Chapter 318 : Chapter 318

Chapter 318. Poison of the Curse

“This ‍​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​​​​‌​‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​‌​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​‌‌‌‌​‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‍curse will not kill me immediately. It will only root itself into my bloodline day and night like a vine, madly drawing away my vitality.”

Every ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍word Dorg spoke carried the weakness of a body corroded by illness.

“Over ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍the years, I have invited every priest and alchemist in the Royal Capital.” He spoke softly, his eyes hollow.

“All ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍of them were helpless.”

Eight ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍years. A full eight years.

He ‍​‌​‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌​​​​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌‌​‌​​​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌​​​​​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌​‌​​‌​‌‌​‌‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​‌‌‌​‍had fought the curse day and night. His body had been hollowed out, and his vitality had been gnawed away.

Every breath he took was like a prolonged tug-of-war with death itself.

“But,” Dorg said, his tone shifting. A mad smile appeared on his sickly face.

That smile carried a chilling sense of control, as though he stood upon fate’s chessboard, looking down at every piece.

“What even I did not calculate was that the bloodline of the Astrelia royal family, relying on the powerful vitality inherited from Hero King Roland, waged an eight-year war against the curse’s power inside my body.”

“The result of that war was that my body collapsed completely.”

He coughed lightly, and a trace of blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, yet it could not conceal the cold sharpness in his eyes.

“But that strange curse power, through its repeated clashes, devouring, and mutations against my bloodline, finally... turned my blood into a brand-new deadly poison that is harmless only to myself.”

He opened his palm. Black blood vessels faintly surfaced there like hideous runes.

“A cursed poison that even Seventh-Tier Powerhouses would not dare touch lightly.”

Inside the reception hall, the air froze. Even the flames in the fireplace seemed to stagnate.

Grand Duke Grahaed was completely stunned. His old face, twisted and blackened by the poison, was now as rigid as stone.

He finally understood everything.

The so-called “blood oath alliance” had never been meant to bind their interests, nor was it some sign of insecurity.

It was a grand funeral, meticulously designed with Dorg himself as the source of the poison, dragging every remnant of the old era into the grave with him.

From the moment he proposed the “secret meeting on the eve,” from the moment he took out that Holy Grail, the fate of everyone in this room had already been sealed.

“Pfft... haha... hahahaha!”

After understanding everything, Grahaed suddenly burst into shrill, crazed laughter, black blood continuously pouring from the corners of his mouth.

“Grand ambitions... truly grand ambitions, First Prince!”

He laughed until tears flowed down his face, his eyes filled with admiration and absurdity.

“To think you would stake your own life and enter the game yourself, using your own blood as poison... We... we did not lose unjustly. Not unjustly at all! Hahahaha!”

By the end, Old Grand Duke Grahaed’s laughter had become hoarse and exhausted.

He had lost, and lost completely, but he was not willing to die just like this. He abruptly raised his head and roared with all the strength left in his body.

“Balk! Come in! Save me!”

This was the last trump card he had left.

As a precaution, he had long since hidden an absolutely loyal peak Fifth-Tier deathsworn warrior outside Redleaf Manor. Once the signal was given, that man would break in with thunderous force.

Logically speaking, with so many people dead inside the reception hall and such a great commotion taking place, Balk outside should have noticed something wrong long ago and smashed his way in.

But at that moment, Grahaed was no longer capable of such rational thought.

The erosion of the deadly poison and his extreme fear of death had completely swallowed him.

He could only cling madly to this last life-saving straw like a drowning man, desperately hoping that the door would be smashed open by his deathsworn warrior.

The next instant, the heavy oak doors of the reception hall were indeed kicked open from the outside.

BOOM!

Wood fragments flew everywhere.

When he heard that thunderous sound, which was like music from the heavens, Grahaed’s face instantly erupted with a light of wild joy.

His bloodshot eyes stared fixedly at the doorway, and his shriveled lips trembled, as though he had already seen the hope of Balk carrying him away and escaping alive.

However, that wild joy remained on his face for only half a second before it froze completely.

When the dust cleared, a tall, slender figure walked in slowly against the light. Every step seemed to land on Grahaed’s heart.

That light gait and figure were not Balk’s tower-like, muscular body at all.

Grahaed’s pupils abruptly contracted, and fear surged into his heart like a tide.

The newcomer wore a black riding outfit suited for movement, her silver hair simply tied behind her head.

As she walked into the light, that frost-cold face was fully revealed—it was none other than Princess Sylvia.

Behind her, Logaris’s figure quietly appeared, dressed in his black research robe trimmed with golden thread.

What made Grahaed feel as though he had fallen into an ice pit, his courage and soul torn apart, was what she casually held in her hand.

It was a head still dripping blood.

That head’s eyes were wide open, and the last trace of shock and confusion was still frozen on its face.

It was precisely the final trump card the old duke had desperately awaited—the peak Fifth-Tier deathsworn warrior, Balk.

Clearly, the two of them had already arrived, and Grahaed’s so-called “trump card” had been cleaned up by them in passing.

“Were you looking for him?” Sylvia said coldly.

Thud.

Sylvia casually tossed the head onto the carpet. The head rolled several times through the sticky pool of blood and happened to stop beside Grahaed’s feet.

Balk’s eyes, still open in death, stared straight into the old duke’s gaze.

“No... This is impossible...”

The muscles on Grahaed’s face twitched violently, and all the blood in his body seemed to freeze completely at that moment.

He looked at Sylvia before him, then at Dorg on the main seat. His mind went blank.

Boundless fear and despair completely swallowed the old duke’s reason.

“Aaah—!”

He let out a beast-like roar. His remaining battle aura detonated with a boom, and his entire body turned into a golden afterimage as he threw himself desperately toward Dorg on the main seat.

Since they were all going to die, he would drag the mastermind down with him!

However, he was fast, but someone else was faster.

【Spatial · Imprisonment】

Grahaed’s forward-rushing figure abruptly froze, as though he had slammed into an invisible wall. The space around him became as viscous as amber, pinning him firmly in place.

That instant of pause was already the difference between life and death.

A cold sword light flashed through the reception hall.

“Slash—”

Sylvia’s figure appeared behind Grahaed. The edge of 【Star’s Judgment】 in her hand drew a perfect arc, then silently returned to its sheath.

Grahaed’s body still maintained its lunging posture. A thin line of blood slowly appeared at his neck, then rapidly widened.

Thud.

Head and body separated.

The old nobles’ final struggle ended here.

The reception hall fell into deathly silence once more.

Only the crackling of burning wood in the fireplace remained, along with the black blood flowing across the floor, already beginning to congeal.

Sylvia did not look at the corpses on the floor. Her gaze remained locked on Dorg’s face.

That sickly pale face now seemed incomparably unfamiliar to her, yet also incomparably clear.

She had heard it.

Starting from the intelligence brought by the viscount who defected, she and Logaris had hidden outside the manor.

With a Sixth-Tier Knight’s hearing, far beyond that of ordinary people, she had heard this “last supper” clearly from beginning to end.

Including the so-called “blood oath alliance,” and including her elder brother’s calm confession, which had been so chilling that it made one’s heart palpitate.

So this was the truth.

Facing his younger sister’s complicated gaze, Dorg revealed an understanding, bitter smile.

He had long since expected that among this pack of greedy, death-fearing fools, someone would be unable to withstand the pressure and go to Sylvia in advance to defect.

Sylvia’s appearance had been part of his plan from the beginning.