Chapter 47 - What Is Going On? (3)

CRUNCH!

Something unseen struck Sergius’s hands, crushing them to pieces. A hideous scream burst from his mouth.

“Aaaaaaagh!”

It was not just his hands. His arms, his shoulders, his legs twisted into grotesque shapes, as though crushed in a press. His chilling screams rang through the entire mansion where Yutia stood.

Yet Yutia watched without the slightest change in expression. She addressed the man whose entire body lay shattered as though pronouncing a sentence.

“I told you, no one will come, no matter how much you scream.”

“S-spare me—p-please!”

His face steeped in terror, Sergius cried out to Yutia as she watched him in the crimson world. The terrible pain already had fluids streaming from his eyes, nose, and mouth. Caring nothing for his dignity as a cardinal, he screamed only to escape the agony.

“What are you talking about?”

Looking puzzled, Yutia met the eyes of Sergius as he writhed on the floor.

“Of course you aren’t going to die.”

White light began flowing from her hand. Its powerful divine power started restoring Sergius’s body in an instant, but he screamed at the sight of his flesh healing.

“N-no! No!!”

Then, the moment his body was fully restored:

“Ghh—hkk!”

Sergius looked up at Yutia, his eyes filled with terror and his whole body trembling. He was such a wretched sight that it was difficult to imagine him as a cardinal of Rosario. The horrific pain he had already suffered over and over, and the fear it bred, had devoured what little dignity and conviction he had left.

Despite enduring that dreadful pain time and again, he could not understand what was happening. The paladins who never came, however much he screamed. The pressure that kept him from moving as he wished. Even his body, which crumpled like paper at a single gesture from her hand. He could make sense of none of it. It was as though it defied comprehension.

And so he could only beg for forgiveness.

“Spare... me... Please... please spare me...”

Though he did not truly understand why he was being subjected to this, he begged for forgiveness, as though pleading with a god.

But—

CRRRUNCH!

“Aaaaaaagh!”

Contrary to Sergius’s wishes, his body slowly began to compress again. As he screamed like a madman, Yutia’s voice reached his ears.

“As I keep telling you, you won’t die. There’s something I need you to do.”

A voice anyone would find sweet.

“But—”

Lovely.

“You must be punished for trying to harm him, mustn’t you?”

And chilling.

“Aaaaaaaaagh!!!!”

Sergius’s screams rang out once more.

####

About a month had passed since Alon returned to his county. While recovering from his rather lengthy desert journey, he had also been investigating the portents of an Outer God that “it” had told him about, along with the source of the Abyssal Cores—objects that should not have appeared yet. Now he was preparing to leave his estate again.

There were two reasons he was setting out again without a break. One was to attend the magic symposium, which Riyan Agulus, daughter of the Red Magic Tower’s master, had invited him to. The other was to put in an appearance at the Grand Forum beforehand.

The Grand Forum. In truth, rather than that imposing name, it would have been more accurate to call it a social gathering for nobles. All they did was work hard at cultivating their friendships. Its one slight difference was that, unlike the Grand Social Gathering, which only nobles could attend, it also admitted people of renown who were not nobles.

'... Honestly, I don’t particularly want to go.'

Alon smacked his lips as he considered it.

Still, he was going out of his way to stop at the Grand Forum before the magic symposium because, as leader of the Sword Faction, he needed to keep up appearances to some extent. Whether he liked it or not, he was already its leader.

Of course, that did not mean he was forcing himself to do something he truly hated. ... In fact, until partway through, he had been convinced he would have to force himself. But a letter that had arrived not long ago had completely cured him of that notion.

“Whew.”

Alon looked at the magical letter that lifted his spirits just by being in sight. It had no magic or anything of the sort on it. It was merely a letter listing the money he would now receive regularly, accompanied by a certificate recognizing him as the head of a legitimate faction.

“... Wonderful.”

The amount a faction leader could legally receive was truly beyond imagining—enough to draw those words from him without his realizing it. He could finally understand something that had previously baffled him: why the leaders of the two factions had gritted their teeth and clung to their positions for years.

'... For this much, I can see why they’d endure one ordeal after another practically every day.'

How on earth were these factions structured to generate so much money? That question aside, Alon estimated his future income and, satisfied with yet another dose of financial therapy, tucked the letter inside his clothes.

“My lord, isn’t that the letter that arrived two weeks ago?”

“It is.”

“You’re still carrying it around.”

“It puts my mind at ease.”

Evan gave him an odd look at the unexpected answer.

“... Sometimes I really can’t tell whether you’re serious about everything or not, my lord.”

“I’m neither particularly serious nor particularly unserious.”

Evan shrugged and changed the subject.

“Come to think of it, I heard a few interesting things while we were staying in the village yesterday.”

“Interesting things?”

“Yes.”

“What were they?”

“It’s still a rumor, and I haven’t checked the details with the Information Guild, so I’m not certain, but it seems Deus defeated Reinhardt.”

“By Reinhardt, do you mean Callivan’s First Sword?”

“Yes.”

“... Deus defeated the First Sword?”

Evan nodded at Alon’s question.

“As I said, I haven’t confirmed it with the Information Guild, so I’m not certain... But considering how widely the rumor has spread, I suspect it’s true.”

“Hmm...”

Alon thought of Deus, with whom he had gradually lost touch after their expedition to the north half a year ago.

'... Wouldn’t Reinhardt be hard to beat?'

Of course, he knew Deus was strong. Like Reinhardt, he was one of the Master Knights, and Alon had clearly witnessed his strength for himself. Still, knowing how powerful Reinhardt was from playing Psychedelia, he could not help feeling a little bewildered. As far as he knew, Reinhardt’s strength was on an entirely different level from the other Master Knights.

Yet he did not think the rumor was false, either.

'... If he’s become strong enough to beat Reinhardt in just half a year... how talented is he?'

As he marveled anew at Deus’s talent, Evan spoke.

“There’s other news, too.”

“Is it about Seollang this time? Or Yutia?”

“Hmm—I do think this rumor might involve Yutia, but it’s technically about something else.”

“?”

Alon listened to what followed. Once he had heard the whole story, he asked:

“Duke Limgrave was dragged off to the Holy Kingdom?”

“Yes. Oh, and this one isn’t just a rumor. It seems he really was taken away.”

“Why...?”

“I hear he received a letter of correction.”

“A letter of correction...?”

“You know the one—the letter the Holy Kingdom sends to a country when evidence suggests someone has colluded with heretics. He received one of those.”

“So he was dragged off to the Holy Kingdom?”

“Yes. They say he went of his own accord, but he was effectively dragged there. From what I’ve heard, it was roughly two weeks ago, so you probably won’t see Duke Limgrave at this Grand Forum.”

Alon nodded, looking as though that was not bad news at all. In truth, he was still somewhat reluctant to meet Duke Limgrave or Marquis Philvoid. Whenever they met, the two glared at him as if they wanted to chew him up.

“Hmm...”

Of course, however hostile their looks were, they could not actually harm him. Still, sharing a space with someone who hated him was undeniably uncomfortable.

“That should make things a little easier.”

As he murmured those words, he noticed the Biritium estate, where the Grand Forum was being held, in the distance. A short while later, he arrived at the estate of House Biritium, a marquisate, and headed straight for the ballroom.

“We’ve arrived, my lord.”

At Evan’s words, Alon stepped out of the carriage.

'Quite a crowd.'

The thought came unbidden as soon as he alighted and saw the throng before him. There had been plenty of people at the Grand Social Gathering, but there were far more at this Grand Forum.

'There certainly are a lot of people who aren’t nobles. Mercenaries over there, merchants here, mages over there... even priests.'

Alon walked on, observing the many attendees whose attire was visibly unlike that of nobles. Before long, he encountered Duchess Altia, dressed in black, and Count Xenonia, as though they had been waiting for him.

“You’re here.”

“Have you been well?”

“Yes.”

Alon answered quietly as the two shadowy masterminds greeted him with easy familiarity.

Although he knew he was already in the same boat as them, he somehow felt intimidated in their presence. Given the misunderstanding(?) between them, it naturally weighed on him. From Alon’s standpoint, he could not let them discover that there was a misunderstanding at all.

After exchanging a few pleasantries with them, Alon made small talk while picking at the refreshments laid out around the ballroom.

“Ah.”

Unfortunately, he met the eyes of Marquis Philvoid—the man whose gaze he had least wanted to catch.

“...”

Duchess Altia and Count Xenonia, who had been chatting until just moments before, fell silent at the sight of Philvoid. Their expressions hardened as he approached. They were unquestionably powerful in the underworld, but in politics they still ranked beneath him. They tensed, unable to predict how this veteran of countless political struggles might wield his tongue to damage them, both within their circles and beyond.

At the same moment that several nobles attending the Grand Forum noticed Marquis Philvoid standing before Count Pallatio, a dismal murmur escaped his lips.

“... I... I’ve lost...! So please, spare me...!”

Not only the nobles watching him, but also Count Xenonia and Duchess Altia at Alon’s side were stunned.

And no wonder. The nobles gathered here knew just how much influence Marquis Philvoid wielded in politics. They also knew that he had never once bowed his head since first entering that world. Every noble watching was therefore aghast as they turned to Alon, the man who had drawn a declaration of defeat from Philvoid.

'...? I...? What...?'

... Alon himself, who had merely been giving the two young ladies perfunctory answers while helping himself to financiers, could only look bewildered.