Chapter 415 - 397: The Crown Falls

Chapter 415: Chapter 397: The Crown Falls

「Three days later.」

Limborg Province, the provincial capital.

This was Hector’s main base of operations, a magnificent fortress city built into the side of a mountain.

At the city’s highest point, within the private palace belonging to the Marquis, an eerie silence now reigned.

This was the "Art Gallery."

Previously, its walls had been covered with classical oil paintings and rare collectibles, each priceless, which Hector had been immensely proud of. But now, all those vulgar decorations had vanished. The entire gallery had been renovated, leaving it looking vast and solemn.

In the center of the hall, a towering platform had been abruptly erected.

Hector had specifically ordered it built as a replica of the "Hall of Kings," where His Supreme Majesty, the Emperor, conducted his affairs in the Imperial Palace. He had gone to such great lengths to construct this platform for one purpose: to hold a peerless "work of art" worthy of such a lofty perch.

It was a throne, currently under construction.

Its base was formed from thousands of femurs from various races, neatly stacked. The armrests were two rows of curved ribs, and the backrest was woven from countless delicate finger bones into an intricate pattern.

Hector stood upon the platform.

He wore a pure white silk shirt, its cuffs rolled up to reveal pale, slender forearms.

In his hand, he held a skull.

It was an exceptionally perfect skull—the bone was fine, the lines smooth, the forehead full. This was the "crown" he had long prepared, intended to be placed at the very top of the throne.

For this skull, he had specially executed a beautiful elven Ranger and personally soaked it in a chemical solution for an entire year.

"My Lord."

The one who broke the suffocating silence was the steward, standing just behind and to the side of the steps.

"Speak."

Hector did not turn around. He was using a piece of deerskin to meticulously polish the skull’s eye sockets.

The steward was bowed over, his face deathly pale, his gaze fixed on the floor beside him where a messenger, just returned from the front lines, was kneeling. The messenger trembled violently, his forehead pressed tightly against the cold floor. A small pool of sweat had spread out beneath him, and his lips quivered, yet he couldn’t force out a single syllable.

He was resisting. Everyone knew that reporting catastrophic news of this magnitude to their mercurial lord was tantamount to suicide.

But this slightly disrespectful silence caused Hector’s polishing fingers to pause for a fraction of a second.

That momentary pause sent a chill of terror through the steward. He threw all decorum to the wind, lifted his foot, and kicked the messenger viciously in the ribs, his eyes silently roaring at him to hurry up.

THUD.

The messenger let out a stifled cry of pain as the kick sent him sprawling to the side. The blow shattered any hope he had of feigning muteness. Under the steward’s murderous glare, he had no choice but to crawl back to his original position and squeeze the words from his throat.

"Black... Black Stone Port..."

The messenger’s voice sounded as if something were caught in his throat. "It’s gone."

Hector’s polishing motions stopped completely.

A dead silence fell over the hall.

"Gone?"

Hector’s voice was soft, as light as a feather. "What do you mean... gone?"

"De... destroyed. Completely destroyed," the messenger said, his voice choked with sobs. "Strange birds that flew from who knows where... and fish that could get through the shield... Fire... a great fire burned for a day and a night... The breakwater collapsed, the sea poured in... Nothing is left."

Hector said nothing.

He remained with his back to the messenger, frozen in the same polishing posture.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

The steward standing by the steps felt his heart about to leap out of his throat. He had served the Marquis for twenty years; he knew all too well what this kind of silence meant.

Suddenly, Hector’s hand went slack.

The perfect skull, which he had treasured and polished with countless hours of effort, fell straight down.

CRACK.

A crisp sound echoed.

The skull struck the edge of a step and split in two.

Then, the two halves tumbled down the towering flight of stairs, step by step.

CLATTER... CLATTER...

The hollow sound echoed through the hall.

Finally, they came to a stop at the bottom of the steps, right in front of the trembling messenger.

The once-beautiful forehead was now marred by an ugly crack.

Hector turned around.

His face was devoid of all expression. No anger, no sorrow, not even his signature elegant, false smile.

It was a blank mask.

He slowly descended the steps.

His leather boots made dull thuds on the bone-tiled floor.

Step by step.

He walked over to the pile of skull fragments.

The messenger moved to pick up the fragments but was stopped by a look from the steward.

Hector lifted his foot.

CRUNCH.

The larger piece of the skull turned to powder under his boot.

He didn’t stop.

He lifted his foot again and brought it down on another piece.

CRUNCH.

CRUNCH.

CRUNCH.

The only sound in the hall was this monotonous, grating crunch.

Hector was like a tireless machine, stomping on the fragments again and again. He did it earnestly, meticulously, as if determined to grind every last sliver of bone into dust.

White powder flew up, dusting his priceless, handmade leather boots.

The steward and the messenger didn’t dare to breathe.

This mechanical action continued for a full ten minutes.

It went on until the perfect work of art had been reduced to a pile of unrecognizable white refuse.

Hector finally stopped.

He stood amidst the powder, his chest not rising or falling in the slightest.

"Huuuuuh..."

He let out a long breath.

It was a long breath, as if he were expelling every last emotion from his body.

When he lifted his head again, the unsettling blankness on his face was gone. In its place was an extreme calm.

A calm like a stagnant pool of water.

He walked over to the steward, who was paralyzed with fear.

The steward’s body was rigid as he awaited his sentence.

Hector reached out his hand.

The steward closed his eyes.

But the death he anticipated did not come.

The slender hand landed on the steward’s shoulder and patted it gently.

"Look at you, you’ve gotten dust all over your clothes."

Hector’s voice was as gentle as an elder caring for a subordinate. He carefully brushed a speck of bone dust from the steward’s shoulder, his movements light and elegant.

"It’s so undignified."

The steward’s eyes snapped open. He looked at his master, and a chill shot up his spine and straight to the crown of his head.

"My... My Lord..."

But Hector ignored the man’s breach of etiquette. He withdrew his hand, took a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, and began carefully wiping his fingers, as if he had just touched something filthy.

"That skull is ruined. We’ll have to get a new one."

His gaze slowly shifted, finally landing on the messenger’s head.

The messenger instantly collapsed, a wet patch spreading across his trousers.

But Hector merely glanced at him coolly before looking away.

"Too crude."

He shook his head, seemingly with a hint of regret.

"Issue my orders."

"Since the front door has been kicked in, we’ll board up all the windows."

As Hector spoke, he methodically wiped the bone dust from between his fingers, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the dinner menu.

Hector casually tossed the handkerchief onto the pile of bone dust, then turned and strode out of the hall.

"Issue a general mobilization order for the entire domain."

His pace was fast and forceful. The sound of his boots striking the floor echoed in the vast hall, and the steward had to break into a trot to keep up.

"First, inform all my vassals and the commanders of the border fortresses to give me every man they have. I want them to establish layered defenses along the coastline, the main channel of the Angry River, and all major inland towns. If the enemy can fly, it means nowhere is safe."

Hector shoved open the heavy doors without breaking stride, hurrying down the corridor toward his study as he spoke rapidly.

"Second, I want a detailed report of our losses. I need to know what broke through Black Stone Port’s Magic shield."

"Third, send a sample of that incendiary agent to the Alchemy Workshop. Tell them to drop all the trash they’re working on and focus all their efforts on analyzing its composition. I want a targeted fire-extinguishing agent. There is always a way to counter it."

"Fourth, bring out all heavy crossbows from the armory and mount them on every high point. Inform the Mage Corps and the Flying Knights that they are to begin round-the-clock surveillance rotations, effective immediately."

At this, Hector suddenly stopped walking.

He turned, his grey eyes locking onto the steward, his voice so soft it was terrifying.

"Tell every single person involved in the orders I just gave—from fortress commanders to the Mage apprentices on duty at this godforsaken hour—to stop staring at the mud on the ground. Tell them to raise their dog eyes and watch the skies."

"If I see so much as a single feather float into my airspace again..." Hector lifted a slender finger and made an elegant gesture around his own eye socket. "I will slice off all their eyelids. Since they’re unwilling to watch the sky on their own, I’ll help them. I will fix their heads to the city walls so that for the rest of their lives... even in death, their eyeballs will do nothing but stare at the sky."

The steward shuddered and bowed his head deeply. "Yes, My Lord."

"Prepare paper and a quill."

Hector adjusted his collar, his tone returning to that dead-water calm.

"I am going to the study to write a letter."

The steward paused, then asked subconsciously, "My Lord, aren’t you going to investigate who did this? An attack of this scale, and those strange birds..."

Hector paused at the doorway and turned his head slightly. The harsh midday sun streamed in, stretching his shadow long and thin, like a distorted monster.

For a moment, he seemed to be contemplating the name, the mastermind who might be hiding behind the scenes. But in an instant, the contemplation in his eyes vanished, replaced by utter contempt.

’Who did it... Does it matter?’

Hector let out a soft laugh, but there was not a trace of warmth in his smile.

"It was just a hundred-odd Flying Knights. No matter who they are, if they dare to scratch my face with their claws, they should be prepared to be chopped up and fed to the dogs."

He pushed open the study doors, his voice echoing faintly down the corridor.

"I will follow the trail of these beasts back to wherever they came from. I don’t care what gutter they’re hiding in; I will turn that place into a hell ten times more brutal than Black Stone Port. As for now..."

"Don’t let them die too easily. That wouldn’t be any fun."