Night of Intertwined Fates (4k)

Night of Intertwined Fates (4k)

Cruz had never pleaded so urgently to leave his room deep within countless winding corridors.

Tyrant Dameks listened to the attendants' reports. First one attendant, then another, knelt in rows to relay the desperate pleas of the mad prince who had been struck from the rolls.

His fingers gripped the golden scepter, but all it gave back was a heavy chill. In his memories, Cruz was still the obedient child from years ago: clever, clear blue eyes turning curiously beneath thick brows, following behind his two elder brothers while holding the hand of his little sister, who had only just learned to walk.

He did not know when things had gone wrong.

Perhaps it had begun when Cruz suddenly asked him one day whether he had ever seen the eyes in the sky. From then on, the child had grown increasingly gloomy, and his temper had become especially violent. Sometimes he shouted that rain of fire would burn down every tree; sometimes he screamed that he wanted to kill the moon of the night.

When Cruz said that his sister was dead, Dameks ordered that he be given a small room.

After that, the only time he saw his third child was at Cruz's naming ceremony.

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

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

He did not understand what he had done wrong, nor at what point his upbringing had repeatedly gone astray.

His eldest had devoted all his cunning to trapping himself in struggles for power. His second son was obsessed with art and had not left his workshop for days. His third son was mad. His only daughter possessed ability and wisdom, yet she was never close to him; there had always been a barrier between them.

Under the shaping hands of Peturabo and his artisan mentor, Lokos had developed at an astonishing pace, reaching heights Dameks had once never dared imagine, like the dwelling place of gods.

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

Another attendant came running over, recounting how Cruz had shouted that the birds must not be allowed to die, smashing himself against his door until bones broke and blood flowed out through the crack beneath it.

The tyrant wearily closed his aged eyes. He ordered a physician to bandage the mad prince and have Cruz brought before him.

Andos had remained deeply uneasy. Since meeting that girl last night, he had not slept, as though sweet dreams had abandoned him.

At every moment, he felt a blind panic, a pent-up emptiness. Those tangled emotions nearly cut off his thoughts. He could only feel that everything was incomparably strange, that nothing was running along its proper course.

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

Every second, countless pieces of information flooded into his mind. Every color he saw automatically matched itself to thousands of paintings not yet born. Whether he saw people or objects, wind, sun, moon, lakes, or cityscapes teeming with crowds, everything desperately crowded into his store of material, impatient to pass beneath his hands and be remade into art before entering this world.

He would have to carve, paint, write, and smear without sleep or rest, without food or drink, forever without end, just to give shape to one-thousandth of his thoughts.

Before this, Andos had never imagined that artistic inspiration could drive him mad.

Andos knew something was wrong with him. This was not the state he truly wanted.

He truly loved craftsmanship and creation, but he treasured kindness and generosity between people even more. To him, those were the most natural and inherently beautiful things in the world.

Yet during the day, he had accidentally discovered that the first thing he wanted to do upon seeing one of his maids was seal her in plaster and preserve her forever.

That thought tormented his conscience deeply. He could hardly believe he had become so obsessed with illusion. Yet when he came back to himself, he was already carrying a newly forged knife, walking toward the maid to kill her.

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

For one instant, he suddenly wanted to believe in the existence of gods and hoped they would bless the soundness of his soul and the purity of his mind. What he was facing had clearly gone far beyond what mortals could handle.

Then he thought of someone: an artisan, an all-capable mysterious hermit.

Could that artisan forgive the sins that might be born within him at any moment, or perhaps had already been born?

Andos did not know. He wanted to leave the workshop and find him, so he searched everywhere for his key.

He found the workshop key inside a little sailboat of gold with silver trim, inlaid with blood jade. It was as though a huge weight had fallen from his heart, and he had received forgiveness and comfort.

Holding the little sailboat, he pushed open the workshop door and walked toward the brightly lit Lokos palace through the deep black night beneath the gaze of stars and moon. The sailboat's mast gleamed beautifully, sparkling with incomparable delicacy.

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

He was about to ask Mors for help, and such an outstanding work of craftsmanship was best offered to a true creator of art. What right did he have to keep it for himself?

Peturabo had awakened from the bombardment falling from the sky before the sentries came to rouse him.

Bright red light burned beneath the pitch-black night sky. The earth shook with cannon fire and battle cries. Grains of dirt bounced up from the ground like beans, then fell again. Half-awake armies responded instinctively to the enemy's assault. Every machine unleashed the destructive force of fuel and energy conversion, hurling shells and gunpowder into the ranks of the night raiders.

Enemies constantly fell backward beneath the torrent of firepower. No one could cross the rain of fire Peturabo had created with safety, much less when this was merely the automatic defense before the entire army began operating. As invisible signals spread rapidly through the positions, every cell composing the vast organism of the Lokos army was activated in turn.

Soldiers climbed from their sleep with guns in hand, silently and swiftly taking up their defensive positions. The line was reinforced further, while the identities of the attackers became increasingly clear.

It was not only because they refused to stop their thunderous war cries even during a night raid. Some of the signature technologies they had inherited from ancient times also revealed their origins.

"Axos men." Peturabo braced both hands on the table, rapidly reading reports sent from every part of the battlefield. While dividing his attention and issuing different orders to different units, he also cursed those familiar, idiotic enemies.

The Kardisians had actually chosen to join forces with Axos. It was indeed unexpected, though understandable.

He remembered it clearly. Ten years ago, while traveling to Lokos with Mors, it had been those howling, sinister warriors who launched the attack. At the time, Deputy Mityad, who led the escort, had sworn that although the people of Lokos were poor at fighting, they would never let him be harmed.

At that thought, his anger began to surge.

After the artillery fire of the first defensive barrage weakened, accompanied by even louder and more fanatical roars, some warriors who had survived the long-range attacks thanks to the Axos people's distinctive shield armor crawled from craters and rubble and began a fierce charge.

They reformed their ranks, gathered into groups, and poured toward the defensive zone from every direction and cover position, engaging the outer guards in close combat. Once they entered melee, the armor's protection against ranged attacks lost most of its value.

The anti-infantry melee weapons Peturabo had carefully designed for his soldiers achieved striking results in their first real battle.

Most blades easily struck and cut into enemy armor, tearing blood and shredded flesh from human bodies. The Lokos warriors were faster and fiercer than the Axos men, and the defenders seized the initiative in attack.

Whenever a clustered group of enemies was wiped out, the entire defensive line advanced forward in reverse. The troops quickly reformed, then raised their guns and aimed at another batch of enemies in the distance.

A few Lokos squads also fell into hard fighting. Peturabo ordered them to withdraw for the moment and reorganize their combat formations.

Under ranged firepower far beyond the Axos people's imagination and the assault of a new generation of melee weapons, a small number of Axos soldiers nearly began to flee. The Axos commanders directly cut off the heads of the deserters, holding up the army's morale.

Before long, offense and defense began to switch places.

Peturabo noticed that the vehicle carrying Calipha had not yet been attacked, which reassured him.

The next moment, nimble soldiers leaped in from the center of the lines, intending to cut into the heart of the Lokos army—the Kardisians' distinctive troops, especially skilled at striking from behind.

Units specialized for handling such situations immediately moved into action, ensuring that no one could land within a certain range. As for the enemies who successfully landed in a few blind spots, they were met with even more close fighting and varied responses. When one squad was fortunate enough to approach Calipha's war chariot, the treads dealt with them.

The battle had clearly tilted. Even if Peturabo deliberately calculated in the enemy's favor, he could find no chance of victory for this ambushing allied force.

Clearly, the nations of Olympia still had only a rough estimate of Lokos's technological development—or rather, they had underestimated it.

He sat down in his steel chair, both savoring the sweetness of victory and conserving his strength for other sudden incidents.

After such a precise attack, it had become painfully obvious that internal information had been leaked from the army.

After some thought, Peturabo contacted Calipha.

"Where has the squad escorting Harkon reached?" he asked directly.

"Given their speed, they should already be near the walls of Lokos," Calipha said, with a bewilderment exceedingly rare for her.

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

Peturabo's chest heaved violently. Unprecedented fury swelled within him. He could scarcely believe this could happen. "How dare he!" he roared. "That insatiable coward, that vile, disgusting traitor!"

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

"Continue!" Peturabo slammed his palm heavily onto the table. "Defense is worse than offense!"

Faintly, the smell of sulfur and rust filled his nostrils. The clash of blades and axes seemed infinitely distant, yet also right beside his ears.

Harkon lifted the camouflage sheet and carefully wiped away the dried blood from his face, restoring his skin to its pale, soft cleanliness. He changed into a luxurious robe, meticulously placed the silver crown symbolizing the Prince back upon his well-kept hair, then used cosmetic powder to smooth the wrinkles that age had left on his face.

It was not that he loved beauty, or rather, he had never cared what he looked like.

What he truly cared about, enough that even a casual mention of it by others could fill him with resentment, was the status he was steadily losing.

As for appearance, it was merely the shallowest of status's many symbols.

Harkon looked out the window. The endless black night still held this land within its boundless grasp.

Beneath the cold gaze of countless stars, Lokos appeared small and isolated, helpless and alone.

Yet even this tiny kingdom, a kingdom that should have been his, was slipping away from him step by step because of his foolish father's indulgence.

This should have been his! Yet Dameks wanted to give the Lokos people's country to two monsters who had come from who knew where!

Harkon could feel the envy and hatred in his heart bubbling like poisoned wine, giving off malicious vapor in every direction. Yet that tiny degree of moral decay mattered far less to him than the loss of power.

Character was nothing more than a laughable amusement before the golden scepter. He wanted far more than such worthless trinkets.

He longed for others to bow before him, longed for great achievements to be realized under his hand. He wanted gold and jewels to spill from between his fingers, crimson grapes to brew into boundless lakes of wine, the praise of all people to ring through the heavens—yet all of it was beyond his reach.

Once, he had blamed himself for his suspicion and jealousy.

Now, he no longer cared.

Clean white fingers lightly stroked his shoulder, and a shadowy fragrance lingered around him. He closed his eyes in pleasure and said softly, "The faith will return to Lokos, my honored High Priestess. No one will dare defile your sanctity again."

"And you will become a ruler, my dear Prince," the High Priestess said happily. Her beautiful pale eyes were full of gentle devotion, and her upturned lips resembled blood-red roses.

"We have all heard the goddess's command. Yesterday, I offered that little boat to your brother. Heavens, the goddess actually spoke her will to us. In thousands of years, this is truly the first time—"

The next moment, the High Priestess's blood sprayed from her severed neck. Arterial blood splashed directly onto the ceiling, and the fragrance instantly turned into a sickening, fallen stench.

Harkon only felt the world turn upside down. Intense pain erupting from all four limbs robbed him of his fragile consciousness.

The eldest Prince rolled miserably to the floor, tangling with bloodstained cloth into a twisted heap of filth.

Mors grabbed a corner of the sheet, wrapped up the unconscious Harkon, and carried him in one hand, casually stuffing the High Priestess's beautiful head into the bundle as well.

He took a breath and placed the last condensation of a filthy concept into a black bag.

The remnants of these powers were far more stubborn than he had expected, indirectly telling him that the twisted, dark existence had personally and generously invested her gaze and attention here.

No matter what, once this was over, he would spend some time specifically purifying the corruption of the Highest Heaven.

Runes flickered and revolved across his black robe, resisting The Thirsting's joyous, expectant chanting.

The blinking of the starry sky was intimate and resentful. He controlled his will and ignored it, lifted the huge bundle, and passed through the gaps between spaces, hurrying toward the core where the fragrance gathered.