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Chapter 31
Look at Me
Blood flowed like a stream. Wet, sticky, and thick. While the blood stuck to his boots dried and hardened, more blood seeped into the ground.
Cesare couldn’t even remember how many opponents he had already cut down. The Imperial Guard fought bravely. At first, because they were certain of victory; afterward, because they fought desperately just to survive. But they could not reach the Emperor—not even to the tips of his toes.
The northern palace gates were wide open, looking no different from any ordinary day. So Cesare charged in without hesitation and beheaded the first servant he came across. Shouting for them to bring him the Emperor, he rushed toward the main palace.
There, Cesare met the First Order of Knights.
Unlike the other guards who flaunted splendid cloaks, gleaming swords, and heavy banners, the knights of the First Order wore plain, dark crimson armor without a single ornament.
The moment he faced them, Cesare felt a chill down his spine—the realization that, in this vast hall, the sound of his own ragged breathing was the loudest.
They stood like lifeless dolls, silent, until suddenly, all at once, they drew their weapons. Blocking the narrow entrance, their presence alone made Cesare’s numerically superior forces falter.
“It’s just one order of knights! Just one! Crush them all and find my father!”
Cesare fought. He fought valiantly against the First Order, the very knights entrusted with the Emperor’s life. If the dozens of swordmasters who had trained him were here to see it, they might have praised how much his skill had grown.
But when even more knights poured out from the eight satellite palaces surrounding the northern palace, he could not help but realize his defeat.
“How… how did you know? Father… Father! Come out and show your face!”
No matter how he screamed, it was useless. One by one, Cesare’s guards fell. The private soldiers of the Empress, who had followed him, were also cut down, their blood scattering across the ground.
“Father!”
The entire northern palace became a mountain of corpses. The stench of blood hung heavy in the summer heat. Drops of rain began to fall, drawing small ripples over the pools of blood.
Cesare stood there, roaring in anguish. It was a howl of boiling blood.
“Uaaaaaaaah!”
More and more surrendered, until Cesare was left standing alone. The rain, falling in scattered drops, soon poured down in heavy sheets, soaking him to the bone.
“Spare only the Crown Prince. Behead the rest.”
The Emperor’s old chamberlain spoke from the top of the stairs. At his words, the swords of the First Order swung into motion. Cesare’s guards who had fought at his side until the end, those who fled too late, even those who had thrown down their weapons and surrendered—all of them were slaughtered. Cesare, standing at the entrance of the main palace, heard their screams vividly.
This place was hell.
“Follow me.”
The old chamberlain approached him.
Like a statue, Cesare slowly lifted his head. By then, there was no one left at his side. He no longer had the strength to shout.
“His Majesty knew everything.”
The chamberlain held out a white cloth. It was for him to wipe the filthy blood from his face before meeting the Emperor. But Cesare did not take it. He simply stared at the bloody footprints he had left on the luxurious carpet.
Cesare asked,
“Was it Adeline?”
“This matter has nothing to do with the princess.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“This way.”
The old chamberlain spoke no further and led Cesare straight to the Emperor.
The Emperor was in the audience chamber. Everything was disarmingly unchanged. The horrific battle raging outside seemed unrelated to him. Here, everything was in place, elegant as always. The fragrance of his favorite tea filled the room, and a refined arrangement of fruits sat neatly upon an antique table.
Cesare wondered if this was all a bad dream. Outside the main palace, corpses were piled high, and yet the Emperor sat here drinking tea, waiting for his son.
“What a foolish thing you’ve done.”
The Emperor’s words cut through. He scanned Cesare’s battered, broken figure with cool eyes, then shook his head in pity.
“It was your seat anyway.”
“Father.”
“The duke filled your head with nonsense. And your mother bears great fault for not stopping you.”
“Father.”
“Reflect on your sins.”
This was madness. The conversation itself was wrong. Cesare gave a hollow, deranged laugh. Rain and blood dripped from him in equal measure.
Emperor Hugo VI had no intention of punishing him.
“Are you insane?”
“Mind your tongue.”
“If you let me live, I will be a danger to you. You should have me executed immediately. After preparing everything so perfectly, you’ve hidden behind them all this time. Tell me—why do you want to spare me? Because I am your only son?”
“Do not leave your palace for some time. Three years, perhaps. Lie low, repent as if you were dead, until your very existence fades into obscurity. Treason is not a crime easily forgotten.”
“Answer me!”
Cesare screamed.
Clink. The Emperor calmly set down his teacup.
“Must I spell it out for you?”
“Father.”
“Do not brand me a merciless father who killed his son.”
“Do you need a puppet to keep Adeline in check?”
Cesare pressed. Once again, the Emperor gave no answer. Instead, he gave an unexpected order.
“Indeed. You must strike down the duke yourself.”
There was no choice. Only in defeat did Cesare realize the truth: all of this had been the Emperor’s plan.
He had deliberately allowed Cesare to conspire with the Duke of Nordhill and rise in rebellion. And then, when the time was right, he used it as the perfect excuse to eliminate the troublesome duke.
He had crushed Cesare’s ambitions, disposed of the duke, pushed forward Adeline’s betrothal to the Lion King, and branded the Empress a criminal. By sparing Cesare, he also ensured that Adeline could never easily amass her own power.
The realization made him dizzy. He felt sick, though he had eaten nothing. His stomach twisted, his lips were parched, and the stench of blood, pressed down by the rain, clung to him unbearably.
The Duke of Nordhill, grievously wounded by the Lion King’s blade, was dragged before the outer gates of the palace, forced to his knees.
Defeated Cesare was dragged by the First Order and the chamberlain to where the duke awaited. With every step he took, the stares of those watching grew heavier.
He was the Crown Prince. The Emperor’s only son. Yet he had rebelled simply to seize the throne more quickly. No one here spoke of the duke’s convictions.
This rebellion would be remembered only as the reckless folly of Crown Prince Cesare Dixon.
“Duke…”
Cesare muttered hoarsely.
The Duke of Nordhill was already at death’s door. Blood poured from his wounds, soaking the earth beneath him. Rain splashed down, spreading it into wide stains. Cesare stepped before the kneeling duke.
“Execute him.”
The chamberlain’s voice rang cold and emotionless.
Cesare had to strike him down to live. He didn’t want to die. He must not die here. Even if the whole nation pointed fingers at him, he had to survive—for now.
Cesare’s voice trembled.
“I’m sorry.”
The duke, thought unconscious, suddenly lifted his head sharply. He tried to speak. Tears of blood streaked his face as he leaned toward Cesare. Was it resentment, or was it a plea? On his knees, the duke crawled toward him, his bloodied face struggling to convey something.
“I…”
“I’m sorry.”
That was the end. Cesare’s sword fell, and blood spurted from the duke’s neck.
The Duke of Nordhill was dead.
Adeline silently watched the scene. She stood at a distance—not far, but not close either. Slowly, the Lion King stepped behind her and gave a short laugh.
A tragic, futile death. The duke had devoted his life to his convictions, but in the end, he left nothing behind.
What was Cesare thinking now? Did he regret what he had done? Did he grieve at the duke’s death? Or did he simply feel relief that he had survived?
Adeline shook her head. Cesare knew this moment would change the course of his life forever. That meant it was better for him to focus on the present than to cling to what had already passed.
The Emperor’s knights moved. They tore the sword from Cesare’s hands and bound him like an animal. There was no courtesy for the Crown Prince. From this moment on, he was both the Emperor’s only son and a wretched traitor who had lived on in disgrace.
At last, the signal was given. The Emperor’s knights rushed outside the palace gates, dragging northern palace servants with them. They were heading out to execute the Duke of Nordhill’s allies, the nobles who had sided with him, and their families.
“A storm of blood will sweep through the capital.”
Adeline tilted her head as she looked at the back of Cesare’s head, dragged along like a dog.
Cesare turned his head toward the northern palace. Bound hand and foot, the only part of him free to move was his head. He turned it toward the palace where the Emperor remained, his lips moving. She couldn’t hear what he said from this distance, but she wondered at its meaning.
“Father,” or “Emperor.”
For a moment, she caught a glimpse of his face. And it was strange. The expression he wore was not anger, nor sorrow, nor despair of a defeated man. It was something else—an awakening.
Why did you have to be so reckless? If she could, Adeline would have run to him, grabbed him by the collar, and demanded an answer.
The rain poured harder. Raindrops hammered against their armor with a noisy clatter. Adeline silently handed her bow to the butterfly that had approached her.
“Let’s go back.”
