Outside Harlan's den, the air is suffocating despite the open street. Sir Rowan sits heavily against the stone wall, his massive frame hunched, his hands trembling. He cannot even bring himself to pray.
"I am so useless," Rowan mutters, his voice a hollow, broken rasp. He stares at the blood drying beneath his fingernails. "I didn't even try to save the Princess. When the chaos broke, I only thought of my son. I failed as a knight... and I failed as a father."
Erwin steps forward, his expression solemn, and rests a firm hand on the older man's shaking shoulder.
"You did the right thing, Sir," Erwin says quietly. "Being a father is not easy, and you did not fail—neither as a father nor as a knight. Both the princess and Leonard will be fine. You need to breathe. You need to rest, too."
"I am not going anywhere," Rowan growls, his eyes fixed on the apothecary. "Not until I see my son open his eyes."
Harlan steps out, wiping his blood-stained hands on a dirty rag. His face is drawn, carved with the exhaustion of fighting death for the past several hours.
"The girl is alright, physically," Harlan sighs, leaning against the doorframe. "There is no longer any threat to her life.
But once she wakes up... she will be a complete mess. What the hell even happened out there? I know it is not my place to ask, but I can tell you this: she will not be in her right mind when she regains consciousness."
Erwin pushes himself off the wall, shaking his head. "I don't know the full truth myself, Sir. But I think it is better if we do not ask too many questions right now."
Harlan frowns, his eyes darting between Erwin and the shattered knight on the ground. "You should take the girl home. I have done everything I could for her.
As for the other one... Lad is stable. I don't know when he'll wake up, but he is out of the woods. You should be grateful to the girl sire. She slowed the bleeding just enough. He is alive right now thanks to her."
Erwin crouches beside Rowan, whose eyes are glazed over, lost in a thousand-yard stare.
"Sir, Leonard is stable. There is no need to worry anymore. He's safe. Let me carry the princess home, and you come with us. You need rest."
"I'm not going anywhere," Rowan repeats, his voice devoid of emotion.
Harlan's patience snaps. He steps forward, his temper flaring, and grabs Rowan by the collar of his tunic.
"Can't you hear, you stubborn bastard?!" Harlan barks, pulling the massive knight upward. "He is alright! Now go and rest! You look half-dead yourself, and I refuse to have you dying outside my apothecary! For fuck's sake, go home! I will not let anything happen to your lad, I promise you that upon my life. Now *go!*"
Rowan offers no resistance as Harlan shoves him onto his feet. Erwin slips past them into the den, emerging moments later with Princess Elsbeth cradled carefully in his arms. She is unconscious, her face terrifyingly pale, the ruined fabric of her dress still carrying the smell of blood and mud.
The sun blazes violently in the sky, mocking their despair. The suffocating ocean of black crows has vanished, leaving behind an eerily clear blue expanse.
As Erwin and Rowan make their way through the central streets, a rhythmic, deafening sound echoes off the cobblestones.
*Marching.*
From every intersecting street, the Chivalry and the Holy Knights parade on armored warhorses. They ride tall and proud, holding massive banners that flap in the warm wind.
**THE CURSED JESTER HAS BEEN CONTAINED.**
**LONG LIVE KING THEORON.**
**LONG LIVE BISHOP.**
The townsfolk line the streets, cheering wildly. The curse is gone. They are safe. But the joy quickly curdles into a toxic, misplaced venom. They cannot aim their anger at the untouchable King, so they seek a scapegoat. Their eyes fall upon the unconscious girl in Erwin's arms.
"There she is!" a woman shrieks, pointing a jagged finger. "The witch!"
"Subdue the witch!" the crowd begins to chant. "She is the one who brought that monster to our kingdom! Throw her in the dungeon!"
They press closer, their faces twisted in ugly, cowardly rage, targeting a helpless princess who cannot even defend herself. Erwin holds Elsbeth tighter against his chest, his jaw set in defiance, ready to fight through the mob if he must.
Sir Rowan walks beside them, his knuckles turning white as he grips the hilt of his sword. He does not draw it. He just walks, his eyes burning with a sudden, terrifying clarity. He is piecing it all together.
"So, it was really you, Theoron..." Rowan whispers, his voice trembling with a contained, volcanic fury. "I was only suspicious because of the Ivy Poison, but you just proved my suspicions right."
Erwin glances at him, stepping carefully around a piece of rotting fruit thrown by the crowd. "What is Ivy Poison, Sir?"
Rowan does not answer immediately. He waits until they have pushed past the thickest part of the mob, the cheering and slurs fading into the background. When he finally speaks, his voice is cold and calculated.
"It is a high-grade poison," Rowan explains, his eyes narrowing. "Only the highest nobility—the Dukes, the Holy Church, and the King himself—can access it. It is entirely undetectable at first. It takes exactly ten minutes to take effect. And when it does... you bleed out from every orifice. You die a gruesome, agonizing death."
Erwin's eyes widen in horror as the pieces click into place.
"The townsfolk... the people who collapsed near Luan..."
"They used it to make it look like a cursed death caused by Luan," Rowan seethes, his grip on his sword tightening until his leather gloves creak. "That is why the Holy Knights were already stationed in the slums. That is why they moved against me, ensuring I couldn't protect Luan. It was an orchestrated slaughter."
Rowan looks back toward the towering spires of the palace.
"How far will you go, Theoron?!" he snarls, the sleeping beast within him beginning to stir.
High above the filth of the streets, deep inside the opulent, sunlit chambers of the Holy Church, the true rulers of Liveria sit in comfort.
The Bishop reclines casually in a velvet-lined chair, sipping from a golden goblet. At his feet, King Theoron kneels on the marble floor—a stark reminder of who truly holds the leash in this kingdom.
"I must admit, Theoron, I did not know you were capable of such a brilliant strategy," the Bishop says, a patronizing smile stretching across his wrinkled face.
"It was rather simple, Your Excellency," Theoron replies, keeping his head bowed. "We eliminated both problems with a single strike. The jester is dealt with, and Elsbeth's reputation is so ruined she has no choice but to shut herself away. However... the primary problem remains. Rowan."
Theoron looks up, his eyes betraying a flicker of genuine anxiety. "He knows about the Ivy Poison. I am certain of it. He will come at us."
The Bishop sighs, swirling the wine in his cup. "Rowan is fiercely loyal to the Queen's words, even after her passing. A man of his caliber should be on our side. *Tsk.* But his foolish ideals, this pathetic ideology of protecting the weak... that is why he is still nothing more than a knight."
Theoron's jaw twitches with annoyance at the Bishop's praise of his enemy.
"Did you two not have quite a history together, Theoron?" the Bishop asks, his eyes glinting with amusement. "You know him better than I do. You should be the one to deal with him."
Theoron immediately stands, breaking the submissive posture. "With all due respect, Your Excellency, I decline."
The Bishop's smile fades. "You decline?"
"Rowan is a sleeping beast," Theoron says, his voice deadly serious. "He has been asleep for a decade. Believe me, Your Excellency, you do not want to wake this beast up. If you push this beast too far, he will hunt his prey to the very ends of the world."
The Bishop chuckles, a dry, rasping sound. "Such dramatic, dangerous words, Theoron. Very well, I will heed your warning. We shall deal with Rowan politically. But we must do something about Elsbeth.
The Central is in an uproar. The people want her punished for the sins they believe she committed. We cannot let her roam free."
"Punished?" Theoron frowns, a rare spark of defensiveness in his tone. "She will do no such thing. I will lock her away in the palace, Your Excellency, but we cannot publicly punish her..."
The Bishop simply raises a single, ring-adorned finger.
Theoron stops mid-sentence. He swallows his pride, bowing his head once more. "I know you will do what benefits the kingdom most, Your Excellency. I shall take my leave now."
Far beneath the sunlit chapels, beneath the marble floors and the chanting choirs, lies the lowest level of the Holy Church. It is a secret underground chamber that does not exist on any map.
The walls here are stained with decades of old, blackened blood. Iron cages, perfectly sized for humans, line the damp stone corridors. King Theoron strides down the hall, flanked by his personal knights, the torchlight flickering across his unreadable face.
From the shadows steps a man. He wears a stained leather apron, and a jagged line of black stitches runs directly across his forehead. He practically vibrates with manic energy.
"Your Majesty!" Professor Viktor croons, lunging forward to grab Theoron's hand, shaking it rapidly with a crazed, wide-eyed smile. He refuses to let go.
One of the knights steps forward, violently shoving Viktor backward and drawing his longsword.
Theoron raises a hand, halting the knight. He looks at the twitching scientist with cold disdain.
"I hope you will make that monster suffer, Viktor," Theoron says evenly.
Viktor stands up, brushing the dirt from his apron, and bows deeply. "I am truly grateful for what you have provided me, Your Majesty. That... *thing*... will be of immense help in my experiments. And do not worry. He will suffer every single second of his miserable existence."
"Good," Theoron replies, a cruel smirk touching his lips. "You are truly a madman, Viktor, just as the rumors say. Take that creature away. And listen to me closely: *make sure he does not heal.* Keep injecting the Ivy Poison into his veins every single minute. Do not let his body resurrect yet. I want him to pay for the humiliation he put me through in front of my kingdom."
Theoron turns to leave, tossing a final command over his shoulder. "Take this piece of trash out of my kingdom. Lay low in the Empire; my spies will protect you there. Take this cursed creature straight into enemy territory and report to me every month. If your experiments succeed, he will be our greatest weapon in the coming war."
"As you wish, my Majesty!" Viktor calls out, bowing so low his nose nearly touches the damp stone.
Hours later, a black, unmarked carriage rolls out of a hidden cavern beneath the city, disappearing into the dead of night.
Inside the back of the carriage sits a massive, reinforced iron cage.
It is a massacre within. Luan's body has been entirely dismembered. His arms and legs are separated from his torso, resting in a pool of his own blood. His severed head sits in the corner, the heavy iron greatsword still violently thrust through his skull, pinning him to the wooden floorboards.
But he is not dead.
The curse within his blood fights frantically to knit his flesh back together, to resurrect him. But sitting cross-legged just outside the iron bars is Professor Viktor.
With a wicked, deeply amused smile, Viktor holds a massive glass syringe filled with glowing, toxic green liquid. Every minute, right on schedule, Viktor reaches through the bars and plunges the needle into Luan's severed torso, pumping the Ivy Poison directly into his veins.
The poison destroys Luan's cells just as fast as his curse tries to heal them. It is an endless, waking loop of the most agonizing death imaginable...