Night of Intertwined Destinies

Chapter 44: Night of Intertwined Fates (4k)

Cruz had never pleaded with such urgency to be released from the countless rooms deep within the winding corridors.

The Tyrant Dameks listened to the attendant's report, first one, then a second, kneeling in a line to relay the exiled mad prince's desperate plea.

His fingers gripped the golden scepter, which offered him only a heavy, cold response. In his memory, Cruz was still the obedient child from many years ago: his nimble, clean blue eyes darting curiously beneath thick eyebrows, following his two elder brothers, holding his sister's small hand as she learned to walk.

He didn't know when things had gone wrong.

Perhaps it was when Cruz suddenly asked him if he had ever seen the eyes in the sky, that the child began to grow increasingly somber and his temper became exceptionally violent. Sometimes he would shout about a rain of fire burning all the trees, and sometimes he would yell about killing the moon in the night.

When Cruz spoke of his sister's death, Dameks had ordered a small room for him.

The only other time he saw his third child was at his naming ceremony.

It was already late into the night, and Dameks was still awake because he had received news that his eldest son had been unexpectedly injured and was returning to the capital.

Knowing Harkon, he could guess the truth behind this so-called injury in less than a second.

He didn't understand what he had done wrong, or at which step his upbringing had repeatedly gone astray.

His eldest son's entire focus was consumed by the struggle for power, unable to extricate himself; his second son was devoted to art, and in recent days, had been staying in his workshop and not going out; his third son had gone mad; his only daughter, though capable and wise, was not close to him, and a gulf always remained between them.

Under the shaping of Peturabo and his artisan mentor, Lokos had developed at an astonishing speed, reaching a divine realm that Dameks had never dared to imagine.

Yet, whenever he thought of his children, Dameks' heart churned with endless bitterness and pain.

Another attendant ran over, reporting how Cruz had shouted not to let the birds die, breaking bones against the door of his room, blood flowing out from under the door.

The Tyrant wearily closed his aged eyes, letting the physician bandage the mad prince, and ordered Cruz to be brought before him.

—

Andos remained deeply uneasy. He had not slept since meeting the girl last night, as if sweet dreams had abandoned him.

He constantly felt a blind panic, a suppressed emptiness. These complex emotions almost blocked his thoughts; he could only feel that things were incredibly bizarre, and nothing was running on the correct track.

At the same time, his perception of the world around him had become extremely vivid, so vivid it bordered on dimness.

Every second, countless pieces of information flooded his mind. Every color he could observe automatically matched itself to thousands of unborn paintings. Whether he saw people or objects, wind, sun, moon, lakes, or the bustling human scenes of a city, they all desperately squeezed into his material storage, eager to be brought into this world through artistic re-creation by his hand.

He had to stay awake and eat nothing, and from now on, carve, paint, write, and smear endlessly to give form to even one-thousandth of his thoughts.

Before this, Andos had never imagined he would one day be driven mad by artistic inspiration.

Andos knew something was wrong with him; this was not the state he truly desired.

He indeed deeply loved skill and creation, but he especially cherished kindness and compassion between people. In his view, these were the most natural and beautiful things in the world.

Yet, earlier today, by chance, the first glance he gave his maidservant was the desire to preserve her permanently in plaster.

Such thoughts deeply tormented his conscience. He couldn't believe how infatuated he had become with illusion. However, when he came to his senses, he was already holding a newly forged knife, walking on the path to kill the maidservant.

He immediately fled the road, locked himself in the workshop, and threw the key far out the window, trembling uncontrollably.

For a moment, he suddenly wanted to believe in the existence of gods, hoping they could protect the soundness of his soul and the purity of his mind: everything he was currently facing clearly exceeded the scope of what mortals could handle.

Then he thought of someone, an artisan, an omnipotent, mysterious hermit.

Could that artisan absolve him of the sins that might be born at any moment, or that had already been born?

Andos didn't know. He wanted to leave the workshop to find him, so he searched everywhere for his key.

He found the workshop key in the small sailboat with a gold base and silver trim, inlaid with blood jade. His heart felt as if a great stone had landed, and he felt forgiveness and comfort.

He held the small sailboat, pushed open the workshop door, and under the deep night sky watched by the moon and stars, walked towards the brightly lit Royal Palace of Lokos. The mast of the small sailboat shone with a beautiful light, sparkling and exquisitely crafted.

Afterward, he would give this small sailboat to Mors, Andos thought.

He was about to ask Mors for his help, and such an outstanding piece of craftsmanship would be best presented to a true creator of art. How could he himself be worthy of possessing it?

—

Peturabo was awakened by the artillery fire descending from the sky before the sentries could call him.

Bright red light ignited in the dark night sky. The ground trembled from artillery fire and war cries, dust particles bouncing like beans on the ground before falling. The half-awake army spontaneously responded to the enemy's attack. Each machine unleashed the destructive power of fuel and energy conversion, firing shells and gunpowder into the ranks of the night attackers.

Enemies fell under the barrage of firepower, and no one could safely pass through the rain of fire personally created by Peturabo. This was merely the automatic defense before the entire army began to operate, accompanied by the rapid diffusion of invisible radio waves within the formation, activating each cell that constituted the colossal entity known as the Lokos army.

Soldiers one by one grabbed their rifles and rose from their sleep, silently and quickly joining their positions in the defense. The defensive line was further consolidated, and the identity of the attackers became increasingly clear.

This was not only due to their rumbling shouts, which they were unwilling to cease even during a night raid, but also because remnants of their symbolic technology, inherited from ancient times, proved their origin.

"Axos people," Peturabo said, bracing his hands on the table, rapidly reviewing reports from various sectors of the situation. While multitasking and sending various commands to different teams, he cursed those familiar, foolish enemies.

The Kardisians choosing to ally with Axos was indeed unexpected, but also within reason.

He remembered very clearly that ten years ago, on the road to Lokos with Mors, it was these screaming, insidious warriors who had carried out the attack. At that time, the leading Deputy Mityad had sworn that although the Lokos people were not skilled at fighting, they would never let him be injured.

Thinking of this, his anger began to surge.

After the first round of defensive artillery fire weakened, accompanied by louder and more fanatical roars, some warriors who had survived the long-range attacks by relying on the Axos' unique protective shields crawled out from the craters and rubble on the ground, launching a formidable charge.

They reformed their ranks, gathered into groups, and surged towards the defensive zone from various cover and directions, engaging in close combat with the outer guards. Once engaged in close combat, the effectiveness of armor designed for long-range protection was greatly diminished.

The anti-infantry close-combat weapons Peturabo had meticulously designed for his soldiers displayed brilliant results in their first practical application.

Most blades easily hit and cut into the enemy's armor, tearing blood and flesh from their bodies. The Lokos people were faster and fiercer than the Axos, and the defenders gained the initiative in the offense.

As each group of enemies was eliminated, the entire defensive line would push forward in reverse. Troops would quickly regroup, then raise their muzzles to target another batch of enemies in the distance.

A few Lokos squads were struggling, and Peturabo ordered them to retreat temporarily and reorganize their combat formations.

Under the long-range firepower far exceeding the Axos' imagination and the attacks of new-generation melee weapons, the Axos were on the verge of a minor rout. The Axos commander directly beheaded the deserters to maintain the morale of the legion.

In a short period, the tide of battle began to turn.

Peturabo noticed that Calipha's vehicle had not yet come under attack, which put his mind at ease.

The next moment, some agile soldiers leaped from the center of the line, intending to cut into the heart of the Lokos army—Kardis' specialized troops, particularly adept at rear assaults.

Squads specifically handling this situation immediately sprang into action, ensuring no one could reach the ground within a certain radius. Those enemies who successfully landed in a few blind spots were met with more close-quarters combat and various countermeasures. When a squad managed to get close to Calipha's chariot, the tracks dealt with them.

The battle had clearly shifted. Even with Peturabo deliberately calculating for the enemy, he couldn't find any chance of victory for this ambush unit of the allied forces.

It was clear that the nations of Olympia still had only a vague estimate, or rather, underestimated, the technological development of the Lokos.

He sat down on his steel seat, savoring the sweetness of victory in battle while also conserving his energy to deal with other unexpected emergencies.

The army had been subjected to such precise attacks that the matter of internal information leakage had become too obvious.

After some thought, Peturabo dialed Calipha's communication.

"Where is the squad escorting Harkon?" he asked directly.

"Given their speed, they should be not far from Lokos City," Calipha replied, her tone carrying a rare bewilderment for her.

"He left at just the right time. And I... I tried just now, and I can't contact him."

Peturabo's chest heaved violently, an unprecedented rage swelling within him. He could hardly believe such a thing could happen. "How dare he!" he roared. "That insatiable coward, that vile, disgusting traitor!"

"Should we continue the attack?" Calipha asked. "Kardis should have become a massive trap."

"Continue!" Peturabo slammed his palm onto the table. "Defense is inferior to offense!"

Faintly, the smell of sulfur and rust filled his nostrils. The clash of swords and axes seemed infinitely distant, yet also close at hand.

Harkon lifted the camouflage cloth, meticulously wiping the dried blood from his face, making his skin appear fair and soft once more. He changed into a luxurious robe, carefully replacing the silver crown symbolizing his princely status back into his well-maintained hair. He then used some cosmetic powder to smooth out the wrinkles on his face that had appeared with age.

It wasn't that he was fond of beauty, or rather, he actually never cared about how he looked.

What he truly cared about, to the point where even the slightest mention of it could fill him with resentment, was his gradually diminishing status.

As for his appearance, it was merely the most superficial of the many symbols of his status.

Harkon looked out the window. The boundless, pitch-black night still held the land in its vast grasp.

Under the cold gaze of countless stars, Lokos appeared minuscule and helpless.

Yet, even this small kingdom, a kingdom that rightfully belonged to him, was slipping away from him step by step under his foolish father's indulgence.

This should have been his! But Dameks was going to give the country of the Lokos people to two monsters who had appeared from nowhere!

Harkon could feel the jealousy and hatred within him boiling like poisoned wine, emitting malicious steam in all directions. However, this slight moral corruption was far less important to him than the loss of power.

Character was merely a source of amusement in the face of a golden scepter. What he wanted was far more than these worthless trinkets.

He craved others bowing before him, craved achievements being accomplished under his command. He wanted gold and gems to spill from his fingertips, deep red grapes to be fermented into boundless wine pools, he wanted the praise of all people to echo through the heavens, yet all of this was out of reach.

He had once blamed himself for his suspicion and jealousy.

Now, he no longer cared.

His clean, white fingers gently caressed his shoulder, and a faint, dark fragrance enveloped him. He closed his eyes in enjoyment and said softly, "The Church of the Divine will return to Lokos, my honored High Priest. No one will dare to defile your sanctity again."

"And you will become a Sovereign, my dear Prince," the High Priest said cheerfully. Her beautiful, light-colored eyes were full of gentle piety, and her upturned lips were like blood-red roses.

"We have all heard the Goddess's instructions. Yesterday, I presented that small boat to your brother. Good heavens, the Goddess actually spoke her will to us; this is truly the first time in thousands of years—"

The next moment, the High Priest's blood spurted from her severed neck, arterial blood splashing directly onto the ceiling. The fragrance instantly turned into a nauseating, decadent stench.

Harkon felt as if the world was turning upside down. The excruciating pain from all four limbs simultaneously robbed him of his fragile consciousness.

The eldest prince rolled onto the ground in a sorry state, becoming a twisted, dirty bundle along with the blood-stained cloth.

Mors grabbed a corner of the cloth, bundled up the unconscious Harkon, and carried him. He also stuffed the High Priest's beautiful head into the bundle.

He took a breath and placed the last congealed mass of corrupted concepts into a black bag.

The remnants of this power were far more stubborn than he had expected, indirectly telling him that the twisted, dark entity had personally and generously bestowed her gaze and attention.

Regardless, after this matter was concluded, he would spend some time solely on purifying the contamination of the highest heaven.

Runes flickered and swirled on his black robe, resisting the low chants of the hungry, joyful, and expectant.

The blinking of the starry sky was intimate and resentful. He controlled his will to ignore it, picked up the large bundle, and traversed the gaps between spaces, heading towards the core place where the fragrance gathered.