CHAPTER 121: THE RISE OF KING JIRCNIV

Beside the boy was a strikingly handsome blond-haired swordsman, who wrapped one arm protectively around the boy’s back while holding a sword at the ready.

On Jircniv’s left stood Tenby—the so-called former knight who had first introduced himself to Talcott earlier—now holding a naked blade, guarding the young king’s other side.

Talcott’s eyes took in the positions of each of them, then he slowly moved backward toward the edge that overlooked the parade ground.

Perhaps one quarter of the soldiers present still stood with the Royalist faction?

The blond swordsman looked dangerous, but the overwhelming majority of knights and troops were still under Talcott’s command.

Even on this raised platform alone, he had at least twenty knights and soldiers who were still loyal.

At the bottom of the slope, another thirty men waited.

Jircniv’s appearance here was fortunate.

If Talcott crushed them all now, it would be finished.

"Kill that traitor and his followers! Leave not a single one alive—"

But Talcott’s command was drowned out by a roar of angry shouts and clashing steel from behind him.

He turned—and saw Count Dunrossil’s knights breaking through the gates and storming into the parade ground and striking fear into his soldiers.

A full army of fifteen divisions—thirty thousand men—were being cowed and frozen into submission by only three hundred elite knights.

His troops, terrified and disorganized, no longer had the will to resist.

Could Count Dunrossil truly command such a force of hardened warriors?

What shocked Talcott even more was how easily his own men collapsed.

The troops held together only by fear and intimidation had no true strength.

Their hearts had already abandoned him.

"Enough useless struggling, Talcott! You have no path left to escape!"

Count Dunrossil advanced his black warhorse to the front of the grandstand and leveled his whip like a weapon toward Talcott, his voice carrying power and finality.

His face was sharp and carved, his body lean and stripped of excess flesh.

At sixty-six years of age, he radiated a vitality and force of will that seemed impossible.

His severe eyes cut into Talcott like steel.

On the side of the grandstand, Talcott’s own guards were breaking apart. Faced with the cold, piercing gaze of the blond swordsman with blue eyes, they were throwing down their weapons one after another.

On the polished stone floor of the high platform, the clatter of falling blades echoed sharply, one sound after another, until it grew into a thunderous chorus that filled the air.

Who was this man? A man who could crush the will to fight in others just by glaring at them.

What shattered Talcott even more was the truth—that the loyalty of the guards who were supposed to protect him had been so shallow, so fragile.

All the support he had ever relied on crumbled away and the remnants of his glory slipped from his hands like sand.

The power he thought he had seized was nothing but an illusion, a dream that could not last.

His knees gave way, and Talcott sank to the ground. He no longer had the strength, or even the will, to keep himself standing.

Before him now stood Chelmsford and Jircniv, who bore the blood of kings. Beside them was the High Priest in his silver robes.

And behind them—Talcott’s eyes widened. He saw the last man he ever expected to appear.

A lion with fiery red hair, burning with anger. It was Quintus, the Supreme Commander of the Rosaria Kingdom’s military. Why was he here? And the massive men standing around him with wary eyes—surely they were his Rosarian guards.

"The duty you carried in ruling the kingdom until now has been great," Jircniv said.

At that voice, Talcott lifted his head.

The young man of twenty years now spoke with the presence of a true king.

The boy who once had clouded, white-tinged eyes of sickness had, in fifteen years, grown into a figure full of dignity.

"I offer my blessings for the coronation of the new King, King Jircniv," the High Priest intoned, giving the sacred words of the temple.

"I, Quintus van Cinna of the Rosaria Kingdom, have now witnessed the coronation of the new King of Dalmasca with my own eyes," Quintus declared. His deep, commanding voice carried over the crowd as he pressed his right arm to his chest and bowed his head to Jircniv.

At that moment, everyone else followed. One by one, all present dropped to one knee and showed their respect to the new king.

From the raised platform, the sight would be clear to all—the rows of soldiers in the parade ground, the nobles gathered in attendance, everyone could see.

Count Dunrossil’s knights raised their fists high and shouted with thunderous voices.

"Long live King Jircniv! Long live the new king!"

"Hurrah—!"

Their voices echoed like a storm, and soon the soldiers and nobles in the parade ground were swept up in the roar, cheering the name of their new sovereign.

Talcott stared at this scene blankly, powerless, and finally understood.

Everything had been prepared for this moment.

It had been the plot of Count Dunrossil and his son Chelmsford for over twenty years.

The hostage he had kept—Jircniv—had been the last of the royal bloodline. And for fifteen long years, they had hidden this truth from him, deceiving him completely.

Grinding his teeth in fury, Talcott felt his arms seized. The very guards who had been protecting him moments ago now gripped him firmly, holding him in place.

He would be judged for the regicide of twenty years past.

They would drag up every crime, every sin he had committed, and add them all to his trial.

When he was being dragged down to the underground prison to await his sentence, Talcott saw clearly now—there was no path of escape left to him. Not anymore.

"Wait! I have something I must ask."

The High Priest called out to Talcott, who was being dragged away by the guards.

"Why did you use the forbidden ancient magic circle?"