Chapter 494. The Autopsy Report of a Kingdom’s Integrity

Chapter 494: 494. The Autopsy Report of a Kingdom’s Integrity

Three days later, the sun rose over a palace that felt strangely hollow despite the bustling activity of repairs.

The wounds of the courtyard were being stitched closed both literally in the infirmaries and metaphorically through political maneuvering, but for William, the real world still felt slightly out of focus, a haze of lingering exhaustion and muscle aches that reminded him of his mortality with every movement.

The morning calm was shattered by the arrival of a Royal Greatsword Corps courier. The man didn’t just deliver the letter; he practically threw it onto the breakfast table with the kind of frantic urgency that suggested he had been riding without sleep, driven by orders that left no room for pleasantries.

William unfurled the parchment before Catherine and Kaela. As he began to read, the breakfast table transformed from a quiet sanctuary into a stage for Lia’s unfiltered chaos.

"...and when I heard what happened when I heard you were standing there while the sky itself tore open, I nearly drew my blade on the messenger just to scream at him for not being there sooner!" William read, his voice carrying the cadence of Lia’s obvious fury. "I heard the stories, William."

"Garbled, half-assed rumors from three different drunk soldiers at the barracks."

"They said you fought like a demon, but they didn’t say how you survived."

"They didn’t say how you stood your ground when the Prince turned into something that shouldn’t exist in this realm!"

Kaela leaned forward, intrigued, as William’s voice shifted in tone, mimicking the sudden pivot in Lia’s handwriting.

"...but then I heard about the portal closing."

"I heard about the way you moved. By the time I finished reading the report, I wasn’t angry anymore; I was furious at myself for not being there to witness it."

"I am so goddamn proud of you I could choke, you arrogant bastard."

"Now, listen to me carefully: You will write back... Immediately. And you will include every single detail."

"Every thrust, every spell, every drop of blood. If you leave out even one moment of how you managed to survive that nightmare, I swear on the gods, I will march my entire unit straight to this palace and check your ribs myself to see if they’re still intact!"

Kaela erupted into laughter, a genuine, unguarded sound that startled the birds from the nearby hedges. She laughed so hard she had to set her teacup down before she nearly choked on it.

"She’s threatening to assault you with her bare hands, Instructor Wade! Truly, a romantic gesture."

"It’s not a threat; it’s a promise," William muttered, though a rare, genuine smile tugged at his lips.

The respite was short-lived. Not long after the first letter had been dissected, a second arrived: a joint missive from Ellie and Clara.

It was obvious from the first glance that they had fought over the parchment as much as they had written on it. The handwriting shifted mid-sentence, alternating between Ellie’s looping, earnest script and Clara’s sharp, precise strokes.

Ellie’s section was a cascade of concern. "...and please, Instructor Wade, I beg you, have you eaten anything substantial?"

"The soul cannot mend if the flesh is starved... I am sending three separate herbal remedies with this letter: one for nerve regeneration, one for blood vitality, and one for the deep exhaustion that follows mana burn."

"Do not ignore them."

Then, without so much as a period to separate the thoughts, Clara took over: "...Furthermore, for the sake of ongoing research into anomalous magical phenomena, I require a full, chronological account of the battle’s tactical sequence."

"Specifically the moment the artifact’s energy interacted with your circulatory system."

"This is purely for academic documentation."

William snorted, rubbing his temples. "Purely academic... Right."

"She wants to know exactly how my muscles react to extreme stress so she can add another Chapter to her journal of my training methods."

"She’s not wrong," Catherine said quietly, though her eyes remained soft. "We all want to know you’re okay."

"Some of us just ask for it in different ways."

William wrote back to both that evening. He promised Ellie he was eating enough to satisfy a soldier, and he promised Clara a tactical breakdown so detailed it would likely make her nose bleed.

His hand still cramped when he held the quill for too long, but the ache felt different now; it felt like the ache of someone who was alive, wanted, and cherished.

Outside, however, the reality of their victory remained etched in stone.

Captain Roan moved through the courtyard like a specter of grim duty. Even as the royal family and William’s inner circle began to find their footing, Roan was overseeing the grim cleanup.

He personally directed the removal of the fallen Delmore soldiers to the palace infirmary, his face a mask of hardened professionalism. He checked each body, ensuring that William’s earlier restraint of the refusal to slaughter every wounded enemy hadn’t been wasted but also ensuring no threats remained.

As he passed William, he paused. The captain looked at the cratered marble, the scorch marks that still smelled faintly of burnt air and something metallic, something wrong. His scarred face seemed older than it had yesterday.

"I’ve served this palace for over twenty years," Roan said, his voice carrying the gravelly weight of decades of service. "I’ve never once needed to write a report that included the words ’forbidden artifact’ and ’royal transformation’ in the same paragraph."

William looked up at him, leaning against a relatively intact pillar. "First time for everything, Captain."

Roan’s eyes flickered to William, not with judgment, but with a profound, weary unease.

"I’m aware," he said dryly, already turning back toward his men, his cape swirling in the evening breeze. "I’m simply not certain I was prepared for it to happen on my watch."

King Theron did not waste the precious, fragile moment the gods had handed him. The air in the throne room still felt charged with the residual static of the day’s violence, but the king had moved past shock.

He had passed through terror and landed squarely in the realm of cold, surgical retribution.

Alden, once a prince, now merely a prisoner bound in anti-magic iron, stood as living, breathing evidence. He was the physical manifestation of every lie, every stolen coin, and every bloodstained contract that Olivia and Albert had spent weeks painstakingly unearthing.

The documents laid out before them weren’t just papers; they were the autopsy report of a kingdom’s integrity.

Theron turned to Albert, his gaze sharp enough to cut glass. The fury that had shaken him earlier during the confrontation had crystallized into something far more dangerous: absolute, unshakable purpose.

"Send the couriers," Theron commanded.

His voice didn’t boom; it carried the quiet, deadly weight of a guillotine blade poised to drop. "And I want them moving immediately."

"Every allied kingdom from here to the Silver Coast."

"Every merchant guild, every trade partner, every minor lord who ever bowed to a Delmore seal."

Albert nodded, already reaching for the royal seal, but Theron pressed on before he could speak.

"I want no ambiguity, Albert."

"No diplomatic niceties that might soften the blow... Every party who ever signed a document with Delmore’s mark needs to understand exactly who they have been dealing with."

"I want the full truth—the corruption, the embezzlement, the treason in their hands before nightfall."

"Let them know that the Delmore reign of deception died today."

"Consider it done, Father," Albert said, his jaw set. "I’ll personally oversee the dispatch of the highest-ranking messengers."

The room held its breath for a moment, the gravity of the coming political earthquake settling over them. Then, the heavy oak doors creaked open.

Olivia emerged from a side corridor, moving with the determined stride of someone who had been fighting a war of ink and parchment rather than steel. She clutched a thick leather folder to her chest as if it were a sacred relic.

Her hair was slightly mussed, dark strands escaping her braid from hours spent hunched over desks by candlelight, and her eyes bore the unmistakable shadows of exhaustion.

Yet, beneath that weariness, there was something else: a spark of triumph. A satisfied, almost feral smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"I’ve been waiting for this moment since the second I found Tobin Hale’s name on that maintenance roster," Olivia said, her voice carrying a rare edge of satisfaction as she approached the main table.

She reached the center table, which, until mere hours ago, had held nothing more consequential than a vase of wilting flowers and half-empty wine goblets, and set the folder down with a decisive thud. The sound echoed through the silent hall.

"I didn’t wait for your permission to start preparing," she continued, flipping the folder open to reveal stacks of meticulously copied ledgers, forged contracts, and intercepted correspondence. "Every piece of evidence, every forged signature, every damning receipt has been replicated."

"I’ve organized them by kingdom and by trade sector."

"They are ready to go."

"All you have to do is give the word."

Theron looked down at the folder. He saw the evidence of years of betrayal laid bare in neat, damning rows.

He looked at Olivia, this young woman who had fought a silent battle in the archives while he fought a physical one in the courtyard, and for a brief second, the hardened king allowed something resembling genuine gratitude to soften his lined features.

"You’ve done more than secure our future, Olivia," Theron said quietly. "You’ve ensured that the Delmore name can never haunt us again."

He straightened his shoulders, the crown seeming to sit lighter on his brow now that the path forward was clear.

"Send them all," Theron ordered, his voice ringing with finality. "Let the world know the truth."