🔊 TTS Settings
Chapter 21:
Deception
Celia wasn’t fooled by Dietrich’s words.
The promise of handing her the leash was a lie—a ploy to break down her guard.
It was deception.
He had the power to sever the leash around his own neck at any moment, and yet he told Celia he would give it to her.
He was planning to crush her the moment she let her guard down—yet here he was, telling her to submit to him.
“Know your place.”
“You just need to do as you’re told.”
Only a week ago, it had been her who acted like the master.
There was something about Dietrich’s sudden shift in attitude that tugged at Celia’s mind.
Perhaps, in the past week, the situation outside had changed drastically.
“I told you—I don’t keep pets.”
Celia’s hand slowly closed around Dietrich’s neck, just as he had once done to her.
Dietrich simply stared at her silently. His calm, crimson eyes didn’t waver, even as her nails left marks on his skin.
His gaze wasn’t just indifferent—it was devoid of any emotion.
Looking into those eyes, Celia slowly withdrew her hand from his neck.
Lowering her body over his chest, she whispered softly:
“…Say it again.”
“…”
“That killing the Emperor was meaningless.”
A meaningful smile crept across Dietrich’s previously expressionless face.
“Yes.”
To Celia—who had lived her entire life for the sole purpose of killing the Emperor—his affirmation was a complete denial of her very existence.
“The person you should’ve killed wasn’t the Emperor…”
Dietrich overlapped his hand with Celia’s. Interlacing their fingers, he raised her hand to point toward the high ceiling.
“…It was the Grand Duke above the Emperor.”
Over an hour had passed since Dietrich left the room.
Celia lay on the bed, staring silently at the ceiling.
Though dawn was breaking, sleep would not come.
Dietrich’s words kept echoing in her mind.
“The real enemy is the Grand Duke?”
Dietrich had seen right through her—he knew Celia wasn’t originally from Avalon. He might even have discovered she was a survivor from a destroyed kingdom.
No—if it was Dietrich, he definitely had.
“If you don’t believe me, go to the Crown Prince’s upcoming birthday banquet. Your real ‘enemy’ will appear there.”
He must have been confident to say something like that.
“…”
She felt a burning frustration.
Unlike her, Dietrich knew so much.
No surprise—he had risen to the rank of Royal Knight Commander and even obtained a ducal title, despite not being from Avalon. He was an extraordinarily capable man.
He knew of supernatural powers and harbored a deep hatred for Avalon.
Just what was Dietrich’s true identity?
“Could he be a survivor like me?”
But all her people had died—every last one except her.
“If what he said is true, then what exactly is this Grand Duke, to have destroyed my distant kingdom?”
She didn’t know how much of what Dietrich said was truth and how much was lie.
Everything about him—his identity, his words, his actions—was suspicious.
Celia recalled the moment when he had naturally overlapped their hands.
Her eyes narrowed.
“I’ll know what’s true and what’s false at the birthday banquet.”
The Grand Temple of Avalon, made entirely of white marble from floor to ceiling.
A masterpiece by a renowned architect, the Grand Temple radiated overwhelming majesty.
Though located in the capital, it remained completely independent of the Imperial family, as divine authority was strictly separated from royal power.
In fact, the Grand Temple was under the influence of Illeon, not the Imperial court.
Since its founding, the temple had effectively belonged to the House of Gredrick, making Illeon, as the head of the house, its natural successor.
Moreover, the temple received more money from the Gredrick family than from all the believers combined.
Illeon was both the owner and financial lifeline of the temple.
A senior priest, clad in white dalmatics, bowed deeply upon spotting Illeon.
“You’ve arrived, my lord.”
Illeon, with his long silver hair tinged with darkness tied back and dressed in flowing white robes, looked more like the High Priest than the priest himself.
“Is the altar ready?”
“Yes, the altar is prepared. As for the offerings…”
“About fifteen, I’d say.”
The priest swallowed hard. That was more than usual.
“Understood. I shall summon the executor for the ritual.”
“Priest.”
Illeon’s voice stopped the priest in his tracks.
“Have you heard of a woman named Celia Brillion?”
Celia Brillion—the priest was well aware of the rumors surrounding her beauty. But as a Grand Priest who was never to leave the temple, he had never seen her in person.
“Only that she’s imprisoned for regicide. I heard recently they caught the true culprit. But… why do you ask?”
The priest glanced nervously at Illeon. His ever-calm demeanor made it hard to read his thoughts.
Illeon gave a soft smile.
“I heard one of your archpriests embezzled church funds to see her. Without my permission, no less.”
The priest held his breath. That had happened months ago—he had assumed Illeon hadn’t known. Clearly, he had known all along and simply stayed silent.
“Does that mean he knows about the other corruption too… and is just pretending not to?”
“Make that archpriest the executor today.”
The priest felt a wave of relief—it wasn’t him.
The ritual began with the executor stabbing the offerings lying on the altar.
Every single executor who performed the ritual ended up vomiting blood and dying. After delivering a so-called divine prophecy, their body would gush blood from every orifice and die on the spot.
Executors were usually orphans, brainwashed from a young age into believing it was a sacred duty, in exchange for food and clothing—only to be used and discarded when the time came.
Only Illeon and the Grand Priest knew this truth.
Illeon smiled gently. Those who saw the soft blue eyes and calm face couldn’t possibly imagine how many humans he had sacrificed to the gods in this temple.
Who would believe that Illeon, head of the Grand Dukes, had committed mass human sacrifice in the name of divine offerings?
“Turn a blind eye to the other affairs, and keep working hard.”
Illeon patted the priest’s shoulder in a tone as gentle as spring sunlight.
The priest bowed deeply, hiding his trembling hands behind his back.
“…As you wish, my lord.”
Satisfied, Illeon walked toward the altar, his sleeves fluttering.
At the center of the grand hall stood a statue shaped like a god—human in body, but with the head of a serpent.
On the red-carpeted altar lay fifteen figures, eyes covered with white cloth, hands bound—some alive, some already dead and rotting with maggots.
Incense burned throughout the altar to mask the stench of decay.
Soon, the archpriest—clueless of his fate—entered, holding a gleaming ritual dagger. Nervousness was etched all over his face.
He, like all others, believed the executor would “return to the gods” peacefully. He didn’t know the truth of how he would die.
“If only I could’ve seen Celia Brillion one more time…”
He glanced nervously at Illeon, who sat on a white velvet chair before the altar.
Was it the voluminous white robes? The pale skin? Or the relaxed expression untouched by anxiety?
To the archpriest, Illeon looked more like a god than the god itself.
“I—I will now begin the ritual!”
He raised the dagger high, then drove it into the hearts of the offerings.
Blood splattered over the white statue, turning it crimson.
The altar was soaked in blood. The dead were stabbed again; the living stabbed repeatedly until their hearts stopped.
Illeon calmly observed the ritual.
As it neared the end, one final offering let out a scream of pain.
“Guuargh!”
Illeon’s expression darkened.
Living offerings were always dosed with Aquinep incense, a powerful anesthetic that rendered even elephants unconscious for hours.
To awaken in under half a day? Unheard of.
“The… the ritual—!”
The panicked archpriest dropped the dagger, trembling as he looked to Illeon.
Illeon’s cold gaze fixed on him.
“Was that offering not given Aquinep?”
“They said they did… I swear…!”
The ritual had failed. For prophecy-obsessed Illeon, this was a bad omen.
Then, the offering sprang up and drove its hand through the archpriest’s chest.
Blood poured from his mouth as he collapsed to the floor.
Foaming at the mouth, eyes rolled back, the still-living offering pointed a bloodstained finger at Illeon and shouted:
“Apostle of the Serpent, master of deceivers—
You shall die by the hand of the woman you love!”
With those words, the offering’s body collapsed. Blood streamed from its ears, nose, and mouth.
Illeon silently stood from his seat. Unlike the bloody altar, not a drop stained his clothes.
He bent down, picked up the bloodied dagger, and chuckled softly.
“Your prophecy is wrong.”
With a calm murmur, Illeon stabbed the already-dead offering again and again.
Blood soaked his white robes.
Clang!
He threw the dagger to the floor.
In the blood-reeking room, Illeon casually dusted off his hands and muttered coldly:
“There’s no such thing as a woman I love.”
