Chapter 173: Resolution

The study, filled with stacks of books, was illuminated by the same soft, warm light as before. The room bore clear signs of upkeep, despite the fact that its owner had been absent for some time. His identity alone ensured that no one dared to inquire about his whereabouts.

The door creaked open. A weary-looking Aloysius stepped inside. The young Selwynian noble bore dark circles under his eyes, but unexpectedly, his overall state seemed much improved—his spirit more intact, the sense of despair around him much reduced.

“Twelve days…” Aloysius muttered to himself, recalling how long his so-called ‘grandfather’ had been gone. The nightmare that had bound and suffocated him for so long had vanished—completely, utterly, without a trace. It was as if his presence had been erased from the world.

“The timing matches the opening of that great library he once mentioned. He must have disappeared then… Could he have failed? No… With his strength, I can’t imagine anyone who could pose a threat to him.”

His hand unconsciously lifted and pressed against a hidden mechanism on the bookshelf. A tremor of emotion surged within him, urging him to open the secret chamber—to confirm what had happened to the nightmare that had shackled him in chains of despair.

“Is this a test…? A test of my loyalty…?”

His voice trembled, and his pupils flickered wildly. That presence had engraved fear and reverence deep into Aloysius’s soul. Just the idea of flirting with betrayal made him shudder uncontrollably.

His palm slammed against his face, fingers digging in with force, splitting skin and causing blood to trickle down. Sharp pain overwhelmed his nerves, subduing the violent tremors of his soul.

“No, no… He said it himself—he wouldn’t do meaningless things like that. Tests of loyalty and rituals of dominance are beneath him. There’s no test. He’s gone! Aloysius, what are you hesitating for? What are you thinking? Act! Move!”

When pushed to the brink of terror, people would eventually reach a breaking point in which their fear would transform into reckless, uncontrollable rage. And once those flames of rage consumed their minds, those people could be driven to do anything.

Aloysius was filled with unbearable dread at the consequences that would unfold if the old man were to discover his actions.

But at the same time, deep within his heart, a nameless fury burned—roaring at him, screaming that this was his only chance to break free from the endless suffering and despair. He had to open the chamber and confirm that bastard’s current state.

If he were caught…

Aloysius reached for his throat, his fingers brushing against a hardened foreign object embedded there—a lich’s finger bone. Sealed within it was the seventh-tier Finger of Death.

He had spent everything he had accumulated over the years to obtain this treasure—not to kill his nightmare, but as a way to escape it once and for all.

If that wretched man ever tried to do anything to him again, he would use the spell instantly, obliterating his own soul. Death would be his end—not a new beginning of endless torment.

The fury within him burnt away what remained of his hesitation. Acting on impulse, Aloysius pressed his finger against the hidden mechanism on the bookshelf.

In an instant, his fingertip was torn open, his flesh mangled. The pain was meaningless now—his rage had consumed all rational thought.

After a series of familiar spatial ripples, darkness overtook his vision. Dizziness followed, but his fevered, seething mind ignored it. He strode forward, his mental energy already entwined with the lich’s finger bone, prepared to unleash Finger of Death upon himself at a moment’s notice.

Light flickered from around the corner, illuminating the place where the old man had stored the twelve keys. In plain sight was—nothing. The space was empty. Completely, utterly empty.

Aloysius’s fury vanished in an instant. It was snuffed right out—along with the courage that accompanied his rage. His limbs turned to jelly. His body collapsed to the ground.

Tears spilled uncontrollably from his eyes, slipping past his trembling lips and teeth, salty and bitter. An indescribable sense of relief spread through his entire being. The presence that had loomed over him, suffocating him beneath its shadow, was gone.

Yet that relief was swiftly replaced by other emotions—anxiety and uncertainty. Will he come back? Run, run… Run!

Even in the wake of his liberation, Aloysius realized that his fears hadn’t truly left him. His first instinct was still to flee.

“Damn it! Damn it!” He slapped himself hard across the face. The force dislodged one of his already loosened teeth, sending it flying from his mouth along with a spurt of blood.

“He’s not coming back! Never again!” he shouted, as if trying to brainwash himself. His hysterical voice echoed in the chamber.

“I must tell the King. Whatever else he may be—whether he’s fit to rule or not—Selwyn will not fall. It must not fall!

“We’ll win for sure. That bastard’s plan was sound—the only problem was him. Now that he’s gone, we’ll be able to carry on with our plans. There’s no retreat now. Selwyn will be the one to emerge victorious in this war.”

Aloysius had kept himself going all this time because of his beliefs. Those same beliefs now continued to propel him forward even in light of the old man’s death..

The old man was dead. That meant all the information he had so arrogantly withheld—all the knowledge about the summoning ritual, which he had so arrogantly shared with Aloysius, believing the latter to be under his complete control—could now be shared freely.

Selwyn was decaying, crumbling before his eyes. He refused to let war grind his beloved nation into dust.

Using his staff as a cane, Aloysius dragged his frail yet determined body out of the old man’s residence. He climbed into a carriage driven by a coachman of special status.

“The palace.” Bloodshot eyes locked onto the distant silhouette of the royal palace as his hoarse voice rasped out a command.

The coachman cast a glance at the once-promising young scholar, who now seemed to be nothing more than a wreck of a man. He had seen many who had served the old man end up like this. It was no surprise—rather, the only surprise was that he had lasted so long.

Without a word, the coachman cracked the reins. His job was simply to take passengers to their destination—whether to the palace, or to their doom.

The streets they passed were desolate and lifeless. Even though spring had come and the frost had thawed, Selwyn’s capital remained steeped in silence. The lively buzz from years past was nowhere to be found.

The carriage passed through the palace gates without obstruction. The guards, recognizing the coachman’s credentials, allowed it through without question.

Aloysius disembarked, navigating the corridors with practiced ease. As the old man’s intermediary with the kingdom, his status afforded him direct access to the king.

Inside the dimly lit royal hall, armored soldiers stood in two silent rows. The once magnificent chamber was now steeped in shadow and an eerie sense of bloodshed.

“What does he want now…?”

On the throne sat a figure shrouded in darkness, his form obscured: the king of Selwyn.

His voice betrayed his youth. He was far too young to be a sovereign.

“No, no—he doesn’t want anything. Your Majesty, he’s dead. He won’t return. I have come to tell you everything he withheld from you, everything he tampered with—all of it. Please, have someone record this down. I will begin immediately.”

Aloysius’s words were frantic and disjointed, but the message was clear. The mastermind of Selwyn’s plan to create false gods—dead? How could that be?

A tense silence befell the room.

“Speak, faithful subject of the kingdom.” A robed figure, the royal archivist, stepped forward, quill and parchment in hand.

And so, Aloysius spoke. “The crux of the plan lies in restoring those false gods to perfect form, allowing that existence who was initially…”

As time passed, the hidden records left behind by the elder were gradually revealed to the king. The prolonged narration left Aloysius’s voice hoarse and dry. Finally, after delivering the last piece of information, he coughed violently for over ten seconds before turning his gaze toward the shadowy figure of the king.

“Selwyn shall not fall, Your Majesty!” Aloysius’s eyes burned with unrestrained fervor.

“I thank you for your loyalty. Everything you have done for the kingdom will be remembered.” The king’s voice could be heard from the darkness, tinged with amusement and approval.

“This was my duty, Your Majesty. I will—ah…” Aloysius began excitedly, his blood boiling with enthusiasm from the king’s praise. However, before he could finish his sentence, his words were abruptly cut off.

He lowered his disbelieving eyes, only to see several sharp swords piercing through his chest, mercilessly dragging out his entrails. Fresh blood gushed out.

His trembling voice barely escaped his throat before fading into silence as his life was extinguished.

At some point, the armored soldiers who had stood in silent vigilance had encircled Aloysius. In the very moment in which he proclaimed his loyalty, they had run him through with their blades.

“The contingency worked well. Once that man’s suppression was gone, it activated. His mind became consumed by impassioned patriotism—just as expected, that man left behind more than we could have imagined…”

The royal archivist watched on with indifference as the soldiers carried away Aloysius’s lifeless body. Previous mental conditioning had ensured that, once the old man’s control faded, Aloysius’s will would be twisted by overwhelming loyalty, compelling him to reveal everything the old man had concealed from the kingdom’s ruler.

“Your Majesty, have you made your decision?”

The royal archivist turned toward the throne.

“I made my decision long ago. Just as that old monster said, the suffering of the present is nothing more than growing pains. Even if I must sacrifice everything and perish, Selwyn will not fall with me.”

Young though the king might be, his voice carried absolute resolve.

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