What Remains in the Damaged Place - Chapter 98

With Dylan, the greatest obstacle, removed, everything else progressed under the careful control of the Duke’s house.

Public opinion across the Empire swiftly shifted.

Dylan was now seen as a cowardly hypocrite who had fled the palace when rebellion broke out, abandoning his people. In contrast, Rageil, the rightful heir with both bloodline and legitimacy, emerged as a hero. He had returned from the shadows of the past to vanquish the villains and reclaim his throne.

This narrative, while partially true, was largely shaped by those in power. While the nobles close to the action knew more of the complexity, the common folk only knew that Rageil had led a rebellion against the corrupt.

For the commoners, who toiled daily just to survive, the intricacies of politics meant little. Their primary concern was simple: Who will sit on the throne and make their lives less miserable?

So when Rageil ascended and promised to prioritize public welfare and relief efforts, the commoners hailed him as a benevolent ruler. In their eyes, he was already a just and wise king.

And this wasn’t just rhetoric. Rageil’s reforms were grounded in real potential for change.

Dylan and his court had indulged in opulence, spending lavishly on luxuries like rare drugs and fine wines. While the poor neighborhoods of the capital were flooded with cheap, dangerous substances, the palace received only the finest. Dylan’s lifestyle had drained the Empire’s resources, sinking national funds into hedonism and debauchery.

In contrast, Rageil, who had been raised with knights in Pelini, had no such tastes. He held no love for excess or indulgence, meaning that the state’s coffers, once leaking into endless parties and festivities, would now be redirected toward meaningful public projects.

Even diverting half of what Dylan had squandered on entertainment into relief efforts would make a significant impact.

In this way, the once-chaotic Alleint began to regain stability under Rageil’s governance.

***

Clack. Clack.

In the midst of this, Duke Valderion, who had played a pivotal role in placing Rageil on the throne, descended the stone steps of the imperial prison.

The deeper he went, the more the atmosphere grew cold and oppressive. The spiraling stairway eventually led him to the dark, iron-barred cells of the underground prison.

“This is the place,” his attendant, Tilin, said, unlocking the door with a key he had received from the guards.

A faint smell of blood and stale dust filled the air.

Valderion stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the dimly lit space.

Hearing movement, the sound of chains dragging across the floor reached his ears. In the far corner, a figure slumped against the wall, the dust swirling lightly around him. Valderion raised the lamp in his hand, casting light over the shadowed figure.

There, chained by his arms, legs, and even his neck, was Dylan, bound so tightly he seemed fused to the wall.

Valderion gave the lamp a slight swing, illuminating Dylan’s haggard form. His pale skin, having not seen sunlight for days, was marred with unhealed wounds and bruises.

“You’re blinding me…” Dylan muttered, surprisingly casual for someone in his position.

“My apologies,” Valderion replied, though his voice lacked any real sympathy.

Dylan’s head, which had been hanging low, suddenly snapped up.

In the confined space, the lamp’s light was unforgivingly clear. Just as Valderion could see Dylan’s condition, Dylan could see Valderion’s face.

“Well, look who it is,” Dylan sneered.

His face was a mess—cuts and bruises covered his once-handsome features, making him look almost unrecognizable. Valderion briefly wondered if Rageil had been responsible for some of the damage, but concluded that much of it had likely been self-inflicted during Dylan’s violent outbursts in the cell. The whip marks across Dylan’s torso, however, were certainly Rageil’s doing, a clear sign of long-held revenge.

Dylan had often used a whip on Rageil when they were younger, taking out his frustrations on the boy. Now, the tables had turned.

“Rione,” Dylan rasped, using Valderion’s given name, though his voice dripped with sarcasm.

Valderion remained still, holding the lamp aloft, observing the wretched figure before him. He didn’t respond, but his silence seemed to amuse Dylan, who chuckled, leaning forward as far as his chains allowed.

“I’ve been thinking about our first meeting a lot lately,” Dylan said, his voice a strange mix of nostalgia and mockery.

“……”

“I had only heard about you through the Emperor’s words… until that day we finally met.”

Dylan’s eyes, dim and eroded, flickered with a trace of memory.

“I couldn’t take my eyes off that brooch pinned to your collar.”

“……”

“A brooch far more valuable than anything I owned. Adorned with jewels worth a fortune.”

He let out a dry laugh, the sound echoing off the cold stone walls.

“I never understood it,” he said, his voice low and bitter.

“……”

“How could you possess something better than me, when I was superior in every way?” Dylan leaned forward, his body trembling with rage.

“That day… that brooch should have been mine!” he roared, his voice filled with madness, his limbs thrashing violently, rattling the chains that bound him.

Valderion remained silent, his gaze cold and unflinching, watching Dylan as he erupted in fury. The only sounds were the echoes of Dylan’s frantic outbursts, the clattering of chains, and the creaking of the shackles that would never loosen.

When Dylan’s tantrum finally died down, and his breath came in ragged gasps, Valderion spoke for the first time.

“You will die today.”

The words struck Dylan with sudden force, and his hunched shoulders tensed.

“And the only ones who will witness it are three people.”

“…”

“Sir Tilin and myself.”

“…”

“And you.”

Dylan slowly lifted his head from the shadows, his face filled with disbelief and despair.

“You’re going to kill me here? In this place?” he asked, his voice hollow.

“Yes.”

Dylan laughed, a sharp, malicious sound escaping his throat.

“Why would you make such a foolish decision?” he sneered, his mind clearly racing.

It wasn’t hard to understand his point. The death of a deposed emperor could serve as a powerful symbol. Executing Dylan publicly would be a warning to the Empire, a demonstration of the absolute authority of the new regime and a reinforcement of House Justitia’s power. It would remind the common people and nobles alike what happens to those who defy the will of the Empire’s true rulers.

In short, Dylan was suggesting his death could be used as an example, a spectacle of power for all to see.

“It’s a perfectly reasonable decision,” Dylan added, still trying to manipulate the situation to his advantage.

But Valderion shook his head. “No. I’ve decided that even a grand death is too much of a luxury for you.”

It was the truth.

Dylan didn’t deserve the honor of a public execution. He wasn’t worthy of a spectacle. His death would be as desolate and quiet as the prison that surrounded him.

In this dark, dusty underground cell, he would die without ceremony. His last moments would be witnessed only by those who had brought him to this end: Valderion, Sir Tilin, and Dylan himself.

That was the fate befitting a fallen emperor who had been stripped of everything. Rageil, the new emperor, had agreed without hesitation. Both men knew Dylan well enough to understand that denying him even the smallest shred of dignity in death was the ultimate punishment.

Dylan let out a hollow, bitter laugh.

“Haha…”

“…”

“Hahaha!” He laughed until his voice cracked, shaking his head as if in disbelief.

“No… no, you’re missing something,” he said, his voice suddenly filled with twisted excitement.

“Shouldn’t there be one more person? One more who needs to witness this?”

Dylan’s eyes glinted with a deranged light.

“Lirette. She has to see this. She has to watch me die!” he shouted, his eyes wild with madness.

The mention of Lirette’s name, spoken with such venom, only solidified Dylan’s deranged state. His expression, his words—none of it held any value anymore. He was beyond reason, beyond saving.

Valderion handed the lamp to Tilin without a word. Tilin took it and, in turn, passed Valderion a pair of gloves and a rifle. With elegant precision, Valderion slipped on the gloves and prepared the rifle, his movements calm and deliberate, like he was heading out for a hunt.

“Is that your final word?” Valderion asked, his voice measured, as the rifle settled smoothly into his hands.

Realizing his taunts weren’t working, Dylan became frantic, thrashing in his chains once again.

“Did you know I had her?” Dylan hissed.

For a moment, Valderion paused in the middle of loading the rifle, a subtle chill filling the air around them.

Sensing he had struck a nerve, Dylan’s lips twisted into a cruel grin.

“I forced myself on her. She didn’t want it, but I made her take it.”

“…”

“She tasted better than I thought.”

“…”

“You hate me, don’t you, Valderion? The same way I’ve hated you all these years. You can’t stand me. But can you really embrace her now? After what I’ve done to her? After how I’ve violated and defiled—”

BANG!

The shot rang out, sharp and deafening in the enclosed space.

With a single, fluid motion, Valderion had finished loading the rifle and fired, the bullet finding its mark with deadly precision. The gunshot echoed off the stone walls as the bullet tore through the air, silencing Dylan’s words in an instant.

Dylan’s body jerked violently, the impact of the shot knocking him back. His twisted smile froze on his face, blood pouring from the fresh wound, pooling on the ground beneath him.

Valderion lowered the rifle, the silence that followed as absolute as Dylan’s death.

There were no words left to be said.