Chapter 61

"Are you sure about this?"

El asked the question with a look of deep suspicion. He clearly found it dubious that Justus was willing to divulge a state secret after he had just stressed its importance.

While Lifa certainly wanted the information, she couldn't help but feel a similar sense of hesitation. Was this really okay?

"I won’t claim I’ve been moved by sentiment. What is said here will leave no record, nor will it remain in anyone’s memory. In the end, there is little difference between speaking and remaining silent. Of course, if you’ve grown too afraid to listen, I shall stop."

It was a refreshingly honest display of sophistry. As he said, it likely wasn't empathy for Lifa’s feelings that drove him.

Yet, despite the warning, Lifa never considered the option of walking away.

"Being threatened like that makes me want to bow out, personally... but even if I back down now, I know Lifa won't stop. If she has to shoulder this alone, I might as well join her."

"Thank you, El."

Lifa offered her thanks to El, who had finally consented with an air of resignation. It was obvious from his demeanor that he thought listening to this story was a poor tactical move. He was likely weighing the risks of possessing such high-level secrets—complications that Lifa hadn’t even begun to fathom.

Knowing all that, he was still willing to indulge her selfishness.

"Very well," Justus said. "Then I shall tell you of five years ago—of the day I first met Harold."

---

Justus had been working at the research institute back then as well. He first heard Harold's name during a visit to the Royal Castle to report on his research progress. He happened to overhear a group of knights gossiping in a hallway.

"Apparently, some kid joined the Order recently through a special exam instead of the regular channels." "Probably just some big shot's connection, right?" "No, no. Word is he took down dozens of new recruits all by himself during the trial." "Then those recruits must have been pathetic." "Maybe, but get this—the kid is only thirteen. They’re calling him a genius, the youngest person to ever join the Order of the Holy King." "Thirteen? You mean he’s better than even the Vice Commander was at that age?" "What kind of monster is he?" "His name was Harold Stokes, I think..."

The men spoke over one another, fascinated by the newcomer. To Justus’s usual self, this was trivial chatter—information so insignificant it would normally have been purged from his mind before he even passed the castle gates.

The only reason the name stuck in his head was because of one specific phrase.

“Better than even the Vice Commander was?”

The knight had meant it as a hypothetical. Whether this Harold was truly stronger than the Vice Commander, Vincent van Westervoort, had been at thirteen wasn't a comparison that could be made so easily.

However, the mere fact that such a possibility existed caught his attention. It wasn’t just a hyperbolic turn of phrase; it sounded like something that could realistically be true. As someone who knew Vincent personally and was well-acquainted with his peerless combat prowess, Justus found the claim difficult to believe.

Yet, the fact that the boy possessed qualities that invited comparison to such a titan meant he was no ordinary human.

Vincent was strong. He possessed not just the power to fight, but a heart that wouldn’t yield to hardship, a sense of justice to stand against evil, and the kindness to reach out to the weak. He was a man who would be an incomparably reliable ally, yet a wall more formidable than any other should he ever become an enemy.

Even looking across the borders to other nations, no one like him existed. The world called men like him heroes.

Justus found himself intrigued by the boy who might one day surpass such a man.

He had idly thought he might like to see the boy’s face eventually. It wasn’t long after that thought crossed his mind that Harold’s name reached his ears again.

Even though Justus usually blocked out the world to focus on his research, the Royal Capital was so saturated with talk of Harold that the news reached him anyway.

The story went like this: During a mission, Harold had violated a direct order and fled from the front lines. However, the desertion was a ruse; Harold was actually a spy for the Sarian Empire. He had betrayed the Knight Order, leaked classified information, and guided an Imperial ambush that resulted in catastrophic casualties.

The Order had been pushed to the brink of annihilation. They only managed to turn the tide at the last second because the main camp held its ground and the Kingdom Army’s support unit, led personally by Director General Harrison, arrived to wipe out the Imperial forces. During the chaos, they managed to capture the traitor Harold alive, though he was reportedly on the verge of death.

Despite the victory, more than half of the expeditionary force had been killed or wounded. If the national army hadn't arrived exactly when it did, the situation would have likely escalated into a full-scale war between the Knight Order and the Stella Clan. The public consensus was that Harold, the architect of this disaster, deserved nothing less than the death penalty.

That was the official story circulating through the streets. Taken at face value, the argument for his execution was airtight.

If the story was the truth, that is.

The first thing Justus felt wasn't anger at the betrayal or disappointment that his "genius" had turned out to be a dud. Instead, he felt a nagging sense of wrongness at how perfectly the situation had been arranged.

How a thirteen-year-old noble boy with a pedigree as clear as day could become a deep-cover Imperial spy, or how the Kingdom Army managed to arrive at such a suspiciously perfect moment—there were several holes in the story even to a casual observer. But the most glaring anomaly was the speed of the rumors. Information this detailed was saturating the city only days after the expeditionary force’s return.

Normally, the larger the incident, the tighter the information control. It takes an immense amount of time, personnel, and labor to organize and verify the facts of a battlefield catastrophe.

The idea that the investigation had been completed the moment the survivors limped back into the capital was absurd. Furthermore, Harold had reportedly been unconscious and in critical condition until just a few days before reaching the city. There hadn't even been time for a proper interrogation to gather such specific details.

While information might have been extracted from Imperial prisoners, it was highly unlikely that their testimonies—especially given the anti-interrogation measures the Empire surely employed—would match so perfectly. The battered expeditionary force wouldn’t have had the energy to scrutinize that data while struggling just to make it home.

Justus concluded that the rumors were being spread intentionally. The official narrative was likely a fabrication. He suspected Harold had been set up as a convenient scapegoat.

But even then, Justus didn't particularly care. Whether it was a truth or a lie meant nothing to him; he had zero interest in the life or death of another human being.

Normally, he would have dismissed the entire affair. If he hadn't already been curious about Harold’s hidden potential, he would have left him to rot. The thought of "saving" him wouldn't have even crossed his mind.

It was a series of coincidences: a fleeting interest in a genius boy, the sudden news of his infamy, and a few minor connections within the Knight Order and the Deliberation Chamber. These overlapping threads granted Justus the opportunity to see Harold. It wasn't a formal meeting, merely a chance to observe the prisoner from a distance.

In the lightless depths of the Royal Capital’s underground dungeon, he found him. A boy with black hair and crimson eyes, his arms bound by heavy chains to a stone wall.

This was Harold Stokes.

Justus’s first impression was that of a wolf.

Solitary, razor-sharp, and fiercely proud, he was a boy who clearly trusted no one but himself. Even in this hopeless situation—trapped in a cage, weighed down by iron, and awaiting the executioner—his eyes burned with an undimmed fire. They held a deep, crimson flame that matched the color of his pupils.

Before they even exchanged a word, Justus knew. Ah, this boy is no spy.

A person like this might not care about the means he used, but he would never compromise on his way of life. The power in his gaze suggested he was someone who wouldn't hesitate to die to uphold his own convictions.

To use a trite phrase, he was "Evil with an Aesthetic." Justus realized instinctively that this was a talent far too precious to let go to waste.

He acted with a speed that surprised even himself. It had been a long time since he had taken such a proactive interest in anything outside his lab. He contacted the influential figures and powerful politicians he knew through his research, pleading for a stay of execution or a pardon.

But Justus was just a scientist. No one was willing to take on the political headache of a high-profile traitor just to satisfy a researcher’s whim.

So, Justus played his hand. To save Harold’s life, he turned to an experiment he himself had deemed a taboo—a project akin to a curse.

During their second encounter in the dungeon, Harold spoke the man’s name before Justus could say a word.

"Justus Freund..."

"Oh? You know who I am?"

"What is a man like you doing in a place like this?"

"...Fair enough. Let's skip the pleasantries," Justus said. "If you aren't content to sit here and wait for death, then come with me, Harold."

He went straight for the throat.

Harold fixed him with a piercing glare, trying to discern the man’s true objective. Justus didn't expect him to jump at the offer. He simply met the boy’s gaze and waited for him to speak.

"Nonsense," Harold spat. "Are you claiming a man like you can overturn my sentence?"

"I am. I will overturn it without fail."

Justus declared it with absolute certainty. It wasn't a bluff; he knew that with the weapons he had developed and the right negotiation tactics, it was entirely possible.

If those weapons could be mass-produced, the Kingdom would possess an invincible army. No one would hesitate to sacrifice the life of a single death-row inmate to achieve that. Since Harold wouldn't just be killed, but rather used, toyed with, and tormented until he died, the bloodlust of those who wanted him dead would be satisfied.

Opposition would be minimal. Crushing it would be trivial.

"However, let me be clear," Justus added. "If you choose to come with me, you may find yourself in an even deeper hell."

"...What are you talking about?"

"I have developed a sword—one I was forced to seal away because of its catastrophic flaws. It grants the wielder a massive boost in combat ability by forcibly draining their magic power. The side effect is that it shaves away the user's life force, eventually leading to death. If you have the resolve to wield such a thing, I will pull you out of this hole."

He laid everything bare. He gave Harold a binary choice.

Accept a quiet death now, or accept a brief reprieve filled with agony before dying later. It was a merciless ultimatum where death was the only guaranteed outcome.

Justus wouldn't pretend his conscience was hurting. In truth, Harold hadn't even had these two choices until Justus stepped in, and the scientist was acting out of pure intellectual curiosity rather than altruism.

"…Heh."

"?"

"Heh… Kahaha! Hahahaha!"

Harold laughed. It was a mocking, jagged sound.

It was a laugh dyed in a darkness that made the skin crawl, echoing from the very bottom of an abyss. It was utterly wrong for the setting—a mad, incessant sound that filled the gloomy dungeon.

"...What is so funny?" Justus asked, steeling himself against the boy who suddenly looked like a demon.

The laughter cut off instantly. The echoes died, leaving a heavy, oppressive silence. A bead of sweat rolled down Justus’s temple. He realized it was a cold sweat; he was actually being intimidated by the child in front of him.

"You ask what's funny? How could I not laugh?"

Harold stood up as he spoke. The chains pulled his arms back, preventing him from standing fully upright, but he lunged forward as far as the iron would allow, his eyes locking onto Justus.

Clang. The chains shrieked. Ignoring the constraints of the wall, Harold strained against his bonds. Every movement made the iron moan in protest.

"A deeper hell? The resolve to die?"

Clank! Clang! The noise grew deafening.

Fresh blood began to spray from Harold's wrists where the iron shackles bit into his skin. Still, he didn't stop.

"You think that amounts to anything? Don't you dare look down on me, Justus!!"

With a violent, metallic snap, the chains finally shattered. Harold stumbled forward a few steps, then slammed his hands onto the bars of the cell.

Droplets of blood from his torn wrists splattered across Justus’s tattered white coat.

"Give me the sword. Give me the power. I'll show you what real hell and resolve look like."

Justus stared at the boy for a moment, then a thin smile touched his lips.

"...Splendid. That is an answer beyond reproach, Harold."

In the darkness of the dungeon, the two men smiled at each other. It wasn't a smile of friendship or agreement, but a wicked exchange—a declaration of war between two monsters.