To You Who Will Destroy Me - Chapter 131

The air was dry, having gone days without rain, which made the fire burn even more fiercely. The reddish glow of the flames shifted in color and shape, painting Varkan’s face with a fiery light. Watching the fire with mild interest, he absentmindedly reached into his coat, pulling out a familiar cigar case. The bitter-sweet taste of the cigars hadn’t grown on him, and he let out a soft chuckle.

Biting down on the filter, Varkan moved to light it out of habit but then had a better idea. The fire right in front of him was already blazing. Why bother lighting up another one? Leaning forward, he dipped the tip of his cigar into the roaring flames, the heat pleasantly kissing his lips as the cigar caught fire with a hiss.

“Urgh…!!”

A figure, bound and writhing in the fire’s glow, groaned in pain. His body contorted violently, desperate to escape the agony, but his limbs were tightly restrained, leaving him no freedom to move—much like a sausage impaled on a spit.

“Stay still. You’ll put the fire out,” Varkan muttered lazily, taking a deep drag from his cigar and blowing the smoke out in a slow, deliberate exhale. Even as the man’s arms were burning, Varkan remained as calm as ever.

‘You really are a devil,’ Phaesus thought as he observed from the background, shaking his head. He wasn’t exactly kind-hearted himself, but matching Varkan’s level of ruthlessness would take some serious effort.

“Ghh… kuh!” The man, none other than Archbishop Ramon, groaned louder as bloodied foam bubbled up at the corners of his mouth. The pain of his burning flesh had driven him to bite down on his tongue.

“Tsk, you won’t die from that,” Varkan said with mock sympathy, reaching out to gently stroke Ramon’s singed blond hair, contrasting the horrific state of his charred arms.

“You should’ve thought a little harder before putting your hands on something so small and delicate. Where exactly did you think you were allowed to strike her, hmm?”

Ramon, his mouth gagged, muttered something between an apology and a plea for mercy, but all that came out were garbled, animalistic noises.

With his bodyguard Drakal having abandoned him in the chaos, Ramon had been captured alone. For the crime of leaving bruises on Irel’s neck, he was now paying the price with the searing pain of his limbs. While there was an element of extracting information, Phaesus could see that this was primarily about revenge.

‘Is he enjoying this that much?’ Phaesus thought, recalling the first time he’d met Irel. He’d been reprimanded for attacking her without knowing who she was, and though Irel wasn’t harmed, Varkan had come down hard on him. At the time, Phaesus had resented how harshly he’d been treated over someone Varkan had only known for a few months.

Now, seeing Varkan torturing Ramon for laying a finger on Irel, Phaesus realized just how lenient Varkan had been back then. Watching him, Phaesus sighed. He knew better than to try stopping Varkan now, but maybe he could help speed things along.

“Let me take over, Chief,” Phaesus offered.

“Why bother?”

It was clear from Varkan’s eyes, gleaming gold in the firelight, that he had no intention of handing over this task. The madness in his gaze left Phaesus briefly regretting stepping in, but he pressed on.

“You should rest, Chief. You don’t look well,” Phaesus insisted carefully.

Varkan hadn’t undergone a Sevring—the process by which a Masaka would absorb life energy to manage their power—in quite some time. While that was beneficial for Irel, as she didn’t have to give up her energy, it was taking its toll on Varkan.

The stronger the Masaka, the quicker their internal energy built up and turned toxic. It was like trying to filter syrup through a sieve—it clogged quickly and needed regular clearing. In the capital, Varkan had plenty of subordinates to handle his dirty work, allowing him to keep his powers under control. But here in Al Ros Condes, he had been forced to act more often, leading to a dangerous buildup of his own energy.

By now, Varkan had to be suffering greatly. Every breath likely felt like fire in his lungs, every beat of his heart sending electric pain through his veins. Yet, for some reason, he was avoiding the Sevring process, and Phaesus couldn’t understand why.

“Forgive me for asking, but… has Lady Irel refused to undergo Sevring?” Phaesus asked cautiously, knowing the question was risky.

Varkan’s eyes flashed with anger, and his voice dripped with sarcasm. “Aren’t you considerate? Now you’re even worrying about your superior’s marital matters?”

“If I was out of line, I apologize. I was just worried. Though… come to think of it, you two aren’t even married yet, are you?” Phaesus, mid-apology, suddenly frowned as if realizing something odd. Varkan didn’t respond with words; instead, he offered a small, amused smile.

Unfortunately for Phaesus, his comment had unintended consequences. Before he could process the shift, the smell of burning wood filled the cave. One of the dolls standing in the corner, which had been minding its own business, suddenly caught fire. Smoke curled up from its head as its hair began to smolder.

“Wait, no! Not that one!” Phaesus cried out, his face paling as he rushed over, frantically waving his arms. The doll was a new one he hadn’t even had the chance to use properly! He tore off his shirt and smothered the flames, and in response, the other dolls gathered around, helping to stamp out the fire.

Varkan watched the scene with a detached air, briefly turning his attention away from the chaos Phaesus was managing. He understood that Phaesus meant well, but this little act was Varkan’s way of ending the conversation. After all, how could he possibly admit the real reason he wasn’t doing Sevring?

How could he confess that he was too afraid to drain Irel’s life force?

If his past self had heard such a thing, Varkan would have laughed in disbelief. Worried about a Risevra’s life? It would have been like a farmer worrying about hurting his trees by picking fruit from them. Who would be that foolish?

But now he was that fool. The irony wasn’t lost on Varkan as he chuckled softly, taking another puff of his cigar. The bittersweet taste lingered in his mouth, reminding him of something he often pondered: if love had a flavor, it would surely taste like this—slightly bitter, but undeniably sweet.

“Hmm?”

At that moment, Yan Louis reappeared, looking puzzled. He took in the scene—the badly burnt Ramon, the chaos of Phaesus trying to save his dolls—and then flashed a bright smile.

“Whoa, it looks like a fire in here! Did something happen?”

“Not really,” Varkan answered, his brief response doing little to discourage Yan’s social nature. Wrinkling his nose at the lingering scent of smoke, Yan glanced at Ramon’s charred arms.

“Is this okay, boss? I heard his nickname is the Prince of the Great Temple.”

Ramon, as it turned out, was indeed a royal bastard—one favored by the king, no less. As Yan took in the sight of Ramon roasting like a skewered sausage, his expression shifted to one of mild concern.

“So what?” came Phaesus’s voice, still breathless from putting out the fire.

“We’re going to burn down the capital soon anyway.”

“Oh, right!” Yan clapped his hands as if everything suddenly made sense. Then, his face grew serious as he turned to Varkan to deliver the results of his investigation.

“Boss, just like you said, I went to the elder’s house in Al Ros Condes. I also stopped by the homes of all the village elders, just in case any of them might know about the cave mural or Paulo Christopher.”

“Good job. So, what did you find?” Varkan asked, glancing over as he puffed on his cigar. He, too, had seen the mural when searching for Irel. The sheer scale of the artwork, stretching across the entire cave wall, had left a deep impression on him.

As someone who didn’t care for art beyond its monetary value, even Varkan had to admit that the mural was extraordinary. It was as if the very air in the cave had grown heavier in its presence. Paulo Christopher had clearly poured every ounce of his being into this final work before his death. Varkan knew instinctively that the ominous scenes depicted in the mural weren’t something that could be ignored.

Yan Louis continued, “It was tough. Most people don’t remember much. But there was one old woman—her memory’s not the best, but she does recall a foreign artist staying in the village for several years when she was a child.”

Yan then rummaged through his bag, eventually pulling out a faded, yellowed piece of paper. He handed it to Varkan.

“This is all I could find. She said it might help us figure out more about him.”

“The old woman said she was quite fond of that artist. He even taught her a bit about drawing. She drew this sketch based on her memories of him,” Yan Louis explained, handing over a rough, but recognizable, sketch.

Varkan examined it briefly before passing it to Phaesus, who, with his keen eye, scrutinized the features.

“Thick eyebrows, defined nose, large mouth… and even a mole on his left cheek. It matches the general description of Paulo Christopher,” Phaesus confirmed.

“Good. Keep it,” Varkan responded, his attention already shifting. He gestured for Yan to continue his report.

“The old woman also said she overheard the artist telling strange stories. She wasn’t sure if they were folktales or myths, but one in particular stuck with her.”

“What kind of story?” Varkan asked.

The tale Yan Louis relayed went as follows:

Long ago, there was a happy couple. The wife possessed a special power—the ability to nurture and care for life. Her husband revered this gift and cherished her deeply.

As long as it was just the two of them, life was simple. They had only each other. But as children were born, things began to change.

While the husband still loved his wife, his heart now belonged to their children even more. Yet, no matter how devoted a father he was, it was always the mother’s embrace the children sought.

The mother’s special ability made the children feel an inexplicable calm and comfort in her presence. They adored her, and she adored them in return, showering them with love. She doted on the children so much that it left the husband feeling left behind, watching from the sidelines as an unseen darkness crept into his heart.

This isn’t fair. It’s unjust. Why only you? the husband thought. If only I had such a power…

One night, after hearing his wife joyfully announce she was expecting another child, the husband’s heart grew colder. He knew this child, too, would only love her, just like the others.

He couldn’t bear it any longer. So, he waited for his wife to fall asleep, then enacted the dark plan he had been secretly nurturing for so long. He stole her power, ensuring she would never be able to return. He wounded her gravely and cast her out of their home, spreading lies to the children, telling them their mother had committed terrible deeds.

The children were heartbroken, but they never doubted their father, who had always been a good man to them. Over time, the memory of their mother faded, distorted and forgotten, like all once-precious memories often do.

As Yan finished recounting the tale, the cave was filled with a heavy silence.

Varkan remained quiet for a moment, processing the story. The weight of the myth—or perhaps truth—was undeniable. He knew Paulo Christopher hadn’t etched that grand mural in the cave without reason. There was a deeper meaning here, one they had yet to fully grasp.

“Interesting,” Varkan finally said, his voice low. “A betrayal between loved ones over power and envy… It aligns too closely with the themes of the mural.”

He knew they couldn’t afford to dismiss this story as just some old folktale.