I Am The Game's Villain Chapter 778: [The Rewritten Lost Past] [18]

Vanadias. The Kingdom of Teraquin's Capital.

Seven years had passed.

For seven years, the Blood Moon War had been draining Sancta Vedelia, yet neither faction had conceded any ground. The forces of the Vampire Witch remained firmly entrenched. The hastily assembled Resistance, comprised of surviving noble houses united by desperation and a shared purpose, refused to crumble, propelled forward by their young leaders.

At the heart of this long conflict stood Ernest Olphean.

He was, in name, the Prince of the Olphean House. However, the title of King had already been bestowed upon him, not through inheritance, but simply because no one else had sustained the kingdom's unity for as long as he had. He found himself alone in his war room, his hands spread flat upon a wide table, his gaze slowly traversing the map laid out before him. It was an intricate depiction of Sancta Vedelia in its entirety, showcasing coastlines, cities, forests, and the major roads connecting them all. Vast swathes of the map were stained red, signifying territories lost to the Witch. Green marked the areas that had been reclaimed. Scattered and irregular blue patches indicated contested zones, where both sides fiercely battled over every street, hill, and bridge.

The red markings had expanded since the previous month. The red markings always seemed to expand since the previous month.

A rap on the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Enter."

The door creaked open, and a silver-haired figure entered without invitation.

It was Amael.

"Hey! You can’t just barge in here!" A soldier on guard duty reacted instantly, his hand grasping Amael’s arm.

"Leave him," Ernest instructed, his eyes still fixed on the map. "Leave us."

After a moment's hesitation, the soldier gave a brief nod and retreated, closing the door behind him.

Ernest slowly straightened. "Lord Falkrona. It has been some time—"

"Sirius," Amael interrupted his greeting, moving directly towards the table. "I need to speak with Anox."

Ernest’s gaze intensified. "Is something amiss?"

"And what about you, Ernest?" Amael retorted, his voice steady yet tinged with accusation. "Have you lost your mind? Any sensible person would have expelled a foreign evil consciousness possessing their mind rather than simply accepting it. Yet, here you are, coexisting."

"And yet, you are friends with that same foreign evil consciousness," Ernest replied, a subtle smile gracing his lips.

"I'm starting to question that myself."

Amael moved with startling swiftness. One moment he was across the room, the next he was beside Ernest, his fingers gripping the front of Ernest's shirt, forcefully pushing him back against the stone wall with controlled strength.

"Get out, Anox."

For an instant, Ernest's expression remained frozen – wide-eyed, tense, the look of a man taken aback by the sheer speed of the action. Then, gradually, something shifted beneath the surface. The tension receded from his features, replaced by a demeanor that was older, more self-possessed. A different light flickered in his eyes. A different smile settled upon his lips.

"It has been years," Sirius stated.

"Unfortunately," Amael responded, his grip tightening. "I should have visited every few months. I had not anticipated still needing to watch over you."

"You do not," Sirius asserted.

"Do you not?" Amael's eyes narrowed. "Then explain this war to me. Look me in the eye, through that face, and swear that you had no part in it."

"Would you believe me if I told you I didn’t?"

"No," Amael answered without a second's pause.

A soft chuckle resonated from Ernest's chest. "The war was instigated by the Vampire Witch. She initiated it."

"And you played no role in it?" Amael scoffed. "What about Regent King Rucain?"

Sirius's expression shifted slightly. "You have indeed done your homework. I had begun to suspect you paid little attention to Sancta Vedelia, Mael."

"Silence."

"Why have you come?" Sirius inquired.

Amael released his grip and stepped back. "The Blood Moon Spell," he declared. "It has been spreading for seven years, and you allowed it to happen."

"Seven years, and you bring this up now?" He chuckled. "Better late than never, I suppose."

Amael offered no reply.

There was, in fact, nothing to say.

He had deliberately chosen to distance himself from Sancta Vedelia. That was a decision made with full awareness. The continent possessed a long and tragic history of self-destruction, marked by centuries of conflict and political decay, with noble houses experiencing cycles of ascent and collapse that defied simple observation. Furthermore, the Great War, which had occurred not too long ago, had nearly led to the uncontainable spread of the Holy Tree of Eden, culminating in a Goddess being captured and sacrificed on its soil as if it were a mundane occurrence. Faced with all this, Amael had made a choice: it was not his problem, not his war, not his continent.

He could admit it now, at least to himself, that he had underestimated the Spell.

It was in its nascent stages when he first heard about it from Michael.

The designation 'Sancta Vedelia' alone seemed insufficient, unable to encapsulate its true scale. He had allowed this reassurance to settle without closer examination, and now, seven years of relentless war had amplified the Spell in unforeseen ways. Blood Arts of such a profound nature do not merely persist; they fester and grow. Every soul lost on Sancta Vedelia’s ravaged lands had served as additional fuel for a conflagration that showed no signs of abatement, strengthening the Spell's intricate weave, and by extension, empowering the Vampire Witch who had initiated it. The protracted duration of the conflict only served to bolster their mutual strength. It also caused it to diverge significantly from the contained, derivative entity Michael had initially described.

The true extent of Merithra’s original creation was something Amael had no desire to fully comprehend. Yet, even this diminished echo of it was beginning to reveal precisely why it had been so strictly forbidden.

His calculations had been gravely mistaken.

And Sancta Vedelia was paying the price in rivers of blood.

"I fail to grasp why you sought me out," Sirius remarked, his movements deliberate as he crossed towards a modest cabinet in the corner. From it, he retrieved a decanter filled with a deep red wine, pouring himself a glass. "I must uphold a certain facade. My mother requires the conviction that I am actively pursuing her objectives. Furthermore, the current Vessel of the Vampire Witch is no ordinary individual. This war was destined to occur, irrespective of my actions. I merely... hastened its inevitable progression."

"You aided her," Amael stated, his gaze fixed on Sirius.

"I provided assistance to a woman who had endured centuries of suffering," Sirius responded, slowly turning the glass in his fingers. "Did you ever contemplate offering similar aid? You approached me on numerous occasions, displaying remarkable patience as you attempted to persuade me, yet you never once approached the Vampire Witch directly."

"I was unaware of her identity," Amael replied.

"Indeed," Sirius concurred. "But you never inquired. I have had epochs to familiarize myself with every guise she has adopted. You could have asked at any juncture." He raised the glass to his lips. "You never did."

Amael offered no verbal response.

"You deliberately maintained your distance from Sancta Vedelia," Sirius continued, a slight smile playing on his lips. "I believe I understand the reasoning behind this. Your predecessor, that First Apostle, the Guardian who turned against every other race, was a truly exceptional being. Among all the Vessels of Samael Eveningstar, he stands as the most perilous individual I have unfortunately encountered." He cast a glance at Amael. "Keeping your distance from Samael’s lingering influence, from anything associated with his legacy, likely felt like the prudent course of action."

Amael’s expression remained unchanged, though a subtle hardening flickered in his eyes.

"And yet," Sirius observed, his tone almost gentle, "you were the one who advised me against evading my true nature. To cease concealing myself and simply embrace existence." He allowed the words to resonate for a moment. "Are you living in accordance with that advice? Or are you still keeping Samael at arm's length, masquerading it as caution?"

"That was in the past," Amael asserted. "I have come to terms with it. I continue to process it. However, acceptance does not equate to willingly stepping into the maw of certain annihilation."

"Is that how you perceive Sancta Vedelia at this very moment?" Sirius inquired, a questioning brow raised. "Is that genuinely the reason for your extensive journey here?"

"I came to ascertain if you had reverted to your unscrupulous ways," Amael stated, rapidly closing the distance between them. His eyes remained locked onto Sirius’s face. "So, tell me. This life you are leading for yourself, this new direction you are pursuing, will it bring detriment to me or to anyone I hold dear?"

The question, though outwardly calm, carried immense weight and implication.

He was probing whether the current unfolding events were orchestrated by A-Nox.

Sirius’s lips curved slightly. He lifted his glass.

Amael’s hand darted out, striking the glass aside. It shattered upon the floor, the wine spilling outwards, creating a dark, spreading stain across the pale porcelain.

"Cease this," Amael commanded.

"Cease what?" Sirius asked, his gaze falling upon the shards of glass with little apparent concern.

"Do not smile, deflect, and remain silent," Amael's voice dropped to a dangerously low register. "I will kill you, Sirius. If the path you tread leads where I suspect it does, I will carry out that retribution. It will not bring me pleasure, but I will execute it."

"You possess no true understanding of the path I am traversing," Sirius countered.

"It makes no difference," Amael declared. "Halt this war. If A-Nox instills such fear within you, then disengage from her machinations. Align yourself with our cause."

"Eden's side," the warmth vanished entirely from Sirius's voice. "You mean Eden's side." He met Amael’s gaze with a directness that had previously been absent, an ancient weariness and profound seriousness evident in his eyes. "Lucifer, Eden, Samael—they are indistinguishable to me. Three visages of the same insatiable hunger. I desire no association with any of them. I have lived long enough to witness the devastation each has wrought. I refuse to exchange the chains of one Ymir King for those of another."

Amael regarded him in silence for a considerable duration.

"After all this," he uttered softly, his disappointment more potent than any rage, "I had hoped you would grant me some measure of trust. Even a sliver."

"I do trust you," Sirius affirmed, his words carrying the weight of sincerity. "It's what you bear, what you might evolve into, and the uncertainties of a future intertwined with Samael Eveningstar's lineage that I cannot entirely vouch for." He met Amael's gaze with unwavering calm. "Your only recourse is to press onward, clinging to the hope that time, eventually, might prove benevolent."

A slight frown creased Amael's brow upon hearing this before he spoke.

"What transpired?"

Sirius offered no verbal response. The impassive countenance of Ernest Olphean revealed nothing.

"You ought to depart now," he stated instead, his attention shifting back to the map. "And your apprehension regarding this place's growing danger is justified. As for the conflict, it ought not—"

"Cease this," Amael interjected firmly. "Whatever undertaking you are engaged in, halt the war."

When Sirius turned around once more, the chamber was deserted.

He remained stationary for a span, his gaze fixed on the vacant spot where Amael had stood. Subsequently, his eyes drifted to the map, noting the expanse of red, the stretches of blue, and the diminishing green territories, and he uttered no sound. He then made his exit from the war room, traversing the castle's corridors, passing through its portals, and emerging into the crisp, open atmosphere of the castle grounds. His progression continued unabated. Past the vigilant guards, beyond the garden ramparts, through the manicured landscapes, until the paved walkways dissolved into softer earth, and the clamor of the city receded into silence.

He halted at a specific location. It was a place he invariably rediscovered, regardless of the intervals between his visits.

A headstone, meticulously maintained, encircled by cleared earth and adorned with recent blossoms left by someone who still paid their respects, who still remembered.

The stone bore exquisite carvings, its inscriptions softened slightly at the edges by the cumulative effect of countless seasons of rain and wind.

Sirius stood before it, motionless and profoundly silent, and perused the inscription etched upon its surface.