The Royal Wedding
The tone was mocking.
The man standing at the center of the three twisted the corners of his mouth into a sneer, though his eyes did not smile. Roberta searched her memory—had anyone ever treated Ulrich like this before?
No.
There had been no one who, even knowing who Ulrich was, would stand before him with their head held high and openly ridicule him. At least, this was the first time she had ever witnessed such a person.
Roberta tried to guess who the three confronting him were. Most likely, the non-deification faction—the heretics. The group suspected of unleashing monsters near the capital and stirring up the current chaos.
But why would they treat Ulrich this way?
She kept her guard up as the question lingered in her mind.
"What whim has taken you? This is unlike you. You could have ignored everything again and remained comfortably in your garden—so why go out of your way to come here?"
The questions continued, but there was no real curiosity in his voice. He sharpened his tone as if to strike, not even waiting for Ulrich to answer before continuing.
"And after going to all that trouble, what are you even doing? You knew this would happen. And yet you leave your territory only to waste your time on utterly meaningless things."
Ulrich, who had just exchanged blows moments earlier, held a sword in his right hand—but lowered it slightly.
"It wasn't meaningless. You're the ones who made it this way."
"You speak as if you didn't expect this."
The man scoffed, then turned his gaze toward Roberta.
"You're Roberta, aren't you? The priest of Dithmarschen sent by Alonso."
Roberta remained silent, returning his stare. She wasn't even wearing her priestly robes, yet he had recognized her. That meant he had been watching her for some time.
"How much do you know about this man?" he asked. "Do you know that he's existed since the heavenly age, when humans were scarcely more than a handful and the gods walked our world?"
"…I know. I've heard as much."
"Then—do you believe it?"
Not understanding the reason for the question, she gave a brief answer.
"To some extent."
"Same here. Honestly, it's still hard to believe. That a mere human has lived for over ten thousand years… a span even fairies and dragons cannot endure—yet he remains like that."
For a moment, both of their gazes settled on Ulrich.
"And yet, the circumstances push that absurd story toward truth. Kormilius believes it. The fairies believe it. Even the dragons testify to it. And it's recorded in what little ancient scripture remains."
"Ancient… scripture?"
"According to the texts you burned as apocrypha, there was a human who inherited heavenly authority. The only human who could erase names from the celestial register—one who neither succumbed to death nor aging."
He pointed at Ulrich. "Just look at him."
There were numerous cuts and stab marks on his clothing, yet there was no blood, no wounds.
"His appearance doesn't change either. He may look like a mess now, but strip away the disguise and he'll be exactly as described. That's why we have no choice but to believe it."
Testimony, records, actions, and appearance—all aligned. Even something utterly absurd could not be denied when everything matched. Even Roberta, who knew far less than they did, acknowledged the unfathomable span of Ulrich's existence.
"I was twenty-one when I succeeded my mother," the man continued. "When I was deemed worthy to learn the truth that Kormilius concealed, I heard about you. That a primordial being with countless names… was still alive."
Even the faint trace of honorifics in his speech disappeared.
"Do you resent me?" Ulrich asked.
"Resent? …No. It's not that I hate you. I simply find you… disagreeable."
At that moment, the sound of raindrops began falling outside the tent. The pattering of water striking dry earth quickly grew heavier.
Roberta glanced outside, narrowing the space between her brows. As the humidity rose sharply, she could feel a rough current of mana as well—an unnatural flow, mingling with the rain.
"What does a man who neither ages nor dies, who holds the power of heaven, actually do? Think about it. With such immense power—what have you done?"
His voice rose.
What had Ulrich done, other than hiding himself under false names or retreating into obscurity, reminiscing about old lovers? The man's voice swelled as if in accusation.
"If you wished, you could claim the sacred crown this very moment. Even without Kormilius, there are countless who would offer you an emperor's crown. Sweep away this false age, false empire, false religion—and usher in the true Third Era!"
A flash of lightning turned the world white, followed by a thunderclap.
"You could do anything—you could have. You could have prevented the world from becoming like this. Which means… isn't it also true that you made it this way? That you made us like this?"
Still sensing the flow of mana, Roberta interjected.
"That logic is flawed. Why place the blame on him?"
"Does it sound forced?" he shot back. "Is it wrong to condemn someone who watches a drowning child without saving them? Who stands by as someone hangs from a cliff within arm's reach? Who does nothing while a mountain is clearly about to collapse? Shouldn't all of those be condemned?"
Roberta understood the meaning behind his metaphors.
He was blaming Ulrich—for not stopping the Osnover civil war, for not preventing the assassination of Kormilius, for failing to act when he could have.
But instead of sympathy, a dry scoff escaped her lips.
"I don't know. It just sounds like an excuse."
"An excuse?"
He snapped his head toward her, glaring.
"If someone else had said it, maybe it would carry some weight. But do you have the right to say that? You harm innocent people, then shout that it's someone else's fault for not sacrificing themselves. Isn't that what you're doing?"
Meeting his gaze head-on, Roberta stated firmly:
"It sounds like childish whining."
"Don't speak recklessly when you know nothing."
"Nothing? You're the ones acting absurdly."
"You dare—dog of the Pantheon."
As he stepped forward, Ulrich moved to stand in front of her.
"What you say isn't wrong," Ulrich said quietly. "What we see now is, in part, the result of my actions."
"So you admit it."
"But you overestimate me as well."
Ulrich exhaled deeply, as if releasing something long pent up. From behind him, Roberta could clearly sense the fatigue in that breath.
"What is your name?"
"Moretti," came the reply.
"Do you have children?"
"Of course. Not as many as you, perhaps."
"Then imagine you had many more."
Moretti looked at him with confusion.
"You said I've lived a very long life. That I've existed since humanity was but a handful. Then imagine this—back then, I built a family, had many descendants, and they in turn built families of their own."
"..."
"As time passes, my blood grows thinner. There would be descendants who have never met me even once in their lives. But among them, there would also be those who remember me and follow me. If conflict arises among them—what would you do?"
"…So you're comparing us and Kormilius to that?"
Though he resumed using formal speech, the mockery remained unchanged.
"How do you see me?"
Moretti opened his mouth as if to rebut, then closed it again.
"Even if not a single drop of my blood remains in you, you do not see me as a stranger—so neither do I see you as strangers. And yet, you force me to choose. You demand that I carve out one side so the other may live. If I were to choose you, what would you do with Kormilius?"
There was no answer, but it was obvious.
"And if I chose Kormilius, what would they do to you? And even if I chose neither side and tried to mediate—would you truly follow my will?"
Of course not. Roberta was certain of it. Just look at the Osnover civil war. Even when Ulrich forbade the Pantheon's intervention, they ignored him. The hatred between Kormilius and the non-deification faction ran far deeper than that.
"Moretti, you said I could do anything. And you're right—I can. I could awaken the dragons sleeping in distant lands, replant the World Tree and raise it again, bring back the frost giants and the little fairies. Those are the powers granted to me by heaven."
But, he added—
"At the same time, there are things I cannot do. Because there are too many bonds I would have to sever to make that happen. I am not someone who can simply cut through those ties. I know that better than anyone. I once tried… and in the end, I failed."
A quiet laugh slipped out, almost drowned by the sound of rain. It sounded self-deprecating, yet there was no regret or sorrow in it—only a dry echo of days long past.
"And so, I bear responsibility. As you said, my hesitation led to the result we see today. That is why I came here."
Noise reached Roberta's ears—shouts, screams, and the pounding of drums.
"And now you believe you can resolve it?" Moretti asked.
"As you know, I have lived a very long time."
Suddenly, Ulrich moved.
He swung his right hand, severing both of Moretti's wrists, then seized his throat with his left hand and slammed him to the ground. The two companions, startled by the sudden attack, thrust their swords at Ulrich—but it was a mistake.
What use was a blade against someone who could not die?
Their swords lodged into his body and would not come free. A moment later, Roberta and Fritz rushed in and subdued them with ease.
"Do you think this is the first time something like today has happened in all the years I've lived?"
Looking down at the three restrained men, Ulrich murmured to himself. Gagged to prevent any tricks, Moretti endured the pain and glared up at him.
"Your goal is the end of this era. You stirred chaos for that purpose. But I know there's also a personal grudge against me mixed in. You avoided me, and you killed Archbishop Vinicio—so that I would not stray onto another path."
As Moretti averted his gaze, Ulrich looked outside.
"This name… will be remembered for a long time."
It began with lightning.
As rain poured over the jousting arena, those sensitive to mana sensed what would come next. The gathering storm clouds were natural—but within them, mana churned violently. Someone was manipulating the clouds, bending them to their will.
Facing each other across the arena, the Hilderson clan and the Pantheon-aligned nobles rose from their seats, their expressions hardening as if acknowledging that the moment had finally come.
"Have you identified who's behind this?"
Count Meyer Wilhelm rose as well, whispering to his retainer.
"My apologies. There's still no report from the patrols."
"Damn it… we've walked right into an obvious ploy."
Wilhelm shook his head toward the royal section. In the distance, King Richard stared back at him before pressing a hand to his forehead. Both men knew who was behind this and had prepared countermeasures—but all of them had proven useless.
"They're operating from far outside this place."
"With mana of this scale, from that far away?"
"They're exceptionally skilled."
Which is why Richard had been helpless against them. Clicking his tongue, Wilhelm rested a hand on his sword. He knew it wasn't the clan, nor the Pantheon—but there was no other option. Even if they shouted the truth, no one would be convinced.
"I hoped it wouldn't come to this, but it's just as he feared. It can't be helped. Tell them not to hesitate. At this point, minimizing damage is our best option."
"Yes, sir."
"And bring His Majesty Richard over here."
Footsteps hurried in all directions. The commoners, sensing the sudden shift, fled the arena, while the nobles checked their weapons and sent messengers to their encampments.
Even he couldn't stop it…
Standing in the pouring rain, Wilhelm scanned the opposing stands. Though the other side held twice their numbers, tension was evident on their faces.
The Hilderson clan, though fewer in number, had been the victors of the previous civil war. That victory had largely been due to Ulrich's leadership—but even individually, their members were formidable. Wilhelm did not doubt their victory; he only worried about the scale of the losses.
"They're moving!"
Across the arena, mages began gathering mana. Wilhelm signaled, and the clan's mages responded in kind. Fortunately, in both quality and quantity, the clan held the advantage.
The mages they had recruited, taking advantage of vacancies in the court, despised the Pantheon and thus did not fear excommunication. Dozens of mages moved the mana within a single space, awaiting orders.
And then—it began with lightning.
There was no time to determine who struck first. The moment the sky flashed, more than thirty bolts of lightning descended, each striking a different head.
The tension snapped.
"Kill them!"
Instead of restraint, killing intent and fury took over. The arena between the stands became a battlefield.
Boom, boom, boom—the pounding of drums and the blare of long horns cut through the rain. The armies outside now knew the battle had begun. Tens of thousands of troops began closing the distance, preparing for a single decisive clash.
"Drive out the heretics!"
Insults flew as skulls were crushed, chests pierced, and bodies torn apart. Then—
"Agh!"
A mage collapsed with a cry.
Amid the chaos of clashing noise, only the mage standing next to him noticed the change.
"Huh? What's wrong with you?"
The fallen mage appeared to be around thirty—but his black hair turned white, and his skin shriveled with wrinkles. His body trembled as he gasped for air.
Being a mage himself, the observer understood immediately.
He had lost control of mana.
The mana that had sustained his youthful body had unraveled, revealing his true form.
But why?
The question barely formed before—
"W-what…?"
He too collapsed, returning to his original form.
This phenomenon spread from one person to the next like a wave. Soon, the battlefield—once filled with killing intent—fell into stunned silence. How many could keep fighting after seeing those beside them turn into old men in an instant?
As all the mages involuntarily reverted, the same thing began happening to everyone else. The flow of mana they had always felt vanished, and the mana within their bodies drained away.
"I… can't feel mana…"
"Why… why all of a sudden? What is happening?"
Since everyone experienced it simultaneously, no one could suspect another. They could only stand there in shock, unable to even voice their confusion.
Then, the mana returned.
As if nothing had happened, it seeped back into their bodies. Their lost senses came back just as clearly.
But the silence remained.
The consecration… has been severed.
Only two people grasped the truth amid this new kind of chaos—King Richard of Osnover and Count Meyer Wilhelm. They exchanged a glance and nodded.
So in the end… it was Father.
Their gazes turned to one place.
The highest seat—the one overlooking the entire arena—the seat where Richard had been sitting.
Ulrich stood there now.
As always, his expression was calm. Resting both hands on the railing, he looked down at the people of Osnover, who stood frozen as if their souls had left them.
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