NOVGO.NET Chapter 234: Flames of Rebellion [1]
Chapter 234: Flames of Rebellion [1]
Clang! Clang!
The sound of chains resounded, followed by heavy huffing and puffing. A low growl soon joined the noise, reverberating through the space like an animal struggling against its bindings.
The clatter of metal against stone continued, as if something, or someone, was fighting to break free.
“Haha…”
Then came a laugh.
“Hahaha…!”
It sounded like the laugh of a madman. A madman refused to be bound by chains. No matter how long he was kept restrained, no matter how many times his body broke, he refused to yield.
But of course, his body would never break.
“How long are you going to keep this up, Sword Saint?”
Because he was Aston Niestzche, the Sword Saint who had abruptly vanished the past month.
“As long as I’m alive!” Aston growled. “You pathetic pieces of shit can’t even kill me despite all this!”
It was the truth. The title of the Sword Saint preceded him. Even with chains digging, even with mana shackles sealing his strength, he could not be killed. Every blade that sought to pierce his heart shattered upon contact.
The Pope, Telos Alexander IX, struck his staff against the ground. But he was no longer the pope. The man before Aston was a dark mage inhabiting Telos’s body. According to Izza, nothing remained of Telos. His soul had already been erased.
Despite the conflict and the resentment that burned between them, Aston couldn’t deny the ache that welled in his chest. To see the man he once regarded as a father reduced to nothing broke something deep inside him.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Aston winced as the pope struck his staff again and again. Each impact triggered the divine seal within his very soul, burning through his veins like molten light.
Thump!
He lurched forward but did not bleed.
Thump!
His body trembled under the pain, yet there were no visible wounds.
Thump!
It was agony that directly afflicted his spirit. Still, Aston clenched his teeth and forced himself to endure. He had long since learned that surrendering to pain meant death, and death was something the Sword Saint refused to grant his enemies.
Even as his vision blurred, Aston fought to keep his mental sanity stable.
“Tsk.”
Telos clicked his tongue in irritation. The Sword Saint was far more troublesome than expected, leaving them with no choice but to restrain him in layers upon layers of chains.
One chain bound his arms, another wrapped around his torso, and above them all, more chains wrapped around tightly, reinforced by a magic circle that sealed his movements.
Yet even then, the Sword Saint could still move, defying the suppression meant to keep him still. They couldn’t touch him, couldn’t kill him, couldn’t corrupt his body or claim it as their own.
All they could do was keep him locked away under the Cathedral’s basement, where his light would never reach the world above.
Telos shook his head and began to walk away.
“What? Tired?!” Aston called out with a smirk. “Come back here, you piece of shit! I can do this all day!”
Telos ignored him and continued up the stairs. This had become part of their routine. Each day, they would return to inflict pain on the Sword Saint, intending to break his spirit bit by bit until he would eventually give up and take his own life.
They would often whisper to him about the Saintess’s sudden disappearance and the possibility that she might already be dead. The words were meant to drive him to despair, to make him believe he had lost everything worth fighting for.
But even then, Aston never once gave in to their attempts. No matter what they said or did, he would only repeat the same words over and over.
“The Saintess would never fall so easily,” he would say.
Telos emerged from the stairs and stepped back into the cathedral. A follower—no, a cultist approached him with hurried steps. The cathedral had now been overtaken by those who worshipped not the Goddess Lumine, but Araxys.
“What is it? Did you find him?” Telos asked.
The cultist lowered his head. “No, sir—”
“It’s Your Holiness now,” Telos interrupted. “How many times do I have to repeat myself?”
The cultist immediately bowed deeper. “Y-Yes, Your Holiness…”
Telos sighed and shook his head. “Now, what is it?”
“About that thing… we’ve received a signal, but that’s all. There’s still no confirmation of his whereabouts.”
Telos narrowed his eyes. “Signal? What signal?”
Ever since the Saintess had vanished, so too had the right hand of Araxys, the prophet, the one who delivered the god’s messages. With both gone, panic had spread through the cult.
For an entire month, all resources had been expended on searching for even the smallest trace of their missing prophet.
Telos frowned. “So after all this time, that’s all you people have managed to find? A signal?!”
“W-We’ve searched everywhere, Your Holiness!” the cultist stammered. “But this… this signal came from the south…”
Telos’s eyes gleamed. “The south, you say?”
“Yes, Your Holiness. Near the borders of Aetherion.”
“….”
For a moment, Telos said nothing. He turned toward the great stained-glass window that once depicted the Goddess Lumine’s light. It was now shattered and replaced with the crimson sigil of Araxys.
To the public, the Theocracy appeared unchanged. However, it would not remain hidden for long. Soon, the world would witness Araxys’s salvation.
That entity would descend upon them, and those who remained faithful would ascend, freed from the chains of mortality, lifted to what they called heaven.
“Send a search party.”
The cultist hesitated. “But… that area… Vanitas Astrea resides there.”
“It’s just one man!” Telos snapped.
Yet the fear in the cultist’s eyes did not fade. In recent months, the name Vanitas Astrea had spread through the cult like a bad omen. He was the man who had uncovered their hidden temples, destroyed their underground churches, and exposed them one by one.
In only two months, he had torn through countless Araxys hideouts, leaving behind nothing but corpses and ash. He hunted cultists and dark mages alike without remorse, cutting them down as if they were no more than beasts.
To the faithful of Araxys, Vanitas Astrea was not merely a man.
“Find the prophet at all cost!”
He was a demon who hunted demons.
* * *
The day had come. It was time to leave the North.
Vanitas extended a hand toward Friedrich Glade. Friedrich watched him for a moment in silence before finally accepting the handshake.
“I hope you keep your word, Duke Glade.”
“Astrea…” Friedrich’s brow furrowed as his eyes fell on Vanitas’s neck.
Glowing purple veins pulsed, tracing up just above his jawline. Just the night before, Friedrich had found Vanitas doubled over, retching and retching until blood spilled from his mouth.
It was clear that the consumption of the demon, Lily of the Valley, was slowly eating away at him from within.
“Don’t worry about me. Just keep your promise.”
Friedrich knew it well. Vanitas Astrea’s strength might have grown beyond human limits, but the price he paid was far too steep. Under these circumstances, Friedrich doubted he would live for long.
“…Of course.”
It was a pity. Vanitas was, in every sense, an anomaly. A mage who dabbled in dark magic not out of greed or malice, but out of survival.
Friedrich remembered every word of his confession. Vanitas had spoken of his early years as a professor, of how he had practiced and refined forbidden arts in secret, studying what others feared to touch.
He did it not for recognition or strength, but simply to live.
And most importantly, the shocking truth.
The confession about his terminal illness.
Vanitas Astrea was a dying man. There was no doubt about it.
Friedrich could only feel pity for him. A man who had endured this long despite the agony slowly consuming him.
For all his strength and brilliance, Vanitas’s life was slipping away with each passing day, and there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.
Friedrich understood that all too well. So, as a fellow Great Power and a noble of the same Empire, he resolved to do what little he could. Supporting Vanitas in his cause was the least he could offer.
Even if death was inevitable, Friedrich believed the man deserved to meet it with dignity.
“Astrea.”
“What is it?”
“This world could use more people like you.”
“….”
“If possible, I don’t wish for you to die,” Friedrich said quietly. “I may have only known you for these past two weeks, but I can tell. You’re a man who’s only ever known how to walk through flames.”
“….”
Vanitas didn’t answer right away. The wind swept through the northern plains, carrying with it the scent of snow and ash.
“You overestimate me, Duke Glade,” Vanitas said. “I don’t know what kind of image of me you have in your head, but it’s completely wrong.”
“I wonder.”
The air between them was cold, but not from the wind.
“But even so, be well,” Friedrich said. “If the need arises, I’m only one call away.”
“That’s all I expect from you.”
Friedrich let out a laugh. Despite Vanitas being nearly two decades younger, it felt as though their roles were reversed.
Not long after, the sound of wheels crunching against snow echoed in the distance. A carriage approached from the road, stopping before them. Inside were Selena and Margaret, the latter stepping down and holding the door open, waiting patiently for Vanitas to board.
“Be well, Marquess Astrea.”
“Likewise, Duke Glade.”
Vanitas gave a final nod before entering the carriage. The door shut, and as the horses began to move, Friedrich watched silently as the carriage disappeared down the white expanse of the northern road.
When the sound of hooves finally faded, he turned back toward his mansion. The weight of recent events pressed heavily on his chest.
Because of all this, he had lost his son.
“….”
It was quite painful.
* * *
“In the end, we never found Princess Astrid,” Selena murmured, watching the passing scenery beyond the window.
“It’s alright,” Vanitas replied. “I know where she is. But for now, it’s better to give her space. I kept it to myself for that reason.”
“Is that so?” Selena said. “Even so, Marquess, you didn’t have to provoke her like that. She could have killed you.”
“And that would be fine,” Vanitas said. “If I’m meant to die by Astrid’s blade, then it would only serve as salvation for her raging heart—”
All of a sudden, a firm hand rested on his, causing him to pause. He turned his head and met Margaret’s worried eyes. She said nothing, but her grip spoke louder than words.
Vanitas looked back toward the window. Ever since his contact with the Lily of the Valley, his thoughts had been in disarray.
’….So you came here with me.’
It was painfully clear now that his lover, Kim Minjeong, had followed him into this world as Julia Barielle. She had been there all along, but long gone before he could ever meet her properly.
He couldn’t describe what he felt. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t relief. It was something bitter and cold, like the aftertaste of coffee.
’And you’ve been… a fool.’
Julia had indeed been foolish, but he couldn’t bring himself to blame her. She had given everything, even her life, for her daughter. How could anyone fault a mother for that?
There had been a time when he, as Chae Eunwoo, and Minjeong had tried to have a child. Months passed, then more months after that, but nothing ever came of it.
Eventually, Minjeong went to the hospital for a checkup, and the results had shattered them both.
She couldn’t bear a child.
He still remembered the way she smiled through the pain that day, pretending to be strong.
Truly, he couldn’t bring himself to blame her. That impulsiveness, that recklessness, it was exactly like the Kim Minjeong he had known.
But now, Vanitas understood, remembering that sorrowful, pained look on Astrid’s face that day.
“….”
The past no longer belonged to him.
It was time.
Time to let go of Julia Barielle.
To let go of Kim Minjeong.
When they finally reached Aetherion, they had expected a moment of rest. But what awaited them was far from it.
“This…”
Vanitas stepped out of the carriage, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight before him.
“What are the guards doing?”
All across the city, where travelers passed through the immigration district, posters of Emperor Franz Barielle were plastered on every wall. Each one had a crude red X drawn across the Emperor’s face.
“….”
Something had happened while he was away.
A chill crept down his spine as his eyes caught something in the distance.
“….”
There, displayed before the central square, was a spear driven deep into the ground.
“….”
And mounted upon it, like a banner, was the severed head of the Empress, Franz’s wife, Olivia Heinrich.