I Am The Game's Villain

Chapter 819: Blood Wedding [4]

The day of the memorial had finally arrived, the day meant to honor the dead and mourn the countless casualties of the Blood Wedding of Central Vedelia.

The commemoration was to begin shortly before midday, yet even hours earlier a crowd had already gathered outside. People came in silence, dressed in white as requested, their faces marked by grief, exhaustion, and that hollow look shared only by those who had lost too much in too little time. From every corner of Sancta Vedelia they had come, commoners, merchants, knights, servants, grieving families, and the merely fearful, drawn by loss, by duty, or simply by the need to stand near others and feel less alone in their mourning.

As for the Heads, nobles, and officials, they had begun assembling within the Memorial itself.

The memorial temple was not especially large, though it had clearly been built with care. It was never meant to be a grand wonder of architecture. Its purpose was symbolic before anything else: a place raised quickly so that the dead could be honored, the grieving could gather, and the people could be shown that Sancta Vedelia still stood together after such a catastrophe.

Inside, the hall was broad and open, its floor laid in white stone tiles that reflected the pale light pouring in. Along the marble walls, thousands of names had already been carved in red. Thousands. Each name was a life reduced to letters, a person folded into history through blood and stone. Between them were short inscriptions, carefully chosen words of mourning, remembrance for the lost, but the hall remained otherwise sparse.

There was little decoration.

Little grandeur.

Only white marble, open space, and the oppressive emptiness.

It had, after all, been built in barely a week. Its purpose had been to commemorate, to console, and above all to reassure the people that their rulers, their nobles, and Central Vedelia itself remained united in grief. More would surely be added later, new engravings, statues, offerings, perhaps even sacred relics or gardens of remembrance, but for now it was mostly an empty shell of mourning.

And yet, at that very moment, it was already full.

People had gathered well before the speech was due to begin within the hour. Some stood in respectful silence. Others exchanged quiet words, formal greetings, or restrained condolences. But if one looked closely, if one paid attention beyond the white clothing and small voices, the fractures became visible almost immediately.

There was a divide in the hall.

A clear one.

A silent trench separating the nobles and ruling figures of the Eight Kingdoms from the authorities and upper ranks of Central Vedelia.

And more than distance, there was blame.

Almost open animosity.

Many among the kingdoms nobles held Central Vedelia responsible for pushing the matter of the Prophetess’s marriage with reckless haste, forcing what should have been a sacred decision into a political necessity. In their eyes, that impatience had laid the groundwork for the Blood Wedding itself.

On the other hand, the authorities of Central Vedelia had their own bitterness. To them, the Heads of the great Houses had allowed ambition, pride, and private calculations to go too far, and the catastrophe was the result of that collective failure.

It was hardly the image of unity that Sancta Vedelia had spent the last week proclaiming to the world.

“What a dreadful atmosphere.”

Duncan Tepes let out a deep sigh as he observed the room before him.

“It should have been a day of mourning,” he said, his voice tinged with disappointment. “A day to stand together, grieve together, and build something stronger from what was lost. And yet even now, on a day like this, we are still busy turning against one another.”

Standing beside him, Alector watched the same gathering with a weary gaze.

“What else did you expect, Duncan?” He asked. “It is easy enough to place the blame outwardly on two young men who had barely reached adulthood. It is convenient, even. But among ourselves, we know very well that the choice was ours. We chose Cyril, and we trusted him.”

Duncan’s expression darkened.

“I should have been there.”

Alector shook his head at once.

“No. You were still recovering from your fight with Lazarus.”

“I could have stopped it,” Duncan replied quickly. “I could have stopped the whole thing.”

He believed it too. Cyril, for all the power he had gained, could have been stopped before matters spiraled beyond control. Duncan was certain of that. Had he been present, had he stood in that place at that time, he could have ended it before the Blood Moon Spell was ever unleashed.

But Alector did not share that certainty.

“I think it was better that you were not there,” he said quietly.

Duncan turned to him with visible confusion.

“That day… there were others present,” Alector continued. “People far more dangerous than you realize, Duncan.”

As he said it, his mind drifted back to that night.

To a certain grey-haired man whom he fought with Victor and didn’t leave a single scratch on him.

Duncan was a Demigod, one of the strongest beings in Sancta Vedelia without question. Yet even so, what Alector had felt from Leon that night had been something different. It had not merely been strength. It had felt like standing before something that existed on another level altogether, something so overwhelming that even comparison became difficult. Whether it had truly been the peak of power or something close to it, Alector could not say with confidence. He only knew it had terrified him.

And Leon had not been alone.

There had also been that other figure he caught a brief glimpse of.

That eerie man in the mask, whose presence lingered in Alector’s memory like something half-seen in a nightmare. He had only caught glimpses of him, nothing more, and yet that had been enough.

“I think,” Alector said slowly, choosing his words with care, “that what happened that day was meant to happen. Or at least… that any attempt to stop it directly would only have led to even greater losses.”

Duncan frowned.

Alector’s gaze remained distant.

Those people had been there, terrifyingly dangerous and monstrously powerful, yet they had not moved like people who came to fight. They had not thrown themselves into the battle openly, nor acted like simple observers. It had felt as though they were there for something else entirely, something beyond the understanding of everyone present.

And Alector was certain of one thing:

If Duncan had intervened too forcefully, if he had tried to seize control of the situation through sheer power, he might have been stopped.

Stopped before he could do anything.

Perhaps even killed.

And then Duncan Tepes himself might have been one more name to mourn in this memorial hall.

“Stop what exactly, Alector?” Duncan asked.

Obviously, the first thing that came to his mind was Cyril’s Blood Moon Spell.

But Alector knew that was not all.

Something else had happened that day.

Something even more unreal.

Something far more strange and shocking than the spell itself, at least to those few who had truly witnessed it.

The birth or perhaps the rebirth of another Amael.

Or the real Amael as Kleines had so much repeated to them.

Even now, remembering it made Alector question his own senses. Had he truly seen what he thought he had seen? Had it really happened in the way he remembered it? The event itself had felt so unnatural, that part of him still resisted accepting it as real.

And yet it had happened.

He had no explanation for it.

None at all.

Sometimes he wondered whether the appearance of those two frightening beings had been connected to that event, whether their presence there had been to oversee it, or perhaps to ensure it happened exactly as it did.

Kleines might know.

Perhaps more than anyone else still alive.

But Kleines was currently imprisoned, and though that remained officially the case, the discussions around his fate had already begun to shift. Because of his involvement in Amael’s death, because of what he had witnessed and the role he had played that night, more and more voices were leaning toward releasing him under conditions, if he agreed to cooperate and reveal exactly what had happened during the Blood Wedding.

Truthfully, it was probably only a matter of weeks before Kleines would be released, though certainly under close watch. He had earned a surprising amount of favor from Central Vedelia and, more importantly, had found exactly the right words to explain himself.

“I keep wondering about it, Duncan,” Alector said at last. “It feels as though we are missing something important.”

“Kleines will have to speak eventually,” Duncan replied.

“For now, he is under Central Vedelia’s protection,” Alector said.

Duncan frowned. “Could you not do something about that? You sit on the Council, and you are the Guardian of the Tree.”

“Unfortunately, the Council currently assumes I’ve been bought by the Heads,” Alector answered dryly.

Duncan shook his head in irritation. “Ridiculous.”

More and more, it felt as though Central Vedelia was seizing every possible pretext to cast blame upon the Kingdoms and curse them for what had happened. Duncan could not remember a time when relations between those two powers had been this strained.

Then again, perhaps it should not have been surprising.

That relationship had already been badly weakened when Deborah Dolphis brought chaos upon Central Vedelia. Back then, Central Vedelia had been openly furious, refusing to believe that the Dolphian Kingdom, and her own parents in particular, had truly been ignorant of everything she had been preparing in secret. The same suspicion had spread to the other Kingdoms as well. Many in Central Vedelia had convinced themselves that the Heads were attempting to seize control of the Holy Tree and of Central Vedelia itself.

One could argue forever over whether such suspicions had ever held truth, but the reality in Deborah’s case had been simpler and more foolish than any grand conspiracy: her parents had merely spoiled their daughter beyond reason and failed to believe she could be capable of such monstrosity.

Obviously, that explanation had only enraged the Council further.

Then came the Utopian War, and with it another wave of anger. This time, a lot had fallen upon the Raven House, especially after the truth about the Seed of Eden came to light.

Leora in particular had become the object of harsh criticism. She had openly admitted that she had possessed it and that it had been her own decision to entrust it to Alicia. Worse still, she had added, with shameless boldness, that if she had informed Central Vedelia, they would have descended upon her like vultures and torn it from her daughter’s neck if necessary thus her decision of hiding it and she didn’t regret anything.

Alector had been present that day.

He had found the whole thing more amusing than scandalous, because he knew very well that Leora had spoken the truth.

The Council, however, had not appreciated it in the slightest.

To begin with, their relationship with the Bloodspire House had never been especially good, so seeing one of its daughters speak to them with such cold arrogance had only deepened the resentment.

But even putting Leora aside, the Utopian War had once again ended with the Heads bearing much of the blame.

Since the establishment of the Council of Heads and the Council of Central Vedelia after the great disaster eight hundred years ago, there had been a sacred understanding: the Heads of the surrounding Kingdoms were to serve as the walls protecting Central Vedelia. They were the shield around the center, the outer powers entrusted with ensuring that no threat would ever again reach the Holy Tree itself.

And yet, over the last century, that promise had been tested more than once.

This time, it had not merely been tested.

It had failed.

Central Vedelia had been struck directly, and more than ten thousands of casualties had been recorded.

So yes, Central Vedelia snapped at the Heads.

And yet, as Duncan well knew, they were not so shameless as to deny their own role entirely. After all, they too had accepted Cyril. They too had defended him.

“Both of you look miserable.”

Duncan and Alector turned at the voice.

Standing there was what appeared, at first glance, to be a girl of twelve.

For anyone unfamiliar with her, it would have looked absurd to see such a child present in a gathering like this. But there was no one here who did not know better. Her appearance meant little.

“Beatrice,” Alector said. “How is Jefer?”

“Good, thankfully,” she replied.

Jefer had survived that explosion, though not without serious injuries. At the very least, he had succeeded in protecting Roda.

Then another voice drifted in from behind them, tinged with mockery.

“Your grandson doing that to your son… admirable, in a way. Though hardly shocking.”

They turned to see Claudia approaching.

Beatrice’s eyes narrowed at once. “Do you have something to say?”

“No,” Claudia replied lightly. “Only that it always seemed inevitable to me. You were never particularly good at raising children. First your adopted son, Braham, turned out as he did, and now Percy.”

Beatrice’s expression darkened further.

“Do not try to play that game with me, Claudia,” she shot back. “What you did to your own daughter-in-law is far more worthy of judgment.”

Claudia’s face twisted as though she had swallowed something bitter.

“Enough,” Duncan cut in before the quarrel could sharpen further. “We have all made terrible mistakes in the past. I am not proud of what I did to Hilda either. What matters now is that we learn from them.”

“Learn what, Duncan?” Claudia snapped immediately. “We lost Elizabeth not long ago and nearly lost our other granddaughter as well. And do not even speak to me of Earth when we cannot so much as find his body, likely incinerated along the thousands of others by that cursed boy.”

“Why are you shouting in a place like this?” Beatrice complained, jabbing a finger against Claudia’s head.

But Claudia ignored her and kept glaring at Duncan.

“I warned you,” she said bitterly. “I warned you again and again about that evil boy. And now look at what has happened.”

“Who is she talking about?” Beatrice asked with a frown.

Alector gave her a dry look.

“Do you really need to ask?”