Indeed, the two had been rivals for half a lifetime.
But neither could have foreseen a situation like this.
Feeling the cold steel near his neck, Kranjcar—now Kochar—slowly closed his eyes.
"You're right. This isn't like me, not the holy knight Paul everyone knows," Paul Blandelli said, closing his eyes as if steeling himself for a decision.
"Kranjcar, I am first the commander of the Red Copper Black Cross, then a so-called holy knight."
"I know exactly what matters most to me."
His expression was solemn, his face resolute, like a revived Greek statue.
"So—" He gripped his sword with both hands, raising it high, golden magical light shimmering on his shoulders, exuding sanctity.
"Kranjcar, for plotting against the King, you deserve the ultimate punishment."
Several in the meeting room turned away, unable to watch.
It was unthinkable that a high-ranking mage association commander would meet his end today.
Though many present belonged to factions rivaling the Bronze Black Cross, a sense of shared sorrow stirred in their hearts.
Yet, no one dared speak out.
And they weren't unsympathetic to Paul Blandelli's position.
His actions weren't about seizing the chance to eliminate a rival or kicking Kranjcar while he was down.
He feared that if his punishment didn't satisfy the King, he and the Red Copper Black Cross could face brutal retaliation.
Moreover, even if this holy knight struck down his longtime rival, it wouldn't bring joy—only guilt and pain.
Perhaps that was precisely the King's intent in tasking Paul Blandelli with deciding Kranjcar's fate.
The mages shuddered at the King's cruelty, but all they could do was lower their heads, hoping not to draw his attention.
Lucius leaned back in his chair, one eye open, observing the drama with indifference.
"Paul."
The King spoke.
His voice carried a commanding presence laced with chilling malice.
"Let me witness it."
"Let me see what you choose to do, how you punish him."
Paul Blandelli gritted his teeth involuntarily.
Moments ago, his face had been etched with conflict; now, it was cloaked in stoicism.
"In the name of the King," The holy knight declared, his voice cold as an apocalyptic rider from scripture, "I shall sever your head!"
His radiant knightly sword, gripped in both hands, swung downward.
Kranjcar felt the sword's breeze against his neck.
Blood seeped out.
Sensing the pain at his neck, Kranjcar froze, opening his eyes in confusion.
The holy knight's sword, aglow with golden light, had stopped just at his neck.
Its sharp edge left only a shallow cut on his skin.
Before him stood Paul Blandelli, his face resolute.
"Paul Blandelli—" Kranjcar's expression shook.
"Paul, what is this?"
The King's impassive voice cut through.
Lucius remained expressionless, sitting up slowly, his eyes glinting with an inscrutable light.
The resolute holy knight ignored Kranjcar's shock and didn't immediately answer Lucius's question.
He stood slowly, sunlight streaming through the window illuminating his marble-like face.
Then, he stepped back, knelt beside Kranjcar, and raised his sword with both hands.
"Your Majesty, I should have taken this traitor's head to quell your anger," Paul Blandelli said, prostrating himself in submission.
"But to slay a defenseless man is the act of an executioner."
"To kill a friend for survival is the act of a despicable coward."
"An executioner or a coward cannot be a knight."
Paul Blandelli's words rang with conviction, stunning every mage in the battered meeting room.
They were awestruck by his courage to defy death for justice and admired his noble character.
Yet, they mourned that such a virtuous knight would fall to the Devil King's oppression and wrath.
For the King's gaze was cold, his face devoid of emotion—neither sorrow nor joy.
"I still hope to serve Your Majesty as a knight in the days to come."
"Hmph." The Devil King snorted, his face icy, as if enraged by the holy knight's defiance.
"Quite the eloquent one, aren't you?"
Was that contempt in his tone?
Humans, no matter how hard they strove, were powerless against rampaging Heretic Gods or earthly Devil Kings.
Was it anger?
A lowly subject, meant to grovel, dared defy his will.
And so, the Devil King raised his hand.
Seemingly boundless magical power gathered in his ordinary-looking palm.
The sheer volume of mana was enough to inspire visceral despair.
Even the most gifted, after a lifetime of training, couldn't match a fraction of it.
That hand glowed with brilliant, radiant gold.
The golden mana morphed, transforming into surging golden flames.
Seeing those flames, everyone in the room felt an immediate threat of death.
Turning mana into flames wasn't difficult—many in the room could do it.
But under the influence of such immense, high-quality mana, those flames wielded power beyond human reach.
Lucius propped his chin with one hand, the other raised, golden flames coalescing into a solid form.
Finally, a golden sword, forged from flames, rested obediently in his grasp.
The sword was exquisite and beautiful, yet it chilled the heart.
In this room, facing the power unleashed by that sword, only the King would emerge unscathed; the rest faced certain death.
The mages knelt in fear.
Yet none dared plead for the King to temper his wrath.
Sweat dripped from Paul Blandelli's forehead.
Then, like a child tossing firecrackers into an ant nest, Lucius, expressionless, hurled the beautiful, deadly sword at the kneeling Paul Blandelli.
***
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