Ronanâs consciousness returned to him in a slow, agonizing wave of throbbing pain. The first thing he registered was the cold. A deep, biting cold that seemed to seep into his bones from the polished obsidian floor he was lying on. The coppery taste of his own blood was still thick in his mouth, but the splintered wood and dusty street of the tavern district were gone. The air was different hereâstill and heavy with the scent of expensive incense and cold stone. His hearing returned next, and he could make out the faint, echoing sound of his own ragged breathing in a vast, cavernous space.
He forced his eyes open. His vision was blurry, his head pounding from Rikoâs final, devastating blow. Four figures stood at the corners of his vision, silent and unmoving like silver statues. He blinked, his vision clearing, and a jolt of pure, cold dread shot through him. They weren't statues. They were Royal Guards, clad in the immaculate, mirror-polished silver armor that seemed to drink the light from the room. Their expressions were hidden behind their featureless helms, but their collective disgust was a palpable force, a suffocating pressure in the air. He wasn't in a holding cell. He was in the King's throne room.
At the far end of the hall, King Vorlag sat on his obsidian throne, his expression unsettlingly, unnaturally calm. He was idly examining a single, perfect white rose in a crystal vase next to him, tracing its petals with a finger, completely ignoring the broken, bloodied knight kneeling on his floor. The silence stretched for a long, agonizing minute, broken only by Ronanâs pained wheezing.
"Ronan," the King's voice was finally heard, soft and almost gentle, which sent a more profound chill down Ronan's spine than any shout ever could. He still hadn't looked at him, his attention remaining on the rose. "You are⦠or rather, were⦠my finest Holy Knight. You represent the strength, the discipline, and the immaculate public image of this kingdom's sacred protectors."
The King stood, setting the rose back in its vase with a delicate touch. His shadow stretched long and thin across the floor, a creeping spear of darkness. The calm shattered.
"AND YOU CHOOSE TO BRAWL IN A TAVERN LIKE A COMMON, DRUNKEN THUG!" he roared, his voice a physical force that echoed off the high, vaulted ceilings, making the very stones tremble.
He shot a curt nod to the guard on Ronan's left. With a movement of practiced, impersonal, brutal efficiency, a steel-toed boot slammed into Ronan's ribs. Ronan gasped, a wet, choked sound, as the air was forced from his lungs and a fresh spike of white-hot agony lanced through his side. The guard stepped back into his original position, perfectly silent.
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"I might have forgiven a tactical misstep," the King continued, his voice returning to a cold, menacing whisper as he began to pace slowly around the kneeling knight. "I might have even forgiven the extensive property damage. But you did not capture her. You did not kill her. You lost. Publicly. In front of common adventurers who now think the elite of this kingdom are a complete joke. You made this kingdom, and by extension, me, look weak. You embarrassed yourself!"
A gauntleted fist struck Ronan's other side. He collapsed onto his hands and knees, his armor groaning, struggling to draw a breath. "I-I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he choked out, his voice a pathetic rasp. "I didn'tâ"
Another fist, this one to his chin, snapped his head back, his teeth clacking together painfully. "The humiliation you have brought upon my Holy Knights is⦠unbelievable," the King said, now circling him like a predator studying its wounded prey. "It is not merely that you lost, Ronan. It is who you lost to."
The King leaned down, his face now inches from Ronan's, his voice a venomous hiss. "You lost to a girl who is known to be BLIND!"
The words hung in the air, a final, absolute degradation. A quiet gasp could be heard from a courtier near the doors. Ronan froze, the physical pain vanishing completely, replaced by a tidal wave of burning, soul-crushing shame. He looked up, his one good eye wide with a desperate need to explain. "S-she wasn't completely blind, Your Majesty," he managed to speak, his voice cracking. "Her Crest⦠it's an anomaly⦠it is the Kokuganâ¦"
"I will not entertain your pathetic excuses," the King said, his voice flat and dismissive. He turned his back, walking back towards his throne. "You will learn that the consequences for such a monumental failure are not light."
The Royal Guards descended. It wasn't a fight. It was a cold, calculated punishment. A kick to his already bruised ribs. A punch to his jaw. Another to his gut. The King's disappointed sighs echoed in his ears, drowned out only by the sounds of his own pained gasps and the faint, cruel laughter he imagined coming from the court just outside the throne room doors. The embarrassment, the failure, the searing painâit all swirled together in the crucible of his broken pride, twisting and hardening into something hotter and darker than simple rage. It was a promise.
"The next time you see Riko Akari," the King's final command cut through his haze of pain, "you do not lose. I do not care what it takes."
Tears of pure, undiluted hatred streamed down Ronan's face, mixing with the blood and sweat. He pushed himself up, his body screaming in protest. As he looked up at the King's back, the purple taint in his eye pulsed, a venomous, otherworldly glow that was now impossible to miss.
The King noticed the reflection of the light in the polished floor but did nothing to stop it. He would let the Sin fester. He would let it grow. It would either be Ronan's final, pathetic downfall, or, perhaps, the very tool that would finally bring him success. Either way, the King would get what he wanted.