Chapter 115
That simple and clear truth planted a firm certainty in the wavering existence called “Belia.”
So this time, not out of hope but with unwavering determination, she set out to find the Saintess.
And there, of all people, she encountered Vane.
Since he had regained his memories from the Forest of Mist, he was no longer a strange being, but a familiar ill fate continuing from the past.
Belia thought she knew him well.
Yet, when she looked into his eyes face to face, they were a deep and dark abyss.
A profound hatred for the world.
The moment she saw his golden eyes, tinged with a crimson anger as deep as blood, she froze.
Yes, she was powerless, unable to think of anything.
Meanwhile, Lude had become a wreck, and Carlton had lost consciousness.
Belia frowned at the sharp pain flowing from the wounds he left behind while she was unconscious.
Was he going to use her blood for something again?
“…Rene.”
Muttering that bitterly resentful name, Belia’s eyes went blank.
Soon, the season when she would appear would arrive.
When the rain stops, when the sun shines, when the wind blows, and the leaves scatter, she—the one colored with that hue—will appear.
At the thought, Belia’s reflection in the glass gradually hardened.
She could not be devoured by a fake again.
Vane, who caused all this, was truly detestable.
The pain rising from her calves deepened, and her expression grew colder.
“This time, I will put things back—.”
As she made that vow, hot tears ran down her cheeks.
It was not sorrow, but unrestrained rage.
The past six months had given her not sadness, but anger.
Only fierce vengeance remained in her heart.
Her tears dried up from flowing too much.
Seeing Lude and Carlton in shambles, she felt as though everything were her fault, and she felt guilty.
But she soon realized:
Tears can flow backward, but regrets—once you turn away—are final.
“By any means…”
She would take revenge.
Belia looked at the bustling servants beyond the window.
Yes, the time had come.
She slowly watched a carriage approaching the mansion’s main gate.
Soon, the carriage would stop, and its door would open.
Because of repairs to the central fountain, all carriages were restricted—everyone in the family faced the same rule.
Even the marquis, the master of this mansion, was no exception.
But look at that expression.
Even from afar, it’s unmistakable.
Look at that arrogant behavior, spilling dissatisfaction.
The shameful spectacle he caused last autumn seemed to have been quickly forgotten.
“Now, I’ll return everything. Brother.”
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
Who will be the fake this lifetime?
If the ones behind her are in tatters, shouldn’t Rene’s also be made that way to be fair?
Swoosh—.
The pouring rain intensified.
And through it, a magnificently lavish carriage entered the Arpedi Marquis estate.
Drip—. Drip—.
The sound of raindrops falling between tightly packed stones echoed softly through the cave.
Below, a man knelt, hands clasped as if in a sacred prayer—then suddenly, he opened his eyes.
“Cough—!”
The red mass he expelled stained the cold ground.
“Ugh—!”
He took a sharp breath, wincing in pain, and managed to lift his upper body.
Then, he clasped his hands together.
Belia Arpedi.
With that name came countless memories flashing through his mind.
The pieces, tangled like fog, he began sorting out one by one.
It was not easy.
Strange memories still intruded here and there—memories where he had forgotten Belia Arpedi, or faced Carlton.
But it was okay.
Once he faced that child again, all this confusion would find its place.
If one pursued only clear results, such confusion was merely a minor weakness arising in the process.
“Ugh—!”
As he drew upon sacred power, magic constricted his heart like shackles.
Unholy power and divine power.
Two irreconcilable forces inflicted pain from the root of his heart to the tips of his body.
Saintess—.
Ever since he faced her that day, everything had gone awry.
Since then, clinging to his rapidly deteriorating body, Vane prayed every day without fail.
But it was not a prayer to God.
It was a prayer to himself.
The more he prayed, the more certain he became.
God was truly nothing.
That being was so arrogant, foolish, and utterly pathetic.
Otherwise, why would it bestow sacred power upon someone so rotten to the core?
Therefore, everything written in those scriptures was a lie.
Salvation, goodness—none of it.
It had never truly existed in this world.
Selfishness and greed—these intertwined, and the world turned.
Within it, God was merely an arrogant being, intoxicated by the endless praise of foolish mortals.
That he alone knew this truth was excruciating.
“So it makes sense that it disappears.”
No matter how much one told these fools the truth, they would not understand.
Yet he could somewhat understand them.
For he too had once been like that.
Believing from birth that he was chosen by God, following Him, trusting His will.
He once took pride in himself and despised anyone who even slightly defied the rules.
But what had become of that?
The greatest servant of God scattered the filthiest seeds.
And that was his birth.
Tsk tsk.
The thought briefly crossed his mind, and Vane clicked his tongue.
How much despair and pain he had felt in his youth.
So he tried to save himself, to awaken himself.
He showed a bit of pity.
Yet, the innocent faces still defied him.
Especially…
“Carlton.”
To that child alone, he gave the power that the world unjustly fingered.
In truth, it was the most genuine power; for that child, it was a rare consideration.
Sharing half the same blood, it was a form of warmth.
Yet, in the end, that child too was just one of countless fools.
The one who defied him and ruined all his plans.
“Huh—.”
Vane let out a small sigh and turned his head.
This too was merely a minor process toward a clear result; he was not foolish enough to worry about such things.
He only wished that amidst this mixed-up memory, something of value remained.
“Soon.”
Beside Vane lay a woman in a coffin, hands neatly folded.
He looked at her and picked up a bottle placed beside her.
Not a drop of blood wasted; the bottle contained nothing left.
It was painful that the Saintess had awakened, but at least he had obtained this blood, quelling the urgent need.
He did not know how long it would take, but he was certain she would soon open her eyes.
Gazing silently at the one lying down, he turned to look at an old cup in the corner of the cave.
The cup he had brought with him from the outside.
“See clearly, how the servant you used to prolong your life… becomes so filthy, so utterly ruined.”
—Foolish God.
Vane swallowed his next words, clasped his hands together again.
And his prayer once more resonated quietly throughout the cave.
Scratch, scratch—.
On the desk, paperwork was piled like a mountain, yet the one facing it looked completely at ease.
“Hmm—.”
Humming softly, Barun chuckled and pressed his pen onto the final signature.
Then he removed his silver-framed glasses and placed them on the desk with a clink.
The silver frame shimmered under the light.
“Yes.”
This was right.
Everything felt back in its place, and a smile settled on Barun’s lips.
‘Barun Arpedi.’
Seeing his name clearly signed, satisfaction washed over him.
Indeed, the world helps those who strive.
That man.
Even thinking of him sent chills down his spine.
Even as a child, meeting him had not been pleasant, but now he was different.
His gaze, sharpened and cold, seemed to say—killing you is nothing.
For a moment, Barun almost forgot why he had wanted to meet him there.
But he had not wasted the past eight years; unlike when he was young, he could think clearly.
Recalling the moment he met the man, Barun lifted his head.
He had gone to the East Hall and seized his opportunity.
And so, he had restored everything to its rightful place.
Belia, and that seemingly insignificant knight, had self-destructed; perhaps God truly exists after all.
—Click.
Suppressing a smile, Barun rose from his seat.
Looking out at the pouring rain, memories of the past suddenly came flooding back.
