Chapter 67: The Fate of the Misfortuned (1)
Silence smothered the grand hall once more, the only sound being the faint scrape of Seraphine’s sword as she picked it up from the marble floor.
Her gaze swept over her sisters—each face unreadable, save for Laura’s infuriatingly smug expression.
"Did all of you know?" she asked at last, her voice tight with anger and humiliation.
"Know what, dear sister?" Elyra’s lips curved faintly, her eyes glittering with mischief.
Seraphine’s jaw clenched. Their calm, almost mocking stares made the humiliation burn hotter. But it was Laura’s lazy, amused smirk that twisted the knife.
"This isn’t over," Seraphine muttered, her voice low, trembling with rage.
Laura tilted her head, resting her cheek against her palm. Her tone was sweet, but her words were poison.
"I’m pretty sure it is. You were dumb enough to fall into an obvious trap, so no—you don’t get to seek vengeance. You get to sulk."
The jab landed perfectly. Seraphine’s glare could have cut steel, but she said nothing more, turning on her heel and leaving the hall, her shoulders heavy with shame.
For a moment, no one moved. Then Selendra broke the silence, her tone sharp.
"How did you know?"
Laura blinked, feigning innocence. "Know what?"
Selendra’s eyes narrowed. "Don’t play dumb. How did you know we wanted Seraphine gone?"
Laura’s lips curved into a sly grin. "You give me too much credit. What makes you think I knew about your little scheme?"
A vein pulsed at Selendra’s temple, but before she could retort, Nyelle spoke, her voice cool but edged.
"Your tongue is sharper than your blade, Yamira—but when it comes to disrespect, you never let either stay sheathed for long."
Laura chuckled, the sound light and careless, though her eyes glinted like polished steel.
"I’ll take that as a compliment. And to answer your question—your acting skills still need a bit of work. Perhaps Elyra could give you some lessons."
A ripple of tension swept through the group. Expressions cracked ever so slightly; Elyra stiffened, her eyes widening.
"W–what do you mean by that, Yamira?" she stammered.
Laura only laughed, louder this time, the sound echoing in the vast hall. She turned, her heels clicking rhythmically against the marble floor as she walked toward the towering doors. Her voice carried over her shoulder, calm and mocking all at once:
"Relax, sisters. I just hope you won’t mind when I use you the same way I was used today."
The doors shut softly behind her, sealing the silence.
None of the sisters spoke, but each wore the same expression—hard eyes, taut with unshaken determination.
One thing was clear: this royal selection tournament would be unlike any other.
.....
In a land brimming with life, sharp-witted people walked with serene smiles, while others relaxed under lush green trees as sunlight gently filtered through the vast canopy of an ancient tree that had taken root in the heart of the kingdom.
Anyone passing by would notice a common thread: every voice brought up the same topic. Mothers walking in the streams with children on their backs, men in taverns unusually sober, neighbors stopping in the middle of their work—everyone was talking about one thing.
The man who had come here the day before.
"Can that person even be called human?" A man at the tavern spoke, idly twirling his wooden cup with his slender finger. "He looked more like a charred corpse, if we’re being honest."
Another man spoke, "But it was Lady Andor who brought him in, and I heard from my friends who work at the castle that she’s planning to bring him to the High Order for healing."
The man’s eyes widened in surprise as he listened to his companion. "The High Order? What importance does that human hold for them to be involved?"
The man shrugged and took a small sip of his beer. "Beats me. His case is a rare one after all, so it makes sense he’s given special treatment. Coupled with the fact that his benefactor is Kurt Valyn—someone whose generation has been forging weapons for the elven empire for as long as I can remember. So it’s not that far-fetched."
The other elf fell deep in thought and swirled his drink absentmindedly.
The tavern fell silent once more, each with their own impression of the strange event.
In a well-furnished room, a man engraved with countless runes and connected to different devices lay on the bed. Four old men standing at each corner, their eyes never leaving the boy.
The lead healing elf that brought him in—Lady Andor—stood at the far corner of the room, her eyes traveling around the wires that pierced his remnant body.
One of the elders spoke: "His condition is stable, but regeneration won’t work on a body this deformed, and even if I could somehow make it work, his mind is currently against being alive."
Silence descended upon the room again. Andor’s fists clenched by her sides as she watched the elders constantly infuse healing energy into Clark.
’Just what kind of torment had this man gone through to be resisting such pure healing energy so fiercely?’ She wondered.
’How did an F rank even sustain such damage in the first place? I don’t dare imagine the amount of pain he must have passed through.’
"Andor"
The calm voice brought her out of her thoughts, and her eyes landed on a white-bearded man with calm eyes.
"Yes, Elder Kaelthir."
"Go to the dungeon and bring prisoner number E–7 here"
Her eyes widened to the limit and she instinctively turned to the other elders in hopes of confirmation.
Met with their hesitant nods, Andor couldn’t help but ask, "Why are we bringing a member of the Crimson Blade here? And such a high ranking one at that"
The elders seemed to have expected her reaction as one of them explained, "His body can’t be reformed without external help. And as much as I hate to admit it, his mental state is too dire to accept our magic. So the only option we have is—"
"To infuse his blood with someone who already posseses regeneration magic imbued into it" Andor completed, her voice solemn.
The elder sighed. "There is no other way. It has to be done."
Silence hung in the room, the faint hum of mana that monitored his pulsing heartbeat preventing it from lingering.
"We don’t have much time. We can always end this if you’re still feeling unsure. We’re only doing this for you after all." One of the elders urged impatiently.
Andor’s jaw tightened, her nails biting into her palm as she steadied her breath.
"...You’re asking me to tether his life to that monster’s blood," she finally said, her voice low, almost trembling. Her eyes flickered over Clark’s still form, the faint rise and fall of his chest barely visible beneath the rune-lit bindings.
Elder Kaelthir’s gaze did not waver. "You wish to save him, do you not?"
The words struck like a blade. She turned her head sharply, her pride warring with her heart.
Of course she wanted to save him. That boy—so broken, yet still clinging desperately to life. A human, fragile as glass, yet his will was like tempered steel. She had seen it in the faint twitch of his hand even as his body rejected their healing. She had seen it in the half-formed expression, as though he fought not just death, but despair itself.
But to taint him with the blood of a Crimson Blade...
"Do you understand what this could mean?" she whispered, her voice shaking now. "If word spreads that we drew from them—"
"Then the blame will fall on us," Kaelthir interrupted firmly. "Not you. We are prepared to carry the weight of that decision."
Another elder leaned forward, his eyes like embers in the half-dark. "Andor. This is not about pride. This is about survival. His mind and body are shackled to torment. Our healing cannot reach him. But Crimson blood was forged in torment—it thrives where pain festers. If anything can root itself into him, it will."
Her fists unclenched slightly, and she looked back at Clark. The boy who had somehow survived horrors that should have killed him ten times over. His face, pale and still, was neither human nor corpse—it was something suspended between.
She closed her eyes.
’If I walk away now, he dies. If I stay, I may condemn him to something worse.’
"Andor," Kaelthir said softly this time, "you brought him here. That means, in the end, the choice must be yours."
The room seemed to grow heavier. The hum of mana. The faint rasp of Clark’s shallow breaths. The waiting gazes of the elders, each one a storm of expectation.
Finally, Andor exhaled slowly, her hand trembling at her side before she steadied it.
"I’ll bring the prisoner."
The elders nodded solemnly and Andor stepped out of the dimly lit room with an unreadable expression.
The room returned to it’s silent atmosphere, before:
Beep. Beep. Bee...ee..beep beep beep
Surprise registered on the faces of all present and they hurriedly casted different spells in an effort to stop the rapid increase in heart rate.
"What’s happening?!" One of the elders exclaimed, his glowing hands pressing firmly against Clark’s chest.
"He’s rejecting our healing magic!" Another answered, his hands continually engraving runes onto his chest.
"Could it be—?"
"His very being is against being paired with a Crimson Blade’s blood."