The Shattered Idol

"The speech will begin shortly. Please remain quiet, everyone. Riots have broken out repeatedly of late, and the Empire has your safety in mind..." A familiar male voice echoed over the loudspeakers in Ceremonial Square. Amidst the packed crowd, Phil could not help clenching his fists. Veins bulged on his forehead, and naked hatred burned in his eyes beneath his hood. "Hans... One day, I will kill you," Phil growled through gritted teeth. This Count Hans was an Imperial official who had assumed office only a few days ago. His origins were shrouded in mystery, and he was primarily tasked with maintaining public order in Dragonhead City—or rather, Corinth. Soon after taking office, Count Hans had demonstrated ruthless, thunderous efficiency. Having obtained advance knowledge of the Dawn Crusaders' exact schedule and location for their operation, he turned their own plan against them by laying an ambush, nearly wiping out every crusader who took part. Immediately afterward, Count Hans executed all the captured rebels and left them hanging from the gallows for three days and three nights. That harrowing sight left everyone in Dragonhead City fearing for their own lives; even the most devout faithful no longer dared lend a hand to the Dawn Crusaders. Phil had taken part in that raid as well. He, too, would have hung from those gallows, a bloody corpse. It was only because his comrade-in-arms and childhood friend, Nico Gibson, had laid down his life to provide cover that Phil managed to slip through the Empire's inescapable net. Hearing that familiar voice once more, Phil still pictured Nico's mangled, bloody body swinging from the gallows, and his entire body trembled with rage and grief. With that thought, Phil tightened his grip on what he held and muttered to himself, "Do you see this, Nico? The time for vengeance is at hand." The Imperial authorities had issued a proclamation several days ago compelling the populace to attend the speech. The Dawn Crusaders had deduced that the speaker would very likely be none other than the ruthless Count Hans himself. That damned lackey of the evil dragon had just carried out a bloody massacre; he undoubtedly intended to cow all the city's inhabitants, including the resistance, and advance his ambitions to enslave the people of Aethel. And the mission Phil had undertaken to carry out alone was to assassinate Count Hans. Phil knew full well that this was a one-way mission. Given the discipline and caliber of the Imperial guards, the moment he launched an attack on Count Hans, the guards would inevitably gun him down in a hail of fire, riddling him like a sieve. But Phil felt no fear. He had long ceased clinging to his own life; the only thing sustaining him was his conviction of vengeance. Ingrid's smile, Nico's parting words, Cullen's roaring fury... every shred of memory served as fuel feeding the frenzied flames of his revenge. Evil dragon, I will fight you and your minions to the bitter end—unto death! Phil screamed silently in his heart, staring toward the distant podium, deep malice burning in his bloodshot eyes. Ceremonial Square was already packed to overflowing with Aethelians forced to gather there, while the tiefling guards and wyvern riders patrolling the perimeter grew ever more numerous. Phil knew the speech was about to begin. He discreetly loaded his Sun God sleeve crossbow, pulled his hood lower, and glanced around in search of a suitable vantage point. Under such heavy security, he would have only one chance to strike. If he missed, eternal damnation awaited him, and his hopes of vengeance would be utterly dashed. In the distance, amid the sea of heads, surrounded by tiefling guards, the dragonblood noble wore a feigned smile, waving warmly to the crowd. "Hypocritical bastard..." Phil looked up. It was indeed him—Count Hans, the man who had executed seventeen members of the Dawn Crusaders! But with so many watchful eyes in the crowd, now was not the ideal moment to strike. He would wait until the count took the stage, killing him before everyone at the pinnacle of his smug triumph. Only then could the people of Aethel realize that the Cinder Empire was not invincible, and that the evil dragon's lackeys could bleed and die! Above all, Phil wanted them to know that the great Lord Amaunator had not abandoned North Aethel! Phil also noticed someone standing beside Count Hans, clad in standard Imperial robes. From the graceful contours that even the robes could not conceal, it appeared to be a woman. For some reason, her figure felt familiar and warm to Phil, yet he could not recall where he had seen her. Phil knitted his brows, thinking to himself, Is she an official of the Cinder Empire too? Hmph, birds of a feather. Soon, however, Phil discovered that Count Hans did not step onto the podium as he had expected. Instead, the woman beside him slowly ascended the steps, looking somewhat reluctant. Count Hans remained surrounded by heavy guard, making no move, merely watching the woman with a smile. Instantly, Phil's expression soured beneath the shadow of his hood. "The speaker isn't Count Hans after all..." Yet he quickly steeled his resolve again, checking his sleeve crossbow as he searched for an opening, preparing to kill the woman taking the stage. Though Phil did not know who she was, she was a minion of the Cinder Empire—and that alone was reason enough to kill her. Who gave the speech did not truly matter; what mattered was shattering the Aethelian people's terror of the Empire, smashing the red dragon's monument in their hearts. Phil slowly raised his arm, pretending to adjust his lapel while in truth measuring angles and lining up his aim. "Come on..." He licked his dry lips and extended his arm, the razor-sharp bolt tip concealed within his sleeve aimed directly between the woman's brows, his finger already resting on the trigger. "The evil dragon's tyranny ends this very moment." The instant he pulled the trigger, that bolt infused with solar brilliance would shoot forth, piercing the woman's skull and putting an end to this farcical speech. Just then, however, the woman slowly drew back her hood, revealing her face. The crowd erupted into an uproar. Phil froze in place, mouth agape, confusion, shock, and disbelief warring in his bloodshot eyes. How could this be? The fair-skinned, golden-haired woman on the stage gradually merged with the figure that haunted his dreams. That figure belonged only in his dreams, in his cherished memories of the past—how could she be standing upon that distant podium? Was he still dreaming? Or was... In an instant, a tempest of thoughts surged through Phil's mind. The world seemed to tilt and shudder, and cracks spiderwebbed across the flawless, goddess-like idol enshrined within his heart. His face ashen, Phil's lips quivered before he finally pushed out a name: "Ingrid..." The surrounding Aethelians broke into frantic murmurs. "Gods above, she's alive!" "It's Bishop Ingrid!" "Is it really her?" "Wasn't she killed by the ev—by His Majesty Cassius? Was that just a rumor?" "Even Bishop Ingrid has submitted to the Empire?" The church had once held supreme prestige in Corinth, and as its honorary bishop, Ingrid's reputation needed no explanation. Under the scrutiny of countless gazes, Ingrid swept her eyes over the sea of familiar faces wearing various expressions and offered a strained smile. Clutching her robes, she spoke in as gentle a voice as she could muster: "Everyone, it has been a long time. I am Ingrid Garces, formerly the honorary bishop of the Corinth diocese, and now..." She hesitated for a moment before continuing, "...an Imperial Court Cleric." "What?" "Bishop Ingrid... she really has submitted to the Empire!" Below the stage, Phil's pupils dilated, and the idol in his heart shattered into dust. Everything he had done seemed reduced to utter futility—a sickening joke. "No, that's impossible!" Phil shook his head frantically, his expression bordering on madness as he collapsed backward onto the ground, screaming, "It's all a lie! Lady Ingrid would never be a slave to that evil dragon!" He jerked back his sleeve, exposing the sleeve crossbow on his wrist, and in his frenzy nearly pulled the trigger. At the sight, the people around him scrambled back in terror, desperate to avoid trouble, while some recognized this member of the Dawn Crusaders. "Hostile attack! Secure the perimeter!" The surrounding tiefling guards surged in from all directions, rifles raised, completely surrounding the madman. "He has a weapon!" "He's on the wanted posters—it's Phil from the Dawn Crusaders!" "Seize him! Don't let him get away!" The tiefling guards pinned Phil forcibly to the ground and slapped handcuffs onto him, but he continued to thrash wildly, shouting through tears and snot, "Lady Ingrid would never surrender!" On the stage, Ingrid was drawn by the commotion. Looking over with lingering dread, she caught sight of a familiar face, though far more weathered and haggard than she remembered. "Is that... Phil?" Phil had once been a member of the Church of Amaunator. Originally a poor blind boy, he had been healed by her divine magic and had converted to the faith ever since. In Ingrid's memory, Phil had always been a quiet, mild-tempered youth who arrived early for every service and held deep devotion to the deity. She could not fathom how that quiet young man had become the raving, foul-mouthed "rioter" before her eyes. How had he ended up like this? Hearing his furious shouts as the guards dragged him away, Ingrid wanted to save him, but felt utterly powerless. She could only whisper silently in her heart: I'm sorry. Toward these former members of the Church of Amaunator, Ingrid felt deep guilt, but she had no other choice. Having lived in Isdalia for years, she knew the Empire's military might all too well, and understood that with the strength the Aethelians possessed, resistance was doomed to failure. All she could do was mitigate the losses and preserve as many lives as possible. Forgive me, but... this is my only choice. With that thought, Ingrid drew a deep breath and picked up the speech Count Hans had prepared for her. "I have come before you today to tell everyone that I am not dead, and the rumor that His Majesty Cassius killed me is entirely false. Everyone, the Cinder Empire's objective is not brutal exploitation and extortion, but the establishment of a more peaceful, advanced new order. His Majesty Cassius once said that social transformation often provokes fierce backlash from the old forces..." And so, under the mild sunlight, Ingrid laid out the Empire's various policies and ideals in measured tones, while the gathered Aethelians below listened in silence. The scene was just as it had been over a decade ago, when Ingrid conveyed Amaunator's doctrines and recited scriptures to the people. ... In a gloomy dungeon cell of Dragonhead City Prison. "Impossible... It's impossible... Lady Ingrid is dead, she's already dead, it's all fake..." Disheveled and filthy, Phil curled in the corner of the cell, clutching his knees, trembling violently as he mumbled incessantly. Everyone said he had gone mad, but Phil knew that if he chose to believe what he had seen, everything he had done would lose all meaning. When the faith in his heart collapsed, he chose to deceive himself, piecing together a tattered, ruined idol from the shattered fragments. Tap, tap, tap... Footsteps approached from down the corridor. Phil lifted his head tremulously. The visitor wore formal Imperial attire, a dragonblood noble's brooch pinned to his chest, appearing in his thirties—it was Count Hans himself. When enemies meet face-to-face, eyes burn with bitter fury. Phil's eyes turned bloodshot. Gripping the iron bars tightly, he slammed his head against them and screamed curses: "It's you, you damned lackey of the evil dragon! You tricked me! Lady Ingrid was brutally murdered by you bastards long ago!" Hans shook his head. "Phil, stop playing the fool. It only makes you look more pathetic and absurd. You know what the truth is; you simply... refuse to face it." "You—" Phil collapsed desolately to the ground, his eyes vacant, muttering over and over, "Impossible, impossible, this has to be a lie..." He looked up, wiped his face blindly, and then grabbed at the bars, weeping through his tears and mucus: "Where is Lady Ingrid? I want to see her myself!" "Phil Grede, you have initiated rebellion multiple times, inflicting severe losses upon the Empire and wreaking immense havoc on public order. Under Imperial law, you should be hanged, and you have no right whatsoever to see Lady Ingrid. However, out of consideration for past ties, Lady Ingrid has granted you an opportunity to redeem yourself. As long as you hand over all intelligence regarding the Dawn Crusaders and associated organizations, you will be permitted to see her again." "But..." "There are no buts." Hans stepped up to the iron bars, looking down at Phil before him. "His Majesty Cassius once said that a clever betrayal is better than foolish loyalty. You should understand very well what that means." Phil fell silent. Only after a long pause did he speak: "Can I ask one final question?" "Of course." "Is what you said... Lady Ingrid's own wish?" "What do you think?" Hans bent down, a profound, enigmatic smile spreading across his half-human, half-dragon face—a smile that, to Phil, appeared more terrifying than any demon's.