But then, a voice pierced the silence...
"You've become a hero now."
Egologia stopped walking, then slowly turned his gaze toward the figure leaning against the nearby wall. It was Claude, standing there, motionless but weary, his face covered in scars. Yet, he did not seem fragile. The passing days had mended his bones, but his skin retained the marks of battle as a permanent reminder—at least of Valeras.
Egologia raised an eyebrow with a faint smile.
"Oh, Sir... You're alive, then."
He moved closer, his tone calm, almost devoid of genuine interest.
"You've uncovered a hero now. Well done, Egologia. That giant amulet... You never cease to amaze me."
Egologia did not respond immediately, taking another step forward.
"Oh, of course... And I'll amaze you again now."
Claude's gray eyes flickered with a fleeting question.
"?"
Egologia slowly raised his hand... and placed it on Claude's face. At that moment, the aura erupted—a dark crimson flow, surging between Egologia's fingers as if alive. The aura crackled through the air like bloody threads dancing across Claude's wounds. It coiled around the scars, weaving into them with delicate strands like spider silk, touching every scratch, every wound, every bruise—and began reshaping them.
This was not mere healing. Not just the mending of torn flesh or restoring tissue to its original state. No, this was something else... as if the flesh itself was reforming, something beyond mere healing magic.
Claude watched in awe and anticipation. The sensation wasn't pain—it was strange, like a cold current flowing beneath his skin. Trying to comprehend what was happening, Egologia then removed his hand. A moment passed... as if the air itself was struggling to grasp what had occurred.
The deep scars from mere seconds ago... had vanished completely.
"What... What was that?!"
Claude rushed forward in a frenzy, his eyes fixed on his reflection in the ornately carved golden pillar. He touched his face, confirming the sensation.
"Damn... My face is completely smooth."
He quickly turned his head toward Egologia, who stood as if the matter held no significance to him.
"Your healing ability... How?"
Egologia smiled, enjoying the reaction.
"My pockets aren't empty, dear sir. You see it, don't you? I even erased your old scars. At the very least, you'll look properly noble now. The noblewomen will love it."
Claude narrowed his eyes.
"This power... It could benefit the kingdom. It could revolutionize—"
Egologia waved his hand dismissively.
"Oh... Hold on, hold on!! Don't go telling me—keep it a secret. Leave it to me. As you can see, I know when to reveal... and when to vanish."
Then he crossed his arms and asked:
"Well then, tell me... Are you from a noble lineage?"
"Huh?! How could you not know that? Are you joking? Where do you live? How could you not—?"
Egologia laughed lightly, cutting him off.
"Nah, I mean... just processing. Sometimes, this is how a noble knight is... It's just amusing."
Claude raised an eyebrow.
"Hmm?"
Suddenly—something pierced the atmosphere. A swift wind rushed through the corridor, hurried, tense, as if heralding a storm. Claude and Egologia turned sharply.
"Damn... What was that?" Claude muttered.
"What now?" Egologia asked.
"Who is it?"
Egologia narrowed his eyes, but Claude recognized it instantly.
"It's Kaspar... I'll catch up to him."
At the hall's entrance, nobles were filing out one by one, their steps measured—but the movement that cut through their ranks was anything but. Kaspar arrived in a flash, darting between them like a fleeting spark, landing firmly with a mix of urgency and fear in his gaze. The crowd stared at him in shock, but his voice shattered the silence.
"Your Majesty!!"
"?!"
"The destructive entity—Howard The Collapse... He's in the capital's streets right now."
Silence fell for a moment. Then—everything collapsed. Breaths hitched, eyes widened, and thoughts raced through their minds as if they had all plunged into an abyss at once. Then, the king blinked.
"Howard... After all this time. So, he has come."
It wasn't a question. It wasn't even an exclamation. It was a simple truth, written since time immemorial. The politicians exchanged glances. One turned toward the windows, half-expecting to see the city's lights shift.
Morgan stepped forward.
"I'll go."
He said it calmly, but his voice was like a dagger in the void.
"You won't go alone."
Morgan turned to him, something in his gaze resisting—but the king had already made his decision.
"Take your three sons with you. Only you can drive him away... and make sure he doesn't do anything reckless."
Morgan didn't argue.
There, in the heart of a grand plaza, stood a massive figure—blackened muscles, taut flesh, his head slightly tilted as if listening to something no one else could hear. A towering body clad in thick black fur, one eye red and the other gray. Dark metal armor, weighted and strapped to his frame with leather bindings. At the center of his chest hung a circular medallion, etched with cryptic symbols, a testament to an oath none dared to break. His grip tightened around an axe that seemed an extension of himself, his other hand—never trembling.
He wasn't attacking. He wasn't killing. He wasn't destroying. But neither was he waiting.
He was simply calling.
Not just a roar—but a declaration, an open will, an explicit command:
"Come to me... Or else, I will come to you."
"Your kingdom trembles," his hollow voice echoed. "It can no longer stand. It can no longer rule without loss. So, I have come."
He had come to decide whether this kingdom deserved to endure... or if its time had ended.
At the massive gate where they confronted him, Claude, having just arrived, watched as his father Morgan strode past. He walked as if the earth itself parted for him—then, without hesitation, shoved Claude aside with his shoulder, as if his own son were nothing but a pebble on the road, and continued forward.
Claude didn't move. A coldness seeped into his skin—the chill of disregard. He stared at his father's back for a moment, then clenched his fist, gathering his wavering voice to say:
"My lord... I'm coming with you."
It wasn't a request. It wasn't a plea. He had to declare it himself.
But Morgan... did not respond. He didn't stop. He didn't slow his steps. He didn't turn. He kept walking, as if the words had never been spoken.
Claude felt something ignite inside him. Anger? No, not anger. If he were angry, he would have run ahead and forced his father to acknowledge him. But he didn't.
Sorrow? No, not sorrow either. If he were sorrowful, he would have looked down, would have felt regret—but he didn't.
So, what was this feeling?
Morgan, at the final threshold, paused for a moment. He didn't turn. He didn't raise his voice. But he said:
"Stay where you are... child."