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Chapter 158: Hughes, I Want You to Die a Miserable Death
🕑 Added 2025-01-13 02:28:29 +0000 UTCGrandma Saint Karen remarked, “The people invited by the Count are far more professional than this.”
With a gentle wave of her hand, the words dissipated. Suddenly, she covered her mouth and began to chuckle. She recalled the day she received the investigation document; the Count had been eager to kill Charlot Mecklenburg himself. She could understand such feelings.
“Even an evil god might want to kill a young Mr. Mecklenburg upon meeting him.”
“After all, the paradise of indulgence painted by the evil gods to lure humanity into corruption is still no match for the carefree life he leads.”
“Only Annie could make such an unruly young man willingly abandon his past.”
Grandma Saint Karen’s face radiated kindness.
The dreamlike illusion shattered silently...
Charlot sat upright in the carriage, his expression a mixture of unease and murderous intent. He knew exactly what Hughes intended to use against him—those memories were still vivid. His greatest concern now was whether Grandma Saint Karen knew about his sordid past. If she knew, it was as good as Annie knowing...
“Damn it, Hughes!”
“Hughes, I want you to die a miserable death.”
“You want a duel? Fine, I’ll kill you in front of both armies.”
“To ensure victory, I’ve held back several trump cards.”
“When the time comes, we’ll see how your steel-reinforced bones withstand a few anti-magic armor-piercing rounds.”
Charlot had no faith in Hughes. No matter what vows Hughes made, Charlot would not trust him. Initially, Charlot had no desire for a duel, but if Hughes was determined to expose his deepest secret, Charlot had no choice. He resolved to kill Hughes in the duel.
Exiting the carriage, Charlot considered his plans. Recently, he had been trying to condense his blood core and had refrained from using Blood Glory to absorb life essence. Only through self-cultivation could the resulting blood core be perfectly pure and hold limitless potential.
Using external forces to condense the blood core...
That was not an option for Charlot.
Having decided to kill Hughes with all his might, Charlot felt as though a great weight had lifted from his heart. Though the sky was still dark, there was activity in the camp as soldiers prepared to defend against an attack from Lady Nancella.
A fragrant breeze swept past. Charlot immediately recognized Anastasia’s approach.
With Frederica gone and Dolores left behind at Machubi, Anastasia was the only woman in this military camp.
The girl, who should have radiated vitality, wore an expression of weariness and burden. Even now, her brows were furrowed with worry.
In a soft voice, she said, “Mr. Mecklenburg...”
Charlot noticed her hesitant expression and smiled faintly. “You’ve never done anything wrong. None of this is your fault. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Anastasia almost burst into tears. As an illegitimate child, she had always lived a comfortable, though inconspicuous, life. But after her mother betrayed them to Lady Nancella, her entire world collapsed. Her mother was dead—killed by those she trusted. Her father was also dead—killed by the Byron people. She had no idea where her future lay.
Covering her face, Anastasia tried her best to hold back her tears.
Charlot, showing tact, said nothing and waited for her to calm herself. Once she had, he remarked, “No one can choose their birth.”
In a low voice, Anastasia asked, “Should I consider myself a Behemoth or a follower of Lady Nancella?”
Charlot replied gently, “Neither. You are a Farsian.”
“This world divides people into countless groups—by faith, religion, region, culture, and countless other reasons. People take up arms and sacrifice their lives for abstract ideas.”
“Some may believe that such sacrifices have meaning. But as for me...”
“I think there should only be one kind of person in this world. People can fight for interests, for their nations, and for their survival, but they should never fight over identity.”
“I am a Farsian, you are a Farsian, the Behemoths are Farsians, and Lady Nancella’s followers are Farsians. We should not have separate identities and die because of them.”
“Perhaps I am wrong. Perhaps few would agree. But this is what I truly believe.”
Anastasia had never heard such audacious remarks. She had always believed that Lady Nancella’s followers and the Behemoths were fundamentally different. For a moment, she didn’t know how to refute Charlot, though a small part of her wondered if the Empire might indeed see less war if everyone identified solely as Farsians.
Charlot handed her a handkerchief, watching as she accepted it to wipe her tears, feeling a twinge of guilt.
The handkerchief belonged to Annie. He had received it when he returned to 58 Elysée Avenue after a harrowing escape. Annie had offered it to dry his false tears.
Now, using it to dry another girl’s tears felt like a betrayal of Annie.
When Anastasia had finished, Charlot, somewhat ungallantly, asked for the handkerchief back. “Perhaps my words lack wisdom, but Miss Anastasia, take them as a guiding principle.”
“Believing that you belong only to Fars will bring you much peace.”
Though Charlot sought to console Anastasia, his mind was consumed by thoughts of Hughes. The duel loomed large, leaving room for little else.
Meanwhile, Hughes was engaged in a heated argument with two high-ranking commanders of the South Seraph restorationists.
Both commanders, extraordinary warriors leading the second and third strongest armies after Hughes, reluctantly followed Jonan’s leadership but harbored little respect for Hughes.
Zolman declared loudly, “Hughes! You cannot duel Charlot. You are the leader of the restorationists. You must not take such risks. Let me fight him tomorrow—I swear I will cut down that murderer before the gates of Mostar Castle to avenge Jonan.”
The other commander, Limbersen Yan, interjected, “No, I will go.”
“Zolman, you’re too old. If you fail, you’ll disgrace us.”
“I’ve recently made progress in my swordsmanship and condensed my Proof of Glory, Proof of Courage, and Proof of War. I’ll show that Behemoth brat what a true knight is.”
The news about Charlot had spread among the restorationists. While the lower-ranking soldiers were still awed by his reputation, the high-ranking commanders all knew the truth: Charlot Mecklenburg was merely a low-tier Transcendent.
When Hughes announced his intention to duel Charlot at Mostar Castle, the other two commanders—Zolman and Limbersen Yan—vied for the opportunity, eager for the fame and prestige of what they deemed an inevitable victory.
Hughes remained silent, letting the two quarrel. Only when their dispute nearly escalated into a duel did he intervene. “The South Seraph restorationists cannot fight among themselves. Zolman will go. His rank as a fifteenth-level knight makes him slightly more qualified.”
Zolman and Limbersen Yan exchanged glances, each feeling a slight sense of triumph. Their argument had been a pretense, orchestrated before meeting Hughes. Neither cared who ultimately faced Charlot; they merely sought to prevent Hughes from gaining the glory of victory.
Neither wanted another Jonan to emerge.
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