I Plotted The World Destruction With The Male Lead - Chapter 46

It was the third day of the expedition.

Aside from two brief breaks, they had marched without pause until early evening. The first forest they needed to pass finally came into view, and just ahead of it stretched a wide, open plain. Though it was still too early for nightfall, the sky had darkened with heavy clouds, forcing them to set up camp earlier than planned.

As he had done for the past several days, Van assigned the 14th Imperial Knight Order to guard their perimeter. A tent was raised for the duke and his fiancée, and at a reasonable distance, other tents were erected for the rest of the knights.

As fires were lit and the camp bustled with dinner preparations, Van urged Eleanor to rest inside their shared tent. He left briefly to check on the condition of the other knight orders.

Eleanor looked around the modest space inside. The tent was split into two parts, but they were connected—no real effort had been made to separate them completely.

She was Van’s guide, after all. Everyone would assume they had already crossed that line.

Sitting alone, she recalled the countless faces she had seen on the journey here—mostly men, but some women too. Thinking about what might come, her stomach churned with unease.

‘But this is something that must be done.’

In her previous life, Eleanor had been protected for six years. The protection had come with subtle, calculated abuse—a twisted form of ownership from Carlyle—but in those years, she had never once seen someone die.

She had never followed royalty into war, despite being a guide. The last time she had witnessed death had been before she became the “Lady of Armoire.”

But now, that moment was drawing close.

She didn’t know how calm she could remain. Taking one’s own life was one thing—taking another’s was something entirely different.

‘If we let them live…’

Then the people who would die next might be those closest to her—Van’s allies, the Emperor and Empress, or perhaps even Eleanor’s loved ones or remaining family.

She sat on the edge of the bed, hands resting quietly on her lap. Her gaze was fixed on them when the tent flap lifted and Van stepped in. He froze for a brief moment upon seeing her expression, then strode quickly forward.

“I called for you. You didn’t hear me?”

“Oh… I was just lost in thought.”

Without hesitation, Van sat beside her and gently pulled her into his arms. As Eleanor rested her head against his broad chest, the storm inside her slowly quieted.

Unlike Eleanor, who had never seen a battlefield, Van had spent over a year in war. His body was firm, solid—a wall she could lean against. With her head against him, she exhaled a long, weary sigh.

“I’ll stay by your side, my lady. We’ll both survive this. And we’ll bring about a future different from the one before.”

His words were not just reassurance—they were a vow. A solemn promise.

Eleanor nodded, wrapping her arms around his waist.

She didn’t want to think about Carlyle anymore.

She no longer felt the need to force herself to love Van. She simply would. She was the kind of person who loved only what was wholly hers.

And Van—undeniably—was hers.

*

As night fell, the clouds sank lower and spread even wider across the sky. Thunder rumbled between them, and now and then a distant flash lit up the edge of the horizon—lightning.

Some knights grumbled, wondering if they might be struck by lightning sleeping out on the plains like this. But they had no say in the matter. Van, their commander, had ordered the tents be pitched here.

At least… for now.

Dinner ended. Only a few campfires remained, and the noisy camp gradually quieted.

No birds. No insects. Only silence, so deep it clung to the skin. The kind of silence they had grown used to over the last few days of marching under stormy skies.

Inside the command tent, it was calm. Outside, they could still hear the faint sound of soldiers breathing, shifting, whispering.

The clouds had completely obscured the moonlight, turning the world pitch-black. With the campfires smothered, and the sentries easy to avoid, the intruders moved without sound—toward Van’s tent, where he and his guide were believed to be sleeping.

It was completely dark inside. Earlier, they had ordered the nearby fire to be put out. That had worked in their favor.

But tents were simple. The bed’s location was obvious. They fumbled their way toward it, and even in the near-total darkness, they could make out two figures beneath the sheets—tangled together, as expected of a noble and his guide.

With no hesitation, they drove their blades down.

But the feeling was wrong.

There was no resistance. No warmth.

Fury rose as one reached to throw back the covers—

Whoosh!

A sudden, crushing force hit them.

Gillian’s mouth opened to scream, but no sound came. Panic struck him as he realized—he couldn’t breathe. He was being lifted. His limbs locked in place.

His eyes rolled desperately in their sockets—he couldn’t even move his head—but he saw the others who had come with him, floating the same way.

Crunch! Crack-crack-crack!

Their limbs twisted, snapping like insect legs. The pain was unbearable. Gillian screamed, but not a single sound escaped his lips.

Tears streamed down his face.

This… this was Van’s power.

‘It was supposed to be wind…’

He thought he’d felt a breeze before being lifted—but this wasn’t just wind. It was more like… magic.

His furious eyes scanned the darkness, but he couldn’t see Van. Or the guide.

His arms and legs felt crushed beyond repair. He knew—without a high-ranking priest, there would be no healing. And those priests only answered the summons of royalty… or the highest of nobles.

Despair gripped him as the realization hit: his career as a knight… was probably over.

‘This isn’t over. You and that woman won’t escape!’

Even if Gillian failed, the commanders of the other five knight orders had surrounded the 14th Order. All they waited for was the signal.

If the assassination attempt failed—if they knew it had failed—they would attack. They needed to capture the guide alive. Everyone else… would be slaughtered.

No matter how strong Van was, survival seemed impossible.

As his crushed limbs were drawn tighter, Gillian finally blacked out. His body could take no more.

The same fate met the four others who had entered the tent. They collapsed, unconscious, and were thrown out—limp, like broken dolls.

Moments later, torches flared up around the 14th Order’s sector.

The surrounding knights had expected to see Van’s body. Instead, they found their comrades—their own knights—pale-eyed, bloodied, mangled. No screams. No groans.

Just silence.

And stepping out of the tent wasn’t Van, but Raphel, commander of the 14th Order.

“…Rather well-armed for someone who just ‘woke up to a noise,’ don’t you think?” he said with a smirk.

The sarcasm ignited Claude’s temper—one of the five commanders.

It infuriated him that Raphel, a commoner, had taken that place—standing where one of them should have stood.

Letting a man like him die protecting the next heir to the throne? Disgraceful.

No, Claude couldn’t stomach it. Even if history wouldn’t remember Raphel’s name, the fact that he had to stand in opposition to the rightful heir and serve as the enemy in this tale was unbearable.

“Where is Duke Granmire? Where’s the guide?!” Claude roared, seething.

Raphel’s calm, mocking demeanor grated on him like never before.
As did the sight of those five chosen knights—now broken and humiliated.

“Oh? Did someone order you to bring back his head?” Raphel replied, his voice laced with venom.

“You do realize the duke is the Emperor’s nephew? That harming a royal is treason… don’t you?”

That word—treason—made several knights falter.

Even those who believed this operation would remain hidden… Even those who had convinced themselves they were in the right…

They all knew. The weight of treason was greater than they had dared to imagine.