Chapter 140

“So that’s why,” Kennard said hoarsely, staring at him, “you disguised the private soldiers you bought as Duke Blade’s men and offered them to the emperor?”

“Yes,” Marten replied without hesitation. “Not just troops from Baruchella, either. I gathered mercenaries from other nations as well and handed them over in the emperor’s name. They marched to war carrying banners marked with the imperial crest, not Baruchella’s, and by sheer luck, they won. You should have seen the emperor’s face that day. His eyes practically gleamed.”

Marten gave a low chuckle, then abruptly grimaced, pressing hard against his  wounded side. His breath hitched.

“Haa… For the first time in his life,” he continued after a moment, voice strained, “the man who had always lived in your shadow smiled without restraint.”

He took a deeper breath, steadying himself before speaking again.

“What does any of that have to do with putting me on the throne?” Kennard demanded.

“There’s more,” Marten said lightly, tapping his fingers against the space between his brows, deliberately mimicking the twisted expression on Kennard’s face. “Try to be patient and listen.”

Kennard clenched his jaw, every muscle in his body taut, but he forced himself to remain silent.

“Blade was thrilled, convinced he’d become the emperor’s most trusted confidant,” Marten went on. “And the emperor was delighted, believing his authority had expanded beyond measure. Neither of them realized they were already in checkmate, neatly arranged on my board.”

“You’re saying Blade was dancing in the palm of your hand too?” Kennard asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.

“Yes,” Marten answered plainly. “I planned to turn the mercenaries against the emperor eventually. If necessary, Blade as well. But the real problem was something else.”

Using the tree beside him for support, Marten slowly pushed himself upright. He looked as though he might collapse at any second, teeth bared as he fought through the pain, until he finally leaned his back against the trunk.

Kennard watched him in silence, lips pressed together. He was burning with urgency, with dread, but he knew better than to rush Marten now. Pressing him would only delay the answers further.

As if he’d anticipated that restraint, Marten let out a thin, breathy laugh.

“The real difficulty,” he said, “was how to hand the throne over to you.”

Kennard stiffened.

“Anyone else could have been dismissed,” Marten continued. “But you? You’re the strongest pureblood left. If you ascended the throne, even by rebellion, the people would celebrate. They already believe you’re more suited to rule than anyone else. But the obstacle was you. You actually had to accept the crown. And you hate even setting foot in your townhouse in the capital.”

Marten lifted his gaze, eyes sharp despite the pain. “I knew all that, and yet I went ahead with this plan. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

Kennard scoffed darkly. “You understood me that well and still did this? Let me guess. You’re the one who dragged the White Fox Tribe into this too.”

“Yes.”

Marten pushed himself off the tree and staggered forward, step by step, toward Kennard.

“I even succeeded in fueling Hazel’s desires,” he said, voice growing harsher, more bitter. “I arranged for her to be presented to the emperor and named your fiancée. Everything was in place. And yet—you—you stayed holed up in that damned Terra Demorte, refusing to come out.”

Kennard forced himself to strip emotion from his face as Marten approached. He couldn’t afford to miss the intention hidden beneath these words. Elena’s life was hanging on every second he wasted here.

Marten’s breath grew ragged as he reached Kennard, gripping his shoulder for support.

“Then,” Marten murmured, “pure chance handed me Elena. Mercenaries are excellent at gathering rumors. They wander everywhere.”

Kennard’s eyes darkened. “You already knew she was a whitefox?”

Marten laughed again, the sound breaking halfway through as he doubled over, clutching his side. He leaned his head against Kennard’s shoulder.

“Damn it. That hurts like hell.”

Kennard grabbed a fistful of Marten’s hair and yanked him upright.

“I asked,” Kennard snarled. “Answer me. Did you already know about Elena?”

Marten sucked in a sharp breath, pain etched across his face, but he still managed a twisted smile.

“A woman like that doesn’t go unnoticed,” he said. “The White Fox Tribe had been hunting a red-haired, gray-eyed woman for years. I knew that much. What I didn’t know was whether she was the same woman you kept at your side. Then Leto carelessly let slip her name. Elena. That was pure luck.”

Tears pooled in Marten’s bloodshot eyes as he smiled, unreadable and unsettling.

“From the moment the White Fox Tribe—seething with hatred for Elena and the Baruchella Empire—was added to my chessboard,” he continued, “everything went smoothly. I promised them Elena, the empire, and your life. They accepted without hesitation.”

Kennard’s voice dropped to a cold whisper. “You told me you’d give me the throne, and yet you made the same promise to them? You truly planned this without a shred of caution.”

“The throne was something you could claim on your own,” Marten replied. “I only needed to force you into the fight. Elena appeared at the perfect time. That’s the only thing she did wrong.”

Kennard’s hands curled into fists. “Even if you intended to use her, you knew she was carrying my child. You should have stopped. You had no right to gamble with two lives.”

Marten’s laugh came out hoarse. “Who does? Rights don’t matter. If it puts you on the throne, nothing else matters.”

“That damned throne!” Kennard shouted, eyes squeezed shut. “What is it even worth? Why go this far?”

“Why?” Marten echoed, laughter bubbling up again, unhinged. “Why do you think the people follow you instead of the emperor?”

He stopped laughing abruptly and stared at Kennard.

“It’s your blood. You’re brothers, but yours is the stronger pureblood. Everyone worships you for it. They believe you’re the rightful emperor. I do too. The late emperor did as well. And because of that, your brother turned into what he is. And yet you—only you—don’t care about your blood at all.”

Marten grabbed Kennard’s collar, trying to pull himself closer, but only managed to stagger.

“It’s too late,” he rasped. “The capital has already fallen to the White Fox Tribe. I intercepted Elena before Azis could receive her and handed her over for a witch trial instead. I told him the emperor had broken their promise. He was furious.”

Kennard inhaled sharply. “You lied to me.”

“Yes,” Marten said calmly. “By the time I sent you that letter, the emperor was already dead.”

He studied Kennard’s face with grotesque fascination.

“By now, his head is probably hanging from the city walls.”

Kennard looked down at Marten, whose face had turned ashen, lips tinged blue from blood loss. Yet even now, his voice remained eerily steady.

Kennard felt nothing at the news of his brother’s death. No grief. No relief. Only emptiness.

“I don’t care about the throne,” Kennard said quietly. “I never did. I just wanted to live freely with Elena.”

“And that’s why I had to do this,” Marten whispered, eyes unfocused but resolute.

Even as his strength failed him, Marten forced himself to meet Kennard’s gaze, as though determined to finish this confession no matter the cost.

“All you need to do now is wipe out the White Fox Tribe that murdered the emperor,” Marten said. “That’s all. You’ll have the most legitimate claim imaginable.”

Then, in a sudden, horrifying motion, Marten transformed one arm into that of a wolf and tore into his own throat.

Blood erupted violently, spraying across Kennard’s face and chest. Instinctively, Kennard shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, Marten was still in his grasp, completely limp.

The dark hair once tinged red, the green eyes that once held afternoon light, the pale skin, the luxurious garments—all of it was soaked in red, stripped of every other color.

“Marten…?” Kennard whispered.

There was no response.

“Marten.”

His grip loosened. Marten’s body crumpled to the ground.

Kennard could not think.

His mind went blank, as if drenched in white paint. A shrill ringing filled his ears, and the ground seemed to sway beneath him. He sank to his knees.

He had wanted to kill Marten. He had attacked him with that intent. He had sworn he would never forgive him.

But now—

Kennard could not finish the thought.

He no longer knew what he felt. He no longer knew what he was supposed to feel.

All that remained was the unbearable weight of a world Marten had twisted beyond recognition, and the silence he left behind.