: the people of Jenova, whose resistance would surely be strong.
He expected no small number of difficulties in subjugating them.
It was all the fault of that damned Jenova king.
Even at his last moments, he had refused to abandon his people, posturing as if he were some noble guardian of his nation’s heart.
They said that even as he faced death, he had begged for the lives of others.
A pathetic, melodramatic scene—enough to move the softhearted to tears.
But what did it matter? In the end, he had won.
The defeated were subjects of the victor. They would obey him, the ruler of the conquering kingdom.
He would savor this moment to the fullest.
He was even in such a generous mood that he could grant any request Duke Ditrio might make.
And indeed, it wasn’t long before the King’s thoughts became reality.
No sooner had the remnants been cleared than Kirzen Ditrio sent a letter to the King of Rioneph—requesting a triumphal return.
Enclosed was the severed head of the Jenova king.
As a gift to win the monarch’s favor, it was an impeccable choice.
“This is absolutely unacceptable!”
Yet some nobles furiously opposed granting permission for such a triumph.
At their head was Count Monteiro, who practically foamed at the mouth with rage.
Their harsh objections darkened the King’s expression.
Royden Monteiro calmed the nobles and carefully addressed the King.
“Your Majesty, might you reconsider this command?”
“Count Monteiro. Not this time. These men fought for our nation. Surely they deserve the honor of a victory parade.”
“Indeed, Sire. But you must consider the future. Our treasury is strained from the war. We cannot waste the nation’s funds for a fleeting moment of glory. I beg you to understand.”
It was true that a triumphal ceremony required no small sum.
But it would hardly bankrupt the state.
And after the King had just emptied his own coffers to host a festival, how would it look if the war heroes themselves were denied recognition?
It was the perfect reason for public resentment.
Having just secured his authority through news of victory, now—with the Jenova king gone—was the prime opportunity to strengthen his reputation.
And yet these men dared to block his path with shallow arguments.
The King of Rioneph found it distasteful.
Of course, Royden knew his reasoning was not airtight.
But he pressed on without flinching.
“Moreover, Sire, we must now care for the people of Jenova. Their lands, their food, their livelihoods—all will require support, and at no small cost. Every coin is precious.”
He spoke with gentle persuasion.
“Do not concern yourself with immediate public sentiment. There may be complaints at first, but in time they will fade. It would be far wiser to win the hearts of Jenova’s people. That will earn you true prestige.”
Indeed, if a triumph were held, it might take even longer to win over the Jenovans.
How could they celebrate the glorious return of the very soldiers who had destroyed their families and country?
They would surely harbor resentment, if not outright hatred.
Perhaps, then, what was needed was the magnanimity of a merciful victor.
The King hesitated, and the opposing nobles seized the chance to add their voices.
“Count Monteiro is right. Win the hearts of the people, and your reign will flourish. All will praise Your Majesty.”
“If you embrace the defeated with kindness, it will be a great achievement. You will be remembered as a wise ruler—something even the kings of Jenova failed to be.”
Their flattery came in waves, swaying the King.
It was then that Marquis Chase, who until now had been silent, finally spoke.
He had long been of the opinion that a triumph should indeed be held.
“Your Majesty. My thoughts differ somewhat, if I may offer a word…”
