Chapter 75 of 100
Chapter 75
13 min read3,129 words
Keinslon slowly walked down the road strewn with blood and corpses. This road was where the royal guards were ambushed on their way back.
His boots splashed through the sticky blood, the splashes staining his boots with a mottled pattern. He bent down, his face, usually firm and cold, now had a slightly narrowed gaze, filled with an icy chill.
Kneeling on one knee, before him lay a pale face, eyes wide open in defiance and despair.
His eyes were as wide as copper bells, his mouth gaping wide as if to roar in despair, but a deep wound on his neck prevented any sound from escaping.
The blood had long since drained away, and through the torn flesh, the pale bone of his neck was faintly visible. This was his fatal wound.
His chest and shoulder were pierced by two black arrows, and the longsword in his hand remained clutched tightly even in death, for survival, for honor!
Scattered around in the dim light were disordered weapons and the bodies of men and horses. A sharp, piercing bird call echoed through the dark forest, adding to the desolate atmosphere.
Keinslon stood up and continued down the road they had taken on their return.
Ahead, the road was completely shattered and in disarray.
He could sense that a fierce battle had taken place here. The air still seemed to carry the remnants of chaotic energy, and it was clear that more than one person was responsible for this state.
His subordinates, his adjutant Saphirian, seemed to have met with a similar fate.
He did not see Saphirian's body, but he believed his adjutant had managed to escape safely. In a fight, Saphirian might not be his match, but in a flight, it was a different story.
After breaking free from the constraints of the rules, Keinslon quickly arrived at the college's main building, only to find the aftermath of a brutal suppression.
Saphirian had acted on his own!
He did not care about Saphirian's motives; what he needed now was to find them.
Following the path the guards had taken, Keinslon soon found them, but all that remained were the once-living bodies, now lifeless.
He was a man of strong nerves, and his face rarely betrayed his inner emotions.
Even when faced with the unbelievable scene before him, he remained composed. His eyes slightly narrowed, his fists unconsciously clenched, and he was silent, a silence that was oppressive.
Who would have thought that a simple mission would end in such a result? Perhaps only the mastermind behind it all knew.
With one last look back, Keinslon turned and left.
Their blood debt would eventually be repaid—
...
"Are you awake?"
In the dark, a calm voice reached his ears, and Tylrand's tightly closed, trembling eyelids slowly opened a slit.
Shaking his head, his vision gradually cleared.
A familiar yet unfamiliar road, a familiar yet unfamiliar tree shade. He leaned against a stone bench, feeling the cold touch gradually stimulate his senses.
"Where am I?" he asked, seemingly ignoring the source of the voice.
"Royal Central Academy," the voice replied.
"I didn't die?"
Tylrand, sitting on the stone bench, bent forward, his hands clasping his forehead. In a daze, he remembered that before he fainted, the world had suddenly turned white, the noise of people and horses faintly lingering in his memory. His body, losing balance, had fallen heavily to the ground, and then the world had turned dark.
"You didn't die," the voice said.
"Why?" His voice seemed to have lost its vitality, sounding dejected and soulless.
"Do you want to die?" the voice asked.
"Everyone is dead, and the one who should have died is me. What a great irony, huh—haha—" Tylrand laughed dryly, tears welling up in his eyes and rolling down his cheeks.
"Life has meaning, and death has value, but what about me? The meaning of life is lost, and the value of death is stripped away... I never regret what I've done, but when I saw my comrades' blood and heard their cries, I realized I wasn't as strong as I thought. My selfish ideals, imposed on them, led them to follow me, and I led them into the depths of hell... I don't know, I don't know how to face those innocent, young faces. I fear living and seeing them in my dreams, and I fear dying without facing them..."
Xalan listened quietly behind him, not interrupting his painful confession. When the fervor and noise subsided, the negative emotions that followed overwhelmed the fading flames. In the end, he was still a child, a big child.
Like his own reflection once was.
As the years passed, the scenes of pain and escape would be deeply buried in his heart. Occasionally, in the dead of night, alone, by the window, the haunting past would break through the defenses, eroding his strength and corroding his body and mind...
Emotions that had been suppressed needed to be released, vented.
Tears, self-talk, these were his outlets.
"Perhaps you don't know, but during your unconsciousness, your black-robed friend ambushed and killed all the royal guards who suppressed and slaughtered you."
Tylrand's voice grew weaker, silent, and Xalan spoke at the right moment.
"What?"
As expected, this news startled Tylrand, and his lifeless eyes seemed to regain their former vitality. Turning around, he saw the mysterious person who had spoken.
An unfamiliar face, an ordinary appearance.
Xalan smiled slightly and said, "Surprised?"
Tylrand suddenly stood up, his tightly clenched fists revealing his agitation. A strange smile appeared on his stunned face, and a manic laugh broke the silence.
After a long time, the laughter turned bitter, interspersed with sobs and indistinct mutterings. After laughing and crying, his body seemed to be drained of energy, and he slumped back onto the stone bench, his spirit more listless than ever.
"I should have known, their goal wasn't just them..."
"Them?"
Xalan, perceiving the hint in Tylrand's mutterings, asked.
Tylrand, his head leaning back on the stone bench, turned to look at Xalan, his throat emitting intermittent, muffled laughter. "Who are you?"
He did not answer Xalan's question, which was expected. Xalan walked from behind the stone bench to sit beside him and said, "Who I am is not important. What's important is that I saved you."
"Do you think I should be grateful to you?" Tylrand asked.
Xalan glanced at Tylrand in surprise. In his eyes, he saw a glimmer of clarity, indicating that he had returned to normal.
"No."
"It seems you understand."
Tylrand's light laugh carried a hint of sarcasm. He did not know who he was, but he was clear that he would not have saved him without a reason. He had his own motives.
But that was not important. What was important was what he could offer?
Cooperation, utilization.
This was the reality they would face.
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