I Became a Ruined Character in a Dark Fantasy-Chapter 725

Ding— Ding—

Roused by the alarm bell echoing from afar, Archduke Olaf shot upright in bed as if flung by a spring. Though his massive frame was layered thick with fat over muscle, his movements were startlingly swift.

"No..."

The bell rang only when something grave had occurred. And at this hour, there was only one disaster severe enough to warrant it—the final defensive line being breached.

"Could it be... Calbrook?"

It was something he had always believed would never happen. His remaining in this cold, suffocating castle instead of retreating to his manor had been nothing more than a wartime formality.

Creeeak—

Now he was grateful for it. Without even thinking to throw on a coat or wrap himself in blankets, Olaf strode to the tightly shut window and flung it open.

Whoosh—

A blast of frigid air rushed in, sharp enough to clear his thoughts at once.

Before him lay the dimly brightening view of the city of Travelga, the heart of the North.

Ding— Ding—

Lights flickered to life throughout the city as if stirred awake by the bell’s relentless toll. Noise rippled outward in waves.

However, Olaf paid the city no mind.

Standing at the window, he looked beyond the straight-rising outer walls. The tightly sealed gate at the center marked the eastern entrance.

Beneath his slick, polished scalp, his thick brows drew together.

Contrary to his expectation, there was no tide of monsters in sight. Instead, beneath the slowly brightening, clouded sky, a long column stretched along the main road toward the city like a line of ants.

It was unmistakably the elite legion that had gathered at Calbrook Fortress.

Of course, that could not be all. At the front and rear of the column, flames flickered like beacons. The Saintess of the Brazier and her priests had returned as well.

Yet Olaf’s expression twisted further.

"If the garrison has returned... then why sound the bell?"

The unease in his gut only worsened.

A commotion erupted beyond the closed door behind him. Urgent footsteps pounded the hallway, followed by fists striking hard against the wood.

"Your Grace! Your Grace! Urgent news from the eastern gate!" Sir Alvar’s voice rang out.

Olaf turned toward the door just as Alvar shouted, "The Calbrook defense forces are returning together with the Crimson Legion!"

The words drained the warmth from his blood. His ominous premonition had become a reality.

"The Crimson—" He could not finish. His teeth ground together.

Those damned rebels had set foot on the mainland under the pretext of repelling the invasion. And if they returned alongside the defense forces, they had clearly played a decisive role.

Of course they are. That man must be controlling them.

Olaf’s clenched fist trembled before he realized it. He stared at the closed door as if he could burn through it.

"Send the garrisons to the walls at once! Immediately!" he roared, slamming his fist into the wall beside the window to crush the fear rising in his chest. 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

"They are already assembling under General Torvien’s command, Your Grace!" Alvar answered without delay.

"Tell them the gates are not to be opened under any circumstances! At once! I will prepare myself and go there immediately!"

"Yes, Your Grace!" Alvar’s hurried footsteps faded down the hallway.

Only then did Olaf brace himself against the window frame, his breath coming ragged as he swayed. From the moment he heard the words Crimson Legion, a single face had filled his mind.

"Ian... Hope!"

The name slipped through his clenched teeth, the one he could no longer escape—the man who had returned alive from beyond the Black Wall and came to be called a demigod.

And now that man had used the monster invasion as an excuse to reach even the North.

"Damn it...." Olaf squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a palm over his face as if to steady himself.

Dragging his hand down over his bearded jaw, he muttered, "Fine. Whatever you have done, whatever they call you, nothing changes. Ian Hope."

When his face emerged again, it was expressionless, as if cast in wax.

He flicked the cold sweat from his palm and strode toward the bedside. Tearing off his nightclothes, he pulled on his formal uniform of black bear fur, then his boots and cloak in swift succession.

He moved toward the door but stopped short. His gaze fell upon the table beside the bed, more precisely, upon the large steel circlet resting there.

The steel crown bore no ornamentation. Its ends met and rose upward like sharpened blades. It was a holy relic, forged by melting down the blade of Karha’s ax in sacred flame. At the same time, it symbolized the ruler of the North.

He rarely wore it, finding it tight and cumbersome.

Shing—

Olaf snatched it up and pressed the steel circlet firmly onto his polished scalp before striding toward the door.

"To your posts! Now!"

The moment he stepped into the hallway, the uproar outside became clearer.

"Damn it, does His Grace truly intend to stand against the Demigod of the North?"

"We will hold within the castle! Those are His Grace’s orders! Move!"

"Karha, forgive us!"

The voices of commanders and soldiers rang in Olaf’s ears as he strode forward. It was more than enough to make sparks flare in his eyes and his brow twist further.

"Cursed fools..."

Grinding his teeth hard enough to crack them, Olaf quickened his pace.

As he descended the stairway along the wall, a bearded, middle-aged man greeted him as if waiting.

"Your Grace!" It was Bilmor, the official responsible for managing the affairs of the castle and the city.

Olaf glanced at his pale, lined face and spoke without slowing. "Delmir! Where is Duke Delmir?"

He was speaking of the archmage of the Red Magic Tower, his closest adviser.

Bilmor hurried to his side and bowed his head with a troubled expression. "Th-that is... I only just learned of it myself, but Duke Delmir has left the castle."

Olaf stopped short. He turned toward Bilmor, his voice low and restrained. "Left?"

"Yes. A servant claims he departed his quarters at dawn. He left word not to stop him and headed outside. He has not returned."

"Why? Don’t tell me—" Olaf’s eyes widened abruptly.

Red mages would certainly be among the returning forces. Among those unstable spellcasters, there was bound to be at least one who had sent word ahead to that silver-tongued old man.

"If we question the gatekeepers, we can confirm whether he truly left the city. Shall I have it checked at once?" Bilmor asked carefully.

Olaf bared his teeth and resumed walking. "No need! If he has already left, what good would that do? See that the castle forces are properly deployed!"

"Yes, Your Grace."

"These irresponsible spellcasters... They swallowed everything I gave them without complaint, and now—" He trailed off, then frowned when he noticed Bilmor still following him.

Meeting Olaf’s sharp gaze, Bilmor lowered his head again. "Young Lord Utrid has come upon hearing the news. He requests an audience with Your Grace."

That had clearly been what Bilmor meant to report from the beginning.

"And the others are likely—"

"Where is he now?" Olaf cut him off.

Bilmor answered immediately, "He should be waiting in the grand hall."

"I will see him at once. Withdraw and ensure the castle forces are properly stationed."

When Olaf waved his hand, Bilmor finally stopped. His voice followed Olaf’s retreating back. "Your Grace... are you truly going to stand against him?"

Olaf neither halted nor answered, nor did he turn around. If he did, he felt he might kill Bilmor on the spot. There had been a reverence in Bilmor's voice—one very different from the way he addressed him.

Step— step—

Instead, Olaf quickened his stride. Anger was useful. The chill in his blood burned away, and the trembling in his limbs ceased.

"Your Grace!"

Passing servants who rushed about in panic, Olaf entered the great hall, where Utrid waited.

The young man, tall and broad like his father and wearing a neatly groomed beard, stepped forward.

Olaf nodded. "You came at once upon hearing the news. Good. Come with me—"

"You have ordered the gates barred? And I hear you have sent most of the forces to the walls!" Utrid burst out before Olaf could finish.

Olaf’s brow creased as he strode closer. "And why is that a problem?"

"How could it not be? General Harald commands the legion at this moment! He is my father-in-law!" Utrid struck his chest.

Olaf stopped short and roared, "You wretch living under your wife’s thumb! Do you even know who Harald is returning with?"

"Of course I do! The Dragon Slayer, the agent of the Great Platinum Dragon, the Demigod of the North, Margrave Ian Hope!" Utrid shouted back without yielding.

Olaf’s face twisted like that of an enraged bear. "And the barbarian legion that follows him! I never granted them permission to set foot on my land! I declared they would be judged for treason! It was Harald who defied my command first!"

Harald had been one of the few men Olaf believed would never betray him. That only deepened the fury burning in his chest.

"Your Grace—no... Father—"

"Silence, you weakling! If you have nothing but such nonsense to say, begone! This is no time to argue with you!"

Meeting his father’s savage glare, Utrid pressed on. "You must open the gates. They may have disobeyed your command, but they have returned after repelling the monster invasion. If you deny them entry, the North itself will descend into civil war!"

"Did you ride here?" Olaf’s face had gone eerily blank as he interrupted.

Utrid blinked, thrown off. "...Yes?"

"I asked if you rode here."

"Y-Yes. I did. But why— Father?" Utrid inhaled sharply.

Olaf had already turned and was striding from the hall at a near run.

"Your Grace! Where are you going? Surely you are not heading to the walls? Your Grace—" Utrid’s urgent voice chased after him, but Olaf did not respond.

That damned fool... all of them...

Rage churned within him.

As Utrid had guessed, he was heading for the gate, not merely to escape further arguments.

I must look at him myself and settle this face-to-face.

Swinging into the saddle of the horse tethered before the hall, Olaf ground his teeth again.

Everyone revered that man. If he remained holed up inside the castle, they would assume he feared him as well.

It was true—but letting them see it was another matter.

This is the only way left for me to defend the North.

Olaf yanked hard on the reins. The horse reared, wheeled, and surged forward onto the bridge leading into the city.

Clatter— clatter—

The horse carrying Olaf thundered across the main avenue. Townspeople who had ventured into the streets, their faces caught between fear and curiosity, spotted him and hurriedly bowed, retreating to either side.

Olaf did not spare them a glance.

His gaze remained fixed on the towering walls ahead—and the tightly shut gate at their center.

The bell had nearly fallen silent. The rebel legion must be almost at the gate.

"Open the gate!"

The faint shout reached him between the pounding of hooves just as he neared the walls. It had come from beyond them.

He was not too late. A strange mix of relief and anger surged through him as he pulled on the reins.

"Your Grace."

The horse halted, breathing hard. Soldiers guarding the stairway leading up the walls hastily bowed their heads.

Thud—

Olaf dismounted in a heavy leap and strode forward.

"Out of my way."

The soldiers scrambled aside. Even as he brushed past them and mounted the steps, Olaf caught the fear in their eyes and a trace of resentment directed at him.

His brow twitched as he climbed, fists clenched.

A stubborn voice rang out above him.

"With all due respect, General, even so, we cannot open the gates."

It was General Torvien, commander of Travelga’s garrison. "We cannot admit those forbidden from entering the mainland. It is His Grace’s order. Have them withdraw and await further instruction."

"Did you not hear what I just said?"

The thunderous reply that followed was equally familiar. It was Harald—his in-law, the very man Olaf had appointed supreme commander of the Calbrook defense.

"I will answer directly to His Grace! Now show proper respect and open these gates at once!"

Olaf’s fist trembled at the sound of that infuriating voice. He paused on the steps and drew a long breath, unwilling to appear winded or shaken.

"You fools! Why do you stand idle? Will you not carry my words to His Grace at once?" Harald’s roar echoed again.

Olaf opened his eyes sharply and resumed climbing. "That will not be necessary, General!"

The entire area fell silent. Only the wind swept through as Olaf stepped onto the battlements.

The soldiers lining the wall with crossbows turned toward him. Beyond them stood General Torvien and his adjutant atop the gate tower.

"I have come here myself." Without so much as glancing at them, Olaf strode to the parapet. He leaned forward, looking down over the long column stretching below.

"Your Grace!"

Harald and Gelud looked up at him from horseback. Olaf swept his gaze across them—and over the woman, unmistakably the Saintess, her hood pulled low.

And then he froze.

At the center of the formation sat a man surrounded by heavily armed knights and hooded figures.

He was mounted on a horse as black as his hair, looking up at Olaf.

Ian Hope!

The moment their eyes met, the man’s lips curved faintly upward, as though in greeting.