Chapter 581: With Sacred Name, Swords Clash; Because of the Demon King's

Poor Jelock did not know that the Campbell family had not been saved by demons for the first time.

Compared to that, his life really wasn't worth much.

For the unfathomable Demon King, stabilizing the pieces on the chessboard was merely a trivial matter.

Whoever the Demon King forbade to die could not be killed, even by a Demon God himself.

Two days passed since that battle; Tanos returned to the Great Cemetery and reported to the Demon King—who already knew the outcome—returning the spear granted to him.

Meanwhile, a warship flying the banner of the Campbell Duchy set sail from Thundering City's harbor, like an arrow loosed from a bow, hurtling toward the isolated island of Cranto!

Hearing that the castle on Cranto Island had been attacked, Edward was frantic; he had barely seen off Baron Aleric when he immediately boarded the warship with his personal guard.

Gazing at the distant, half-hidden harbor, he barked an order to the captain beside him.

"Sail in! Tell the soldiers and sailors to prepare for battle!"

The captain's face twisted with unease as he nervously reported to the Duke.

"Your Majesty, Cranto Island is surrounded by hidden reefs, and that harbor was never built for warships—approaching too closely risks running aground! My suggestion is to anchor the ship just offshore and prepare for support, then lower the longboats… I volunteer to lead the first landing!"

Edward took a deep breath, forcing down his rage, refusing to let personal emotion cloud his judgment.

"... You stay aboard. Get as close as you safely can. Load all cannons and await my command."

The captain exhaled in relief and bowed respectfully.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

But before he could fully relax, Edward turned to his personal guard, Bertrand.

He was Teresa's father, who had earned great merit during the "Winter Month Suppression" and been promoted to Platinum-tier Transcendent.

"Bertrand, come with me to the island."

Watching the Duke grip his sword tightly, Bertrand's face showed surprise, then he bowed in obedience.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

He did not dare dissuade His Majesty—Jelock was, after all, His Majesty's own flesh and blood, even if they had once drawn swords against each other.

Priests often said their Duke had abandoned human emotion, and that silver hair was Saint Cis's punishment for selling his soul to demons and raising his blade against his own brother.

Yet now it seemed the rumors were false, and a faint comfort stirred within him.

Unlike the King of Leyne Kingdom, the Duke he served, though ambitious, was not a purely political creature—he still retained a trace of human warmth…

The warship lowered its longboats; the Duke's personal guards, rifles slung on their backs, rowed hard and soon landed on the small harbor buried among the rocks.

Boots crunching on rotting wooden planks, Edward felt his heart tighten.

The ruined castle stood like a tomb—even the lighthouse's glow could not dispel the darkness clinging to the island.

He had only seen this island on maps; he never imagined it was such a place…

"Form ranks!" Bertrand shouted to the guards, ordering them into formation to face Transcendents.

The Rocksey rifles could unleash dense volleys, but to defeat swift, elusive Transcendents, courage and tactics were still needed.

If the assassin was still here, he knew victory would ultimately depend on the sword in his hand.

Without lingering outside the castle, Edward gripped his waist sword and led his guards rushing toward it.

The wind howling beneath the castle remained fierce, carrying the briny tide—but it could not dispel the nauseating stench of blood within.

The moment he stepped through the gate, Edward's heart sank. He saw the once solemn monastery, now turned into a hell on earth: only jagged glass remained on the windows, and behind broken bricks and rubble, a grotesque bloodstain lingered.

"... Saint Cis above," Bertrand swallowed hard, silently praying.

Any Transcendent who held even a shred of reverence for the Holy Light could never have fought within the monastery and destroyed the sacred prayer hall like this.

Edward did not pause, nor did he have time to dwell on details. He stepped quickly over shattered tiles and burst into the ruined monastery.

The guards behind him had never seen their Duke like this before.

The silver-haired Duke, always known for his composure, now had disheveled hair and a face betraying faint panic.

"Jelock!"

Facing the empty monastery, he shouted, scanning the hall.

Finally, beside a broken statue of Saint Cis, he found the familiar figure.

Jelock leaned against the wall, now dressed in a clean, coarse monk's robe, his wounds simply bandaged.

He seemed badly injured, yet not as near death as Edward had feared.

On the contrary, his expression was unnervingly calm, eyes closed, praying as he always did before the statue.

Hearing his brother's call, Jelock slowly lifted his head and opened his eyes.

A flicker of surprise crossed them—he had not expected his brother to come here himself.

"... Your Majesty?"

Edward rushed forward, ignoring the dust, dropping to one knee beside him, trembling hands checking his brother's wounds.

Upon confirming the wounds, though gruesome, had already healed, his tense shoulders finally relaxed.

Then, the relief of seeing his kin survive instantly turned into raging fury.

His eyes burned with murderous intent, teeth clenched tight.

"Who did this?"

Jelock fell silent.

Unconsciously, his mind flashed to the shadowy figure that had appeared above the dome, and the demon in the tailcoat's parting whisper of pity.

"You don't need to know."

Without doubt, that was a servant of the Demon King—the darkness the Campbell family had fought for generations.

For his brother's sake, and for the last shred of dignity the family had left, he decided to withhold part of the truth.

"It was the King's assassin," he said calmly. "His name is Harro, calls himself the Burier and the Gravedigger. He carries the aura of Chaos, and he leaves no moral boundaries—I suspect he's a remnant of the Greenwood Army…"

Edward's pupils shrank sharply.

On the way here, he had already suspected the mastermind—but hearing it from his own kin was different.

"I'm sorry… I was negligent. I should have anticipated Theoden would strike at you."

He had thought Jelock wasn't his weakness—but clearly, he was wrong.

Theoden understood him even better than he understood himself; upon hearing of Cranto Castle's fall, his heart had nearly stopped.

Jelock shook his head gently, a forgiving smile appearing on his pale, blood-loss-worn face.

"No, Your Majesty, my brother… I do not believe this is your fault. Can any mortal foresee everything?"

Before Edward could speak, his gaze turned to the shattered statue.

"Especially when we still hold faith, while our enemies have abandoned all limits. Didn't I myself never imagine it? That Derek, who had been loyal to our father, would seize my sword and point it at your chest."

This was the lesson he had drawn from his long, silent reflection in the monastery.

A noble knight must hold faith—but also must assume the worst of demons' cruelty.

Edward stared at Jelock, as if seeing his brother anew, speechless.

Jelock raised his right hand, gripping a broken stone arm, his voice tinged with reverence.

"Fortunately, Saint Cis watched over me. Harro's cross shattered the statue, and this broken arm granted me divine power, enabling me to repel the evil that defied the gods… Yet sadly, no one else in the castle survived. Before reaching me, the emissary of Chaos had already killed them all."

This sounded absurd—not a full truth, but more like a ballad embellished by a wandering minstrel.

Yet seeing the scattered corpses and Jelock's devout face, Edward chose silence.

With his experience, he could hear the omissions in this monologue.

Yet he chose to believe his brother had not lied to him deliberately, but had weighed the truth and decided to bear it alone.

No matter the truth, as long as Jelock lived, it was enough for him.

Saint Cis above—let it be your miracle…

Edward did not press for details, only sat down wearily on the rubble beside Jelock.

The journey had exhausted him; the tension in his heart finally loosened.

"Your Majesty…" Bertrand seized the chance, pulling a blood-restoring elixir from his coat and offering it.

Edward took it, nodded to him, signaling him to take charge of the castle's defense and search for hidden threats in the darkness.

He must also tell the captain still waiting on deck to unload the powder charges and cannonballs from the gun barrels.

The guards left the broken bricks and rubble, leaving only two to guard the monastery's entrance, closing the shattered wooden door.

The vast hall was now empty save for the two brothers.

Jelock grinned, took the elixir Edward offered, drank it without hesitation.

A warm flow spread through his chest; he felt his strength returning slightly.

Holy Light could heal wounds, but mostly by borrowing life force—it could not fully replace the healing of elixirs.

Watching Jelock's color gradually return, Edward's expression softened, no longer rigid as before.

The sea breeze blew through the broken windows, perhaps dispersing some of the bloodstink—or perhaps their noses had simply grown used to it.

The two brothers sat side by side on the ruins, utterly unrecognizable as men who had once drawn swords against each other months ago.

Jelock turned his head, glancing at his brother's silver hair, his throat bobbed, and he broke the silence.

"The children… are they well?"

Edward paused, then understood.

"You mean Richard and the others?"

"Who else?" Jelock grinned, making a lighthearted joke, "Did you father a bastard?"

"That's not funny," Edward said sternly.

"Hah…" Jelock scratched the back of his head awkwardly, like a child who'd messed up, "Sorry."

Edward's expression relaxed, his stern face still smiling.

"I was just joking."

Jelock: "..."

It wasn't just him—his older brother was the same as before.

One couldn't gauge the right limit for jokes, the other made it impossible to tell whether to laugh or not—it was quite awkward.

Just as Jelock was pondering how to reopen the conversation, Edward paused, then suddenly spoke.

"Richard is becoming more like you," Edward's face softened with paternal warmth, his tone gentle as he continued, "that boy spends all day studying knightly honor, stubborn as a mule."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Jelock smiled, momentarily forgetting his formal address, "though I think Alfred resembles me more as a child."

"That was then," Edward shook his head, his voice tinged with resignation and a hint of amusement, "over the past year, their personalities have changed a great deal—especially lately, both boys have found an opponent they can't defeat, and every time they're thoroughly humbled."

"Oh?" Jelock's eyes widened with clear surprise. "That's remarkable—who dares humble the future Duke?"

Thinking of that wild, spirited girl, Edward's smile grew subtle.

"It's Colin's child—more precisely, Colin's sister... though she's illegitimate, her demeanor doesn't quite fit that label. Anyway, she's a decent enough person."

Most illegitimate children are either cowardly or deeply calculating; few develop into healthy souls.

Lady Vivian, though eccentric—capable of delivering full-force kicks to children and casting glances at the legitimate heir that send shivers down one's spine—still remains sunny, cheerful, and confidently composed.

Jelock smiled.

"By the way, where's Lino?"

"Lino hasn't changed much these past two years—still as mischievous as ever, and increasingly like Erin," Edward's gaze turned exceptionally tender; it was clear he doted on his daughter even more than on his heir. "Ah, I actually wish she'd be quieter. Bravery and kindness are noble traits, but her energy is simply too boundless."

"That's fine," Jelock murmured, his eyes drifting toward the monastery's entrance. "Being like Erin is good... if she didn't have to bear the burden of the Glorified Light, she might have lived a happy life."

Edward gave a slight shrug.

"Perhaps."

The greatest lesson he'd learned from his ancestors was this: never trust a sudden impulse in your mind—it shatters even the most meticulous plans.

Sometimes a bold deviation seems to solve the immediate problem, but it buries greater misfortune for future generations.

Yet oddly enough, Edward felt the gods still favored the Campbell family.

Though none of his three children resembled him as a father, each had somehow, in a peculiar way, compensated for many of his emotional regrets.

Perhaps this was Saint Xis's gift to him.

Like Jelock, he too acted decisively—but he also believed in karmic retribution.

"By the way, you've changed quite a bit."

Seeing Edward suddenly speak, Jelock pointed at himself, surprised.

"Me?"

"Is there anyone else here?"

Edward laughed, clapped Jelock's uninjured shoulder, and rose from the rubble.

Watching his brother's back, Jelock was startled to find that once-broad shoulders had lost much of their weariness.

He swallowed, then spoke.

"... You've changed too."

Edward blinked in surprise.

"Really?"

Jelock nodded seriously.

"I feel... you've grown younger."

Though it might have been his imagination, he sensed that after their talk, his brother seemed noticeably lighter.

And that eased Jelock's guilt slightly.

His arrogance once brought his brother great trouble—but this time, he might have actually helped him a little...

Edward paused, then noticed Jelock staring at his white hair. He suddenly realized he'd never told him anything, and burst into laughter.

Jelock stared at his brother, bewildered, his gaze filled with confusion.

When Edward finally stopped laughing, he raised a hand and rubbed his silver-white bangs between his thumb and forefinger.

"I forgot to tell you last time—this hair is dyed."

This news had spread like wildfire through Thundering City.

Every citizen knew he'd dyed his hair white to share Erin's suffering.

But Jelock had been in the dungeon then, and neither the dungeon nor K Lantuo Island would have received a copy of the Thundering City Daily.

To his shame, he'd promised his brother he'd watch Thundering City rise—and yet he'd never sent him a single newspaper.

From now on, he'd strengthen K Lantuo Island's security and include newspapers in every supply shipment.

"So... it wasn't because of me?" Jelock whispered.

Edward's lips curled into a smile.

"Don't underestimate your elder brother. Your little messes aren't enough to break me."

That wasn't entirely true—he'd gone noticeably gray last winter, which was why he'd simply dyed his hair silver.

"Don't worry about me. Take care of yourself—for our mother's sake."

Leaving Jelock stunned, he tossed out a final farewell and walked toward the monastery's exit.

When the sunlight pierced through the clouds and fell upon his forehead, the warm, Chunfeng -like smile of Prince Colin returned—but transformed again into the fierce, hawk-like ruthlessness.

He could soften for his kin, of course.

As for his enemies...

Don't expect to see even a trace of kindness on his face.

Several days after Edward returned to Thundering City, Baron Elaric, traveling upstream along the Rushing River, quietly returned to his Twilight Castle, carrying the secret pact he'd made with the Duke.

At this moment, the Inquisition was still battling its invisible phantom, and the Lionheart Knights were primarily wary of Erin and her Northern Rescue Army.

No one noticed the Viceroy had left his mansion—and vanished completely beneath everyone's eyes for a full week.

After all, he was utterly insignificant; even the Emperor himself considered the minor baron unworthy of notice.

Baron Elaric lay low for several days, handling his duties as usual with sluggish calm, while secretly preparing to assemble the Council.

He dispatched servants into the countryside to cultivate relationships with powerful rural gentry, and sent out invitations under the pretense of his youngest son's birthday, inviting powerful nobles from Dusk Province to private dinners at his estate.

Amid clinking goblets, all guests were delighted.

Along the long table beside the dance floor, many drunken nobles vented their anger at the Emperor or the Church.

Elaric observed their reactions closely, committing them silently to memory.

They were the future backbone of the Holy Light Council—or at least, the first wave he could sway.

The banquet finally ended; guests departed, still sated and reluctant to leave—but not everyone left the Viceroy's mansion.

For instance, the three remaining powerful Earls of Dusk Province were secretly retained by Baron Elaric and led to a small room beside the banquet hall.

As the heavy oak door shut out the guests' noise, the Earls seated around the round table finally relaxed their furrowed brows.

They knew Elaric well—he was the Emperor's man, but not one who shared his bed.

That wasn't hard to tell.

After all, any baron seated as Viceroy of Dusk Province would inevitably grow closer to the neighboring Campbell Duke than to the distant Emperor.

It wasn't determined by interest—it was determined by ecological position.

Just as a baron, by his own power alone, could never hold the Viceroy's seat, let alone seize Dusk Province from the Emperor.

"... By Saint Xis, when will these damned priests finally leave my lands? My granaries are crawling with rats—if they keep this up, not just my serfs, but even I'll have to chew bark!"

The man shouting was Earl Cormac Cain of Stillwater Marsh.

His family had the closest trade ties with the Campbell Duchy; the entire earldom's economy relied on merchant caravans along the river.

Now, all caravans instinctively avoided this trouble zone—even if forced to pass through, they wouldn't stop, fearing the Inquisition's curse.

Beyond economic ties, the people of Stillwater Marsh and the Campbells shared deep cultural exchanges.

Over a thousand years ago, the Campbells had boarded rafts along the banks of Stillwater Marsh and floated downstream, establishing human outposts beyond the Rapids Gate.

That land had once belonged to the beasts, then briefly occupied by the Dragon God's descendants, until the Isaac Dynasty gave birth to the "Campbell Earldom"—the Campbell Duchy and its later flourishing were still to come.

If the Emperor continued this recklessness, the people along Stillwater's waters might as well become Campbells—they were already moving their homes downstream!

In the spring of Year 1054 of the Aus calendar, the concept of "nation" was still a rare, ahead-of-its-time idea—even in rapidly changing Thundering City.

It might have been born in Sir Wesley's mind, or perhaps in the cunning head of Factory Overseer Hollis—but it meant nothing to the nobles or serfs of the Kingdom of Lyne.

Cowardly Ed Tully sighed heavily; his Gray Marsh Earldom was the first to collapse under starving peasants, and his father was the first to die beneath the Green Forest Army's blades.

"What is the Emperor thinking?" he shrank his neck, voice trembling. "He sends the Lionheart Knights but gives no money, no grain—just watches as these priests drain us dry, while we still have to supply the knights. Isn't Dusk Province his land? Lord Viceroy... write the Emperor another letter."

He'd never prepared to inherit the earldom—yet suddenly, the fates of dozens of families and over a thousand servants rested on his shoulders.

Sitting at the corner of the round table, Theron Gard stared at his cup, trying to make his bulky shoulders appear smaller, as if to avoid bearing a weight not his own.

He was the Earl who looked most like an Earl—and yet the most powerless of them all.

At least Ed had over a thousand servants bound by shared honor and shame; Theron had no one left. The good people were either slaughtered by the Green Forest Army or stolen away by the Savior's Army.

Quemubao had no lord.

Only the faithful who'd received grace from Saintess Kalian remained—and the Saintess herself, ever-present yet impossible to catch.

Including himself, they were all merely her puppets.

"Write to the Emperor?" Cormac scoffed, glancing at the trembling Earl of Gray Marsh. "Give up on that idea—he'd rather see Dusk Province stripped of every Earl, reclaiming all power for his court."

Seeing the fearful Earl fall silent, he turned his gaze to the silent Theron, prodding him: "Earl of Quemubao, say something. You're probably the richest here—and your losses are the greatest!"

He'd heard all of Dusk Province's grain came from Quemubao—clearly, this man had real influence.

After all, the Apostles of Chaos roam everywhere, yet only Quemu Ling thrives alone—no wonder the Tribunal regards his family as a model of piety!

Cormack had no intention of mocking Theron; "a model of piety" might be a heavy honor for commoners, but for nobles, it wasn't too bad. After all, grain that couldn't be sold would rot in warehouses anyway—exchanging it for honor wasn't a loss.

Looking at Cormack's burning gaze, Theron smiled bitterly, guessing the man had mistaken him for someone from the Campbell Duchy.

But he wasn't.

Not a single soldier from the Campbell Duchy had passed through his lands; even Airene had never so much as glanced at him, this coward.

He sat here only because of the Holy Maiden's instruction.

She wanted him to listen to the Viceroy's words—the Viceroy had received a divine revelation.

By Saint Sis, why did everyone hear Your Holiness's revelation, yet I alone was left out?

"I… think you're all right."

Theron set down his wine cup, cleared his throat, and turned his gaze to Baron Alaric, who remained silent as well. "Let our Viceroy speak a few words."

Cormack glanced at him in surprise, then turned to Baron Alaric—and suddenly realized the baron seemed different than usual.

In the past, at this time, the Viceroy Alaric would smile, agree with their complaints, and soothe them with correct but useless words… but today, he had conspicuously not done so.

In his eyes burned a light Cormack had never seen before.

He seemed like a different man!

"Have you finished complaining, gentlemen?"

Alaric's voice was not loud, yet it carried weight—it silenced the noisy council chamber in an instant.

He leaned forward, his gaze sharp as a hawk's, fixed on the three silent counts, and spoke with decisive force.

"The Tribunal will leave eventually—they do not belong to Dusk City. But the King belongs here. His reckoning will come either this autumn or next."

"For the future of those who live on this land, and for the heads wobbling on your necks, we must make a choice."

Looking at the eyes slowly filling with terror, he delivered his final words slowly, each syllable deliberate.

"Either unite and resist."

"Or perish in silence!"

"Clang—"

Theron's wine cup fell to the floor, red wine spilling across the carpet, crimson liquid pooling like blood.

He stared, dumbfounded, at Baron Alaric, whose wolfish ambition was now laid bare—he could hardly believe his ears—

What kind of divine revelation is this!?

This was outright rebellion!

The first to scream was Ed Tully, the Count of Grey Marsh, who leapt up like a lizard caught by the tail.

"Are you mad?! What are you going to resist? The Lionheart Knights? Or Lord Hagemore of the Radiant Knights?"

"The demigod may be powerful, but he is not invincible. If even the descendants of Tully believe him unbeatable, then we are truly doomed."

Ignoring Ed's outburst, Alaric rose to his feet, placing both hands on the round table.

"We shall form the 'Holy Light Council.'"

"Counts shall lead barons, barons shall lead knights… We shall unite all influential figures in the Dusk Province who still have a voice, and forge a power core of our own."

"Publicly, we shall claim to purge the 'Savior Army's' corruption and reclaim the people of the Dusk Province from the witches!"

Theron held his breath.

He thought the world had gone utterly absurd.

The Holy Maiden said the Viceroy heard a divine revelation, yet the Viceroy called the Holy Maiden a witch—and now they planned to turn the Church's sword against the King behind them.

"Wait!" Count Cormack frowned. "What does this have to do with the Savior Army? Isn't that the Church's problem?"

He had no faith in this "Holy Light Council," nor did he believe these broken remnants could stand against the entire Leyn Kingdom—even if the baron secretly had the Campbell Duchy's backing.

"Because we cannot openly defy the King."

Alaric looked at him and calmly revealed the strategy Duke Edward had devised for him.

"But we can use the pretext of fighting the Savior Army to force the Tribunal to side with us. Inquisitor-General Jimenez is already furious that the King's indulgence has dragged the Tribunal into the mire—and we can offer them a dignified compromise: a chance to return to the Holy City with honor!"

"But…" Ed Tully still hesitated, wiping sweat from his brow, his voice trembling. "This is too dangerous. What if the King is enraged…"

"Dangerous?"

Alaric sneered, cutting off the cowardly words.

"Don't think I'm joking, gentlemen. Think of Count Solde Wivert, dead at Lion's Claw Keep—he shed his last drop of blood for Theoden. What was his final reward? A statue? A medal? And then?"

At the mention of that name, the three counts paled slightly.

Though Wivert's death couldn't be blamed directly on the King, any sane person knew that if the Lionheart Knights had arrived even a few months earlier, far fewer would have died on that land.

The King does not eat men.

He simply doesn't need to eat them himself.

Alaric's gaze swept the room, lingering on each face, his voice cold as a blade.

"Gentlemen, today it was Wivert's family that was wiped out. Tomorrow, it will be your children. You may retreat, like cattle and sheep burying their heads in the field—only I will go to hell first and wait for you. And when I do, I will laugh at you."

"Only by standing firm like the Campbell Duchy, blocking royal power beyond our castle walls, can we truly seize control of our own fate!"

"For our fate, it is time to choose!"