Chapter 120

By the time they breached the tenth wall of Parman, Count Bourbon had a growing sense of unease.

“Is this even possible? We’ve traveled at least forty miles.”

His lieutenant’s bewildered words were met with a grim nod.

Another wall loomed before them.

“This is like… a giant maze.”

Every few kilometers, another wall. The only signs of life were the occasional guard posts tucked between the layers of fortifications.

“I’m detecting life signs, but no movement.”

Another knight, carrying a detection device, gulped.

“It feels like we’re walking on a giant grave.”

Even the earth beneath their feet felt wrong.

The ground was damp, almost swampy, despite the dry, parched walls. It hadn’t rained since they’d begun their siege of Parman.

Count Bourbon’s heart pounded in his chest. He tightened his grip on his sword hilt.

“Breach it. All the way to the center. Eliminate anything that stands in our way.”

His lieutenant, placing a hand over his heart in acknowledgment, relayed the order to the soldiers.

‘Parman… what’s happening in this cursed land?’

The Kingdom of Parman… For over two centuries, its population, its resources, its royal lineage, even its nobility, had been shrouded in mystery. A reclusive nation, its borders sealed.

Its territory, no larger than Heineken’s capital, was surrounded by thick walls, shielded from aerial surveillance by a dense net. Their architectural prowess, however, was undeniable.

Initially, the neighboring nations hadn’t been concerned when Parman began constructing its walls.

Heineken, with its vast territory and numerous smaller domains, had only scattered watchtowers and fortified key locations. It wasn’t unusual for smaller nations to erect walls around their borders.

There had still been trade and travel between Parman and other nations, even after the construction of the second and third walls.

Parman, which had once traded raw magic stones and manufactured goods, accepting immigrants, had abruptly sealed its borders, erecting its highest wall along the perimeter.

Their king had ignored all diplomatic overtures. Even envoys were often expelled without a single audience with the king or any high-ranking nobles.

The neighboring nations, curious about Parman’s motives, had considered invasion. However, Heineken’s neutrality had prevented any decisive action.

And truthfully, Parman hadn’t posed a direct threat. Their isolation was more unsettling than dangerous.

“I always knew we’d have to crack this nut someday. I suppose we have Prince Carl Lindbergh to thank for this opportunity.”

While the soldiers prepared to blast another opening in the wall, large enough for twenty men to pass through, Count Bourbon ran his hand along its surface.

The dirt that clung to his fingers was damp and sticky.

The inner walls, older, should have shown signs of wear and tear, despite renovations. But the surface was smooth, almost polished, as if meticulously maintained.

He was beginning to suspect that these walls were the culmination of Parman’s ingenuity, their greatest achievement, when someone approached silently, standing behind him like a shadow.

“This displeases me.”

The man was massive, dwarfing even Count Bourbon, who was quite large himself.

“‘Displeases’ is an understatement.”

The man didn’t respond to Count Bourbon’s words.

His voice, though calm, held a hint of something that made Count Bourbon uneasy. He held up his dirt-stained fingers.

“Can you smell it?”

The man leaned in, his nose almost touching the Count’s fingers, then straightened up, his expression impassive.

Despite the long journey and the strenuous effort of breaching the walls, his posture was impeccable. He was an intimidating presence.

“It’s repulsive. The stench of decay and corruption.”

A fitting response from a dog of the goddess.

Count Bourbon chuckled softly.

Duvel, the least human of all the holy knights, those already inhuman fanatics, sniffed the air, muttering, “The stench of demons.”

Perhaps the most devout were also the most susceptible to superstitions.

“Demons? There are only humans inside these walls.”

“Gods can take human form. Why not demons? Those who have turned away from the goddess’ light, embracing evil… they are demons. And it is my duty to return them to her embrace.”

So be it.

These zealots were only useful when they were on his side.

The holy knights, usually tight-lipped, were surprisingly talkative when it came to their faith.

A third explosion echoed through the air, and his lieutenant, peering through the newly created opening, offered the Count a wry smile.

Another wall. As expected.

“Advance.”

Count Bourbon gestured, and the soldiers, mounting their horses or marching on foot, moved towards the next wall.

The Count mounted his horse.

“Why do you think Parman is so passive, Sir Duvel? Despite all this commotion?”

“I do not concern myself with such matters. With or without reason, if anyone obstructs the eradication of evil, they are also instruments of the devil, and I will send them to heaven, swiftly and painlessly.”

Bourbon rubbed his forehead, then urged his horse forward.

Duvel, instead of riding, simply ran, his powerful strides easily keeping pace with the Count’s horse. There was a disturbing glint of excitement in his eyes.

“You seem eager, Sir Duvel.”

“I just expressed my displeasure, Count.”

Duvel, pausing mid-stride, tilted his head at the Count’s casual remark.

The gesture, coming from such a large, imposing man in full armor, wasn’t endearing in the slightest. And the fact that he could run alongside a horse without even breaking a sweat… he was practically a monster himself.

“You seem quite cheerful, considering you’re about to cleanse the source of your displeasure. Or am I mistaken?”

“Ah, if that is your meaning…”

Duvel grinned, his eyes gleaming. It wasn’t a mistake.

Even Count Bourbon, a man who’d seen his share of unsettling things, felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Sir Duvel, leave Kitchener and the King of Parman to me. Those are the Emperor’s orders.”

Duvel didn’t respond, simply continuing his run, his heavy footsteps leaving deep imprints in the earth.

The Count sighed, then urged his horse forward.

They should be reaching the castle soon.

The sheer number of oddities they’d encountered had dulled his sense of strangeness. Everything felt wrong.

He stopped his horse and looked back.

The path they’d carved through Parman’s walls, the debris cleared, the openings reinforced to prevent collapse, was a straight, smooth road.

A path paved for Prince Carl Lindbergh and Crown Prince Adrian Heineken.

Heineken’s forces were divided into three groups – one-third inside the walls, one-third at the midway point, and the remaining third waiting outside.

The Emperor’s plan, to simply breach the walls and advance, seemed to be working.

“We couldn’t have anticipated this, whatever schemes the dead might be concocting.”

This place felt like a giant tomb, and while he hated to admit it, Duvel’s words echoed in his mind. Perhaps a demon was lurking within these walls.

The Count chuckled dryly.

Subduing a nation without innocent civilians to protect… It simplified things. He just hoped the young soldiers wouldn’t be too traumatized by the inevitable carnage.

Count Bourbon kicked his horse’s flanks, tightening his grip on the reins.

 

❖ ❖ ❖

 

‘That madman…’

Kitchener gathered his few remaining valuables.

The rhythmic sounds of explosions echoed from beyond the walls.

Yet, life inside the castle continued as if nothing were amiss. Mugicha Parman was smiling, a disturbingly cheerful expression on his face.

He was dressed in his formal attire, sitting on his throne in the main hall, casually swinging his legs.

A war was raging outside his walls, his enemies approaching, and he was calm. Kitchener was curious, but he wouldn’t dare to question the king. He didn’t want to know.

“Whatever he’s planning… it’s no longer my concern.”

He’d decided to leave, to surrender to Heineken, or perhaps seek asylum in another nation. He couldn’t stay in this stifling, dark castle any longer.

The servants, their faces pale with fear, moved silently, their every action carefully measured. Just that morning, several servants, caught whispering amongst themselves, had been torn apart by the king’s pet monster.

The others, having witnessed their gruesome deaths, were now pretending everything was normal.

As Kitchener hurried down the hallway towards the main entrance, the servants parted silently, avoiding his gaze.

The gates were wide open.

Kitchener smiled. Freedom was within his grasp.

He’d been contemplating escape ever since he’d realized he was no longer of use to Mugicha Parman. He’d simply lacked a viable option.

But Heineken’s invasion had presented him with an opportunity — a grand and glorious opportunity.

It was a desperate gamble, but wartime changed everything.

He could offer valuable information about the King of Parman in exchange for his life.

Perhaps they’d even grant him a title.

The Emperor was soft, his sense of justice misguided.

He could have filled his harem with concubines, sired countless heirs, yet he remained devoted to his Empress.

Perhaps manipulating him would be easier than manipulating the King of Lindbergh.

Kitchener, his imagination painting a glorious future, smiled.

He might not find another Omega like Carl Lindbergh, but recessive Omegas… they were adequate.

The outside world, sunlight and freedom, was just beyond the gates.

Even if there were walls, there would be openings and hidden passages.

His body, weakened by years of darkness, ached.

Mugicha Parman, watching him from above, scoffed.

He was a fool. He’d be captured soon enough.

Mugicha touched the magic stone embedded in his abdomen, its crimson glow as bright as the summer sun.

He, Mugicha Parman, would achieve what his ancestors had only dreamed of.

“It won’t be long now.”

A distant explosion rocked the castle, dust rising from beyond the walls, and a servant girl dropped the vase she’d been holding. White roses, their stems broken, scattered across the floor.

“Oh dear, the flowers for my bride are ruined.”

Mugicha’s eyes widened.

The servant girl trembled, begging for mercy, but Mugicha simply reached out and stroked the neck of the monster lurking at his feet. Her screams were cut short.

“I chose white roses… but perhaps red would be more fitting.”

Mugicha picked up a blood-soaked rose, his voice laced with mock regret.