You Were My Sl*ve - Chapter 87

But before him, Jahileta pointed to the undeniable truth.

Kazan turned to Harnuk, who stood frozen, uncertain. His voice, cold and unwavering, cut through the silence.

“With Prince Lark dead, only five remain. My sole purpose in this war is to claim victory and take the throne—nothing more, nothing less. Will you stand by my side and fight for a greater cause, Harnuk Padisha?”

With that, Kazan pulled his sword free from Lark’s chest, the blade still slick with the blood of his kin. He wiped it clean, his next words laced with quiet promise.

“If I ascend the throne, you will have what you’ve never been able to obtain—what you’ve long coveted but always remained out of reach.”

Harnuk didn’t take long to decide. The man before him was already a priceless asset to the mercenary corps. To refuse his offer and risk losing him would be foolish. Better to gamble on the alliance than to turn against such a force.

Harnuk dropped to one knee.

“In that case, I want nobility. My family hails from lowly mercenaries—becoming Chancellor should be enough to restore our honor. Can you grant me that, Prince Kazan?”

Without hesitation, Kazan extended his hand.

And thus, the Seventh Prince, Kazan Melesyat, entered the war far later than his brothers—but with the power of the Padisha mercenaries at his side.

At first, no one paid much attention when news spread that he had survived. His presence seemed insignificant, a mere afterthought in the greater struggle for the throne.

But then, he killed the Sixth Prince.

People began to murmur.

When he eliminated the Fifth Prince, the court took notice.

By the time he had slain the Fourth Prince, his name had spread throughout all of Ashatra.

And when, at last, he struck down the First Prince, Nasser, the people rallied behind him.

Seventh Prince Kazan had become a warrior-savior, a divine force sent to end the long and bloody civil war. His unyielding body was inherited from King Kalima, but his merciless soul—his unrelenting drive—was reminiscent of the god Sindar himself.

“Fifteen years,” he murmured. “Fifteen years to return here.”

And so, at twenty-seven years old, Kazan finally set foot in the royal capital of Ferma.

Rumors swirled through the streets—the ailing King Kalima was on his deathbed, and his passing was imminent. With his forces behind him, Kazan cut through Shativ’s men as he pressed onward to the palace.

“Do not falter!” His voice rang over the battlefield. “Today, this war ends!”

Before the King drew his last breath, Shativ—the Second Prince—had to die. If he reached the throne before Kazan, he would seize power without hesitation.

But just as Kazan set foot inside the palace, a long, resounding horn call echoed from the royal chambers.

A pillar of white fire shot up from the Kalima Temple in the east.

The King was dead.

“To the King’s Altar!”

At Kazan’s command, his soldiers moved with unwavering discipline. The coronation had to take place at the King’s Altar, the very heart of the palace, the sacred center of all the royal halls.

But when Kazan finally broke through the barriers and reached the altar—

The ceremony had already begun.

“Shativ!”

Kazan discovered the second prince, Shativ, kneeling before the altar. The black obsidian crown, the symbol of King Ashatra, rested atop the altar, ominously gleaming as it reflected the torchlight from all directions.

I must stop the ritual.

As Kazan charged toward the altar, countless soldiers rushed to block his way. He cut down innumerable lives, trampling over blood and flesh as he pushed forward. Beneath the altar, chaos unfolded like the hell he had created.

Yet, Prince Shativ did not halt the ritual. After reciting the prayer of the god Kalima, who had once bestowed his father’s name, he lifted a dagger and slashed his own palm.

“No!”

Kazan’s desperate cry echoed around the altar. Shativ stretched out his bleeding hand, letting droplets of blood fall onto the altar. As the newly absorbed blood of Mileshatra touched it, the king’s altar began to glow red.

No.

Kazan deflected every approaching blade and frantically ascended the steps. But Shativ was already lifting the obsidian crown.

“Sindar Shativ Mileshatra.”

A high priestess of Sindar, clad in a deep brown veil, solemnly murmured.

At last, the black crown was placed upon the second prince Shativ’s head.

“…Finally.”

King Shativ of Sindar turned with a majestic flourish of his cape. With his ascension, the long and grueling Ashatra civil war had come to an end. The soldiers and nobles who had supported him erupted into cheers from every corner of the palace.

Amid the deafening cries, Kazan stood motionless.

“Kazan Mileshatra.”

Shativ gazed down at his younger brother, who had barely lost the crown by a fraction. A cruel smile spread across his lips.

“Our youngest has managed to survive after all. Even after sacrificing your mother’s life, it seems your own was too precious to lose.”

“Shativ…!”

He had killed their mother with an arrow. Kazan still remembered the moment her body fell away from his back. His blood boiled with rage.

Yet, there was nothing he could do to Shativ, who had now become king. Though Kazan’s figure was drenched in the marks of slaughter, brimming with murderous intent, Shativ only laughed as if unfazed.

“Now, I am your king. Kneel, Kazan.”

“Shut up! You—”

“Oh, little brother. Thanks to you killing our other siblings, everything went smoothly for me. So, in recognition of your efforts, I shall spare your life. However, you are no longer royalty.”

King Sindar issued his command to Kazan.

“From this moment forth, you shall live as Kazan the mercenary. Abandon the royal name. Live like a grain of sand—insignificant, unremarkable.”

At those words, Kazan let out a cold scoff.

Live like a grain of sand? How was that any different from a life of slavery?

“Kneel, Kazan. You cannot kill me anyway, can you?”

Shativ laughed, his lips curled mockingly. Kazan wanted to rip that sneering mouth apart. But his sword, held loosely in his hand, merely pointed downward. Blood dripped from the blade like falling tears.

He needed to kill him.

But he couldn’t.

Shativ was blessed by the gods. The moment he struck him down, Sindar’s curse would claim his own life. And then, everything would be over.

If he died, he would never see Elona again.

“Well then, everyone, give him a round of applause! He has contributed the most to this war!”

Following the king’s mockery, scattered laughter and applause rang out. Kazan lowered his gaze to his feet, drenched in the blood of others, and suddenly thought:

If I die, I will never see Elona again.

But even if I continue to live like this, will I ever meet her?

Can I claim her as my own? Can I stand before her with pride and ask—why did you abandon me?

Then… what must I do to reclaim her?

Kazan lifted his head. He wanted to crush the momentary weakness that had crept into his heart.

What he had to do was painfully clear.

“…Give me a chance.”

With resolute strides, Kazan stepped forward toward the altar. The smile vanished from Shativ’s face as he approached. In this moment, all the gods of Ashatra would protect their new king. So Kazan prayed to the nameless god Elona had often whispered to.

Oh god, grant me one more chance.

A chance to surpass death.

“Wait—stop….”

The king shook his head. But Kazan tightened his grip on his blood-soaked, dulled sword. His sharp gaze pierced into the now-terrified king. As he lunged, there was not a trace of hesitation in his blade.

Kazan’s sword drove straight through the king’s heart.

The king’s death cry was brief—his soul had left his body even before his voice could. All who had just witnessed the king’s coronation and assassination in the same moment stood frozen, staring at the altar in disbelief.

Silence blanketed the space. Everyone awaited the moment when the curse would descend upon Kazan. But instead of the whispers of a curse, another voice rang in his ears—like a scream.

“She’s the one who made you die!”

Wise Samira. There was nothing to deny.

Kazan nodded.

I know.

Elona made me die.

She made me, once a slave, and now even as a man who had gained freedom—she made me perish.

Then let me have my chance for vengeance.

Let me claim her.

Let no one else lay a hand on her.

Only I—only I—

Kazan withdrew his sword from his dead brother’s body. A crimson tide spread at his feet. Sindar King’s corpse tumbled down from the high altar like a discarded log. The sensation of fratricide was revolting.

Kazan turned his gaze to the altar, where Shativ had once offered his blood.

Sindar’s god was there.

“God…”

Kazan could say nothing more. He could only stare in a daze at the being before him.

It had the head and wings of a great black bird, but beneath them, a decayed human torso clung grotesquely.

Sindar’s god gazed at Kazan with its crimson eyes, chewing something slowly.

A heart.

Blood dripped from it.

“A fake.”

Sindar’s god was devouring Lu’s third heart.

Then… does that mean I have survived?

As Kazan thought this, the god spoke.

“This is not enough.”

The god spread its vast wings.

Kazan couldn’t move as the looming shadow swept over him.

Its breath—cold as the wind—washed over his entire body.

“Give me the real one.”

And then—

A searing pain shot through Kazan’s right arm.

It was as if a wild beast had sunk its fangs deep into him.

Groaning, he clutched his arm, where the fiery agony spread like an inferno.

Is this the god’s curse? Am I going to die in this unbearable torment? That was his final thought.