Before the mighty mountain called Temanon, the masked man could do nothing.
“Elder Twelve… Luxon, is it? I didn’t expect an elder of your rank to step forward personally.”
“Patriarch, I could not stand idly by and watch the secret legacy of Queibek be passed to a daughter of Dvernon.”
Elder Twelve, Luxon, hastily stanched the bleeding in his leg and continued as calmly as possible.
“I saw how Seira prevented a great disaster in Molita village. The sword power she wielded then was by no means that of the Frost Sword.”
“……”
“It was the power of the First Patriarch’s blade—the Winter Sword. As a loyal servant of Queibek, I cannot bear to see the clan’s most secret swordsmanship handed over to another—especially to Dvernon, our eternal foe.”
At that moment, Seira stepped down from the carriage.
‘Uncle Temanon is always lenient when someone makes a righteous argument.’
And strictly speaking, Elder Luxon’s words weren’t wrong. Everything he said was true. Only his method—the ambush—was at fault.
‘Surely Uncle is wavering right now… huh?’
But no.
“So? You ambushed my beloved, precious Seira for that reason?”
Seira could hardly believe her eyes and ears.
What kind of reaction was that? A “so what, not my problem” attitude?
Was this really Sir Temanon?
It actually felt… good that Sir Temanon was angry on her behalf.
But she hadn’t expected things to go this far.
‘Wait, hold on.’
It was nice that he was angry for her sake—but this was too much.
On his broad, dependable back, near the nape of his neck, dark crimson veins suddenly bulged. Blackish-blue heat shimmered off his body. His clothes swelled as though ready to burst.
It was the classic sign of berserk fury.
Luxon threw back his head and laughed maniacally, as if this were all to his advantage.
Seira bit her lip hard.
‘Why now? Why is the Queibek blood curse surfacing here of all places?!’
All direct descendants of Queibek carried that curse—the curse that turned them into madmen, destroying everything around them in a frenzy.
They knew it well, and so they trained from childhood never to lose their reason.
In GYG, this berserk phenomenon almost never appeared.
‘The heroine only faces it when Hamuun goes berserk to protect her from death…’
And even that was a rare route. Out of thousands of playthroughs, Seira had seen Hamuun go berserk fewer than ten times.
‘But Temanon? In GYG, not once did he ever lose control like this.’
Still, berserk rage itself wasn’t the issue.
The real problem was that suffocating aura—an overwhelming stench of death—that now filled the air, as though a fog of mortality had descended.
‘This has to be stopped.’
If it continued, the entire area would be devastated—and she would be swept away and killed.
“Master.”
But Temanon seemed deaf to her voice.
“Master!”
Even shouting made no difference.
And in GYG, only the heroine, Aileen, could suppress the Queibek curse.
「‘This Hamuun scares me. I want the kind, gentle Hamuun back. Please, don’t lose to the curse. Love me in your true form.’」
As long as she embraced him, everything would be fine.
But Seira hugging Temanon now? That wouldn’t work.
Her chest tightened, her head felt ready to explode.
Meanwhile, Luxon chuckled gleefully.
“So this is how it ends. We’re all going to die here.”
His gaze slid to Seira.
“That’s good enough. You and I will die here, and Queibek will fall into turmoil.”
“……”
“The Patriarch will kill you with his own hand. And when a man like him kills you himself, what then?”
He laughed wildly.
“He’ll never endure the guilt.”
“……”
“He’ll resign as Patriarch on his own.”
Perhaps he wanted to teach her some final lesson, but Seira had no attention to spare for his words.
‘How do I stop this?’
The curse had to be broken.
Luxon taunted on.
“Once Temanon is gone, how long do you think Lady Rachel can last in Queibek?”
Temanon growled, a guttural sound half like an animal’s cry. He seemed in torment, wrestling with the curse inside.
“When he steps down, the Elders’ Council will elevate Condis as Patriarch.”
Yes, the elders always wanted Condis. He was far easier to control than Hamuun.
With their power reduced under Lady Rachel’s rule, they had been waiting for a chance to reclaim influence.
Luxon spread his arms wide.
“Go on, take my life. Let the curse consume you. A Patriarch who yields to the curse is of no use to me either.”
Seira clenched her fists. She had an idea.
‘Will this work?’
She didn’t know—but she had to try.
—Uncle.
“Master.”
Sir Temanon hated being called “Master.” He said it felt too distant. He had once demanded she call him “Uncle” instead. He even promised to grant her a wish if she did. But she never could, out of propriety.
‘And even now, I’m clinging to dignity?’
If only she could remind him of that promise by calling him “Uncle”… but no.
Her cursed trait, “Right to Die Beautifully,” twisted even her words. Not even “Master” would leave her lips now.
‘Damn these cursed traits! I need to find a way around “dignity.”’
Clang!
Temanon’s sword slipped from his hand and struck the ground.
The inner struggle was ending.
His veins turned fully crimson-black, and with one hand he seized Luxon by the throat, lifting him into the air.
Just before Luxon’s neck snapped, Seira spoke.
“You’ve taught me so much.”
She had to circumvent the Dignity trait, or she would be next.
The death fog thickened, heavier even than when Molita village had been flooded.
If she didn’t stop him here, she would certainly die.
“You’ve been like a father to me.”
She couldn’t call him father outright—the Dignity trait forbade it.
But she could speak of fatherly affection.
“You gave birth to me with your heart and raised me. Through you I learned what fatherly love truly was.”
Like a broken machine, Temanon’s head jerked and twisted.
His eyes were pitch black. He looked like a demon, but strangely, Seira wasn’t afraid.
Instead, her chest ached, and tears threatened to fall.
‘In GYG, only Aileen could break the curse. But maybe… maybe this could work too.’
She stepped closer, one cautious pace at a time.
“This Temanon scares me. You feel unfamiliar and frightening.”
With a snarl, Temanon flung Luxon aside. The elder crashed to the ground, unconscious.
“Please, return to the form of the father I longed for.”
He growled and raised a massive hand toward her, close enough to tear her apart in an instant.
“Don’t yield to the curse. Come back as the father who bore me in his heart, and remember me.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist.
She was terrified, overwhelmed, heartsick. She squeezed her eyes shut.
‘Is this the end?’
Then—
“Seira.”
The voice wasn’t fully his own, rasping with phlegm.
“But I… remember you.”
It didn’t sound like he was speaking to her, but to himself. A self-hypnosis. A vow.
“I remember you.”
Like a madman, he chanted it again and again—I remember, I remember, I remember.
It didn’t sound sane.
Listening hurt her heart.
Seira tightened her embrace and answered calmly.
“Yes. You must remember.”
“I… remember you…”
Blood gushed from his mouth, then from his eyes, ears, and nose.
There was nothing more she could do but hold him tighter.
At last, after what felt like an eternity, a gentler voice reached her ears.
“I remember— as the father who held you in his heart.”
With a thick forearm, he wiped the blood from his lips.
“Forget this unworthy sight.”
At last, the curse was broken.
