{Chapter: 56: Humanity On It's Last Breath}
One Month Later
The Royal Palace – The Night Before the Coronation
The moon hung high above the marble spires of the royal palace, its pale light washing over the intricate stonework like a divine blessing — or perhaps, a silent warning. The corridors were quieter than usual, and an air of anticipation weighed heavily in every hall. Servants moved with hushed urgency, polishing chandeliers, brushing royal carpets, and arranging ceremonial artifacts for the grand event that would take place at dawn — the coronation of the new ruler.
But in a secluded chamber far from the bustling preparations, the atmosphere was different. There was no joy here, only shadows, secrets, and questions that refused to be silenced.
James Woz sat slouched in a velvet armchair near the fireplace, his golden ceremonial jacket hanging loose over his shoulders. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, casting long flickering shadows against the tall bookshelves that lined the room. Across from him, perched casually on a low-backed chair, was Ciel, the ever-relaxed sorcerer draped in a loose midnight-blue robe, a glass of mulled wine in his hand.
James broke the silence, leaning slightly forward, voice hushed and curious. "Did you find anything conclusive from your research on... that thing?"
Ciel raised an eyebrow. "The demon corpse, you mean?"
James nodded. "Yes. Carla's remains."
It had been a month since Carla's death — a month of uneasy peace, whispered rumors, and subtle changes in the palace atmosphere. After his defeat, James and Safi had come to a delicate agreement: they would divide the demoness's corpse equally. It was a cold, pragmatic act, one devoid of honor or sentiment, but necessary for their respective factions.
Safi had been deeply skeptical of James's intentions. He'd issued several pointed warnings about the dangers of delving too deeply into forbidden knowledge, reminding him of the many times in history when heroes, victorious against darkness, had been seduced by the very powers they defeated — only to become the next great evil.
James had denied everything, of course. He'd claimed, with apparent sincerity, that he was merely interested in magical materials — nothing more. Whether Safi believed him was another matter entirely.
Afterward, James had passed Carla's half-corpse to Ciel, hoping the enigmatic sorcerer could unearth some forgotten truth or hidden power.
Now, a month later, he awaited the results.
Ciel took a slow sip of his wine, as if savoring the moment before answering. "After weeks of observation and testing... I've discovered that the physical makeup of demons is utterly unlike any native lifeform on this continent — perhaps even this world. They are less like living beings and more like vessels of pure energy."
He set his cup down and leaned forward, his voice becoming more animated.
"Every drop of their blood is infused with violent, chaotic energy. Highly corrosive. It attacks any biological matter it touches. In the best-case scenario, it causes severe injury. Worst-case, it forcibly transmutes the host into something... else. Demonized. Or dead. Usually both."
James blinked. "That's... disturbing. And that's all?"
Ciel offered a sheepish smile. "That's it."
A long silence stretched between them. The sound of firewood cracking filled the room.
James stared at him, incredulous. "That's all you've learned in an entire month?"
Ciel shrugged. "You asked me to study a demon's corpse. I did. But I'm a sorcerer, not a biologist. I work with magical constructs, illusions, and energy manipulation — not dissecting the corpses of eldritch horrors."
James sank back into his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "So, basically, we've wasted time."
"I prefer the word delayed," Ciel replied, spreading his arms. "Besides, those things I told you are useful."
"They're written in every scholar's journal from the last century!" James snapped. "You're not giving me anything new."
Ciel raised both hands defensively. "All right, all right. Look, I didn't come empty-handed. I've contacted someone who might actually be of use. A scholar who specializes in extraplanar biology. One of those reclusive geniuses who spends more time with dead monsters than with living people."
James paused. "You trust him?"
"Well," Ciel said, swirling his wine, "he's eccentric. Doesn't speak much. Keeps to himself. But I've seen his work. He dissected voidlings, mapped parasite migration, and once isolated a living trace of corruption from a fallen beast's corpse. So yes — I trust him, at least professionally."
James considered this for a moment. His eyes narrowed. "If he's so brilliant, why would he come here?"
Ciel gave a lazy grin. "Old debts. Let's just say I helped him escape an unfortunate mishap involving a cursed sarcophagus and a jealous noble woman. You already know sometimes the 'tastes' of nobility are more messed up than monsters. So he owes me."
James flinched upon the mention of the nobility's tastes but finally smiled. "Fine. Then we wait for this genius of yours. But in the meantime, we keep the body locked and sealed. I don't want to wake up and find it walking again."
If Ciel could describe him as very capable, then he must have some skills that could be recognized by others.
"Agreed," Ciel said. Then, after a brief pause, he added, "Though I doubt Dex even cares about what we're doing."
James's expression hardened. "He doesn't?"
"I tested him," Ciel said. "The last time I saw him, I casually dropped the news that we'd killed a demon. I described the fight in detail. And you know what? He didn't even blink. No curiosity, no surprise — just a bored smile, like I'd told him the weather."
James frowned. "Strange. I expected more of a reaction."
"So did I," Ciel said. "I also can't understand his indifferent attitude. No matter who he is, he has his own needs."
James sat silently by the flickering hearth, his voice laced with an edge of uncertainty. The flames danced shadows across his features, making his furrowed brow appear even deeper.
Touching his chin thoughtfully, he added, "I never saw clearly what Dex was pursuing. Although he longed for souls and had the ability to plunder them, he always remained calm. Too calm. What was the reason that restrained him? I think when we find out the reason, it will be time to get rid of his control..."
Ciel stood by the window, arms crossed as he peered into the night. The full moon bathed the palace courtyard in silver light, and the occasional rustle of wind swept past the panes.
"Perhaps," Ciel replied flatly.
On the point of breaking away from Dex's influence, he and James were in complete agreement. Even if Ciel now walked a more lawful path, the pride embedded in his very bones refused to tolerate the yoke of another's manipulation.
After a brief silence, he exhaled heavily, as though shaking away layers of accumulated frustration. Then, lifting a crystal wine glass from the table beside him, he offered James a smile. "Let's set aside the gloomy talk for now," the man said with a lopsided smile. "Tomorrow is your coronation, after all. I propose a toast."
James blinked, momentarily caught off guard. Then he chuckled, lifting his own glass to meet the toast. "Grateful. Truly."
They drank in silence—one to the future, the other to the inevitable.
---
The following day, the capital of Marton was bathed in golden morning light. The streets thrummed with celebration. People of all backgrounds lined the cobbled paths, waving flags sewn in the red and gold colors of the kingdom. Petals of wildflowers fell from balconies above, while the sound of trumpets echoed through the alleyways and market squares.
In full ceremonial regalia, James Woz led a procession of elite soldiers clad in polished golden armor engraved with the sigil of the Woz family. Their disciplined march reverberated through the cobblestones. Children clutched wooden replicas of swords, while their parents watched with pride and hope.
At the base of the palace steps stood an immense statue of James's ancestor—Valen Woz, the founding warlord of Marton. The figure loomed tall and regal, a silent witness to the future now unfolding.
James knelt on one knee, eyes closed in solemn respect.
"I, James Woz, will inherit the glory of the Woz family, follow the ancient traditions, lead the country, and protect the subjects!" His voice rang out across the plaza.
"No matter what difficulties I encounter, I will not bow my head. I will continue to pass on the glory and let the flag of Marton stand forever on this land!"
He paused, breathing deeply.
"May the gods bless us all."
Two young children—one boy and one girl—dressed in radiant ceremonial attire, approached him. The girl bore a crown nestled in velvet; the boy carried a golden scepter adorned with enchanted rubies. With great care, the girl placed the crown upon James's head, while the boy handed him the scepter.
James rose slowly, the crown glinting beneath the morning sun.
He turned to face the massive crowd, his voice firm and filled with promise.
"I, James Woz, your king, will inherit all the glory of the past and bring the Principality of Marton to the peak of its greatness!"
A thunderous cheer erupted.
Fireworks launched from the palace gates, sending streaks of light across the clear sky. Flowers rained from every direction. Even those hardened by years of conflict found their eyes moist with emotion.
James stood still for a moment, overwhelmed. In their cheers, he felt something unfamiliar—burdened not by fear, but by the sacred weight of responsibility. For the first time, he truly grasped the meaning of the weight behind the crown.
---
One year and four months later.
The sun stood high in a cloudless sky, casting its golden light over a kingdom reborn. Under James's leadership, the Principality of Marton had undergone a renaissance. Roads had been repaved, trade expanded, and infrastructure fortified. The capital had become a place of learning and commerce. Foreign dignitaries sought audience, while whispers of the kingdom's rising strength spread far and wide.
Inside the royal district, tucked deep within a luxurious palace walls, time seemed to flow slower.
Dex sat calmly on a high-backed chair, his silhouette poised yet relaxed. His crimson eyes were half-lidded, and in his hand was a delicate porcelain teacup.
Trina, the palace stewardess, entered with practiced grace. Her steps were silent, her expression composed, though her heart beat a little too fast.
She poured him a fresh cup of tea, the aromatic steam curling into the air.
Dex raised the cup to his lips and inhaled deeply. "Very good tea," he murmured, as he always did. There was something ritualistic about it now. "As always."
He sipped slowly, eyes watching her without blinking.
"It still tastes familiar," he said after a pause, his voice low and knowing.
Trina's smile faltered slightly, but she recovered almost instantly. "...I hope you like it."
Dex smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.
After smiling nonchalantly, Dex stretched out a hand, touched her cheek, and felt her slightly trembling body.
Her body tensed under the contact.
For the first time, there was something more in his gaze—an emotion known to him.
"What a pity," he whispered. "I really liked you. Maybe I can't call it love—after all, I'm a demon—but you were the one I favored the most. I really wanted to keep you by my side."
His thumb rested on her jawline, and for a moment, silence hung between them.
"Perhaps this is the nature of living things... longing for companions. Strange, isn't it? That even a creature like me would feel that?"
"But, I'm a demon, so I shouldn't have these kinds of emotions…"
Trina met his gaze fully now. Her fake smile melted away, replaced by the raw confusion and hurt she could no longer hide.
Her voice was quiet, yet firm." "Then why?" she asked, voice low. "Why did you take the initiative to tell me the truth? You could have lied, kept me close. I would've believed you. I would've stayed by your side forever."
After hearing this question, Dex paused, his crimson eyes flickering with a strange light as the weight of the moment pressed down upon him. He tilted his head slightly, as though reflecting on the morality of what he was about to say. Then, after a breath of stillness, he smiled—not a cruel or mocking grin, but a soft, contemplative one that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Although I am a demon," he said, his voice carrying a peculiar warmth, almost like a confession, "I don't like lying. Especially not to important people. I choose to tell you the truth directly."
The air shifted subtly, charged with unspoken emotions. Trina's breath hitched, her violet eyes trembling with unshed tears. And then, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she smiled.
It wasn't just a polite curve of the lips—it was genuine, filled with vulnerability, trust, and something even rarer: peace.
She leaned forward and kissed him gently on the corner of his mouth. The touch was brief, but delicate and sincere. "Thank you for your love, sir," she whispered.