Ⅴ
The sword pierced his chest, choking off Achisto's voice.
The High Priest of the Inner River God Cult stared wide-eyed down at the bloodstained blade.
"No!
Lord Hamlet, no!
That's not how it happened!"
Achisto murmured.
But the outcome would not change.
The ripples behind him stirred again as the sword began to withdraw.
Achisto grabbed the blade.
"Lord Hamlet, this wasn't my fault!
It was all Toran's fault!
I merely believed a vile man's slander!"
Achisto explained with all his strength.
But the sword did not falter in the slightest.
The blade gave a slight flick.
The next instant, fingers and palms flew into the air, and a huge gash opened across Achisto's chest.
Spurt!
Blood sprayed.
He fell to his knees.
"Lord Hamlet, you promised me! You promised me!"
Kneeling there, Achisto's voice rose from a whisper to a shout.
Then it cut off abruptly.
The sword swept across the High Priest of the Inner River God Cult's neck. His head flew high before crashing heavily to the ground, its eyes staring straight at the Inner River, still wide open in death.
The water shimmered, the waves murmured.
Standing on the deck of his secret-art ship, Greisa Hamlet flicked his blade.
At once, all the blood clinging to it fell into the Inner River.
The crimson quickly faded.
Eventually, it vanished.
The Old Lion's eldest son slowly sheathed his sword without so much as a glance at Dordot Harbor.
For the Old Lion's eldest son, Achisto's death had long since been decided.
Especially now that Dale Bock, whom he had poured enormous effort into cultivating, was dead. What reason was there to spare Achisto, a disposable pawn?
Die! Die!
Only Achisto's death could make the Old Lion's eldest son feel a little better.
At least then, he