The Banquet (5)

The Crown Prince of Lovina collapsed through the double doors like a marionette with its strings cut.

His ceremonial armor—gleaming silver etched with the Belmont crest—was slick with blood, the crimson pooling beneath him in an ever-expanding circle. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps, each exhale flecking his lips with froth. The banquet's music died mid-note. A noblewoman's wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering on the marble.

Then the screaming began.

King Alden's chair toppled backward as he surged to his feet. Sophia's hands flew to her mouth, her golden eyes wide with horror. The Pontifex's holy symbol blazed to life, casting sharp shadows across the frozen faces of the nobility.

And Julius Vaelorian?

He let his own expression mirror theirs—mouth slightly parted, brows drawn in shock.

But behind the mask, his mind was a storm of cold, razor-edged calculation.

Right on time.

---

Chaos erupted.

Guards surged forward, their swords ringing from their scabbards. Nobles scrambled backward, overturning tables in their panic. Somewhere, a child wailed.

Julius moved.

He was at the Crown Prince's side in three long strides, his white hair catching the light like a banner. Dropping to one knee, he pressed two fingers to Aldric's throat—a pantomime of checking for a pulse.

Sophia crashed down beside him, her hands fluttering over her brother's wounds. "Julius—help me—!"

His voice was steady, calm. The perfect picture of controlled urgency. "Pressure here." He guided her shaking hands to the worst wound—a deep gash just below the ribs. "Keep firm. Don't let up."

Outwardly: a hero.

Inwardly: a clockwork god, watching his gears turn.

The blood is arterial but not immediately fatal. The assassins followed orders perfectly.

Joseph materialized at his shoulder, his sword drawn. "My lord, the hall—"

"Secure the exits," Julius ordered, loud enough for nearby nobles to hear. "No one leaves until we find who did this."

As Joseph moved to obey, Julius allowed himself a single, calculated glance toward the high table.

The Pontifex watched him with the quiet intensity of a cat at a mousehole.

Merlin's fingers tightened around his staff.

And Alex Clay—

Ah.

The Hero's sword was already drawn, its edge glowing faintly with holy light. His eyes burned into Julius with undisguised suspicion.

Julius gave him the barest nod—respect between adversaries—before turning back to Sophia.

"The healers are coming," he murmured, squeezing her shoulder. "Stay with him."

Her fingers, slick with her brother's blood, caught his wrist. "Where are you going?"

Julius met her gaze, letting just enough steel show beneath the concern.

"To end this."

---

The banquet hall had become a battlefield.

Julius moved through the chaos like a specter, his every action a masterpiece of misdirection.

- A "stumble" sent a platter of silverware crashing into an assassin's path, spoiling his lunge at Duke Blackwood.

- A "frantic" shove knocked a noblewoman clear of a crossbow bolt—one that would have only grazed her anyway.

- A "desperate" grab for a fallen guard's sword left his sleeve torn, revealing the faintest glimpse of blackened veins beneath.

*Let them see. Let them wonder.*

Near the shattered remains of the dessert table, Merlin stood encircled by six attackers—his staff weaving an intricate pattern through the air. Each movement sent bursts of arcane energy rippling outward, tossing assassins aside like ragdolls.

Julius ducked under a wild knife swing, driving his elbow into the attacker's throat. As the man crumpled, he caught Merlin's eye.

"They're targeting spellcasters first," Julius called. "Your magic makes you a priority."

Merlin's answering smile didn't reach his eyes. "How observant."

A flick of the Sorcerer King's wrist sent a pulse of force past Julius's shoulder, obliterating an assassin mid-leap.

Julius didn't flinch.

"You're welcome," Merlin said dryly.

Julius flashed a grin. "I'll send a thank-you note."

He moved on before Merlin could respond, weaving toward the heart of the melee where Alex fought back-to-back with Arthur Blackwood—an alliance of necessity.

The Hero's blade moved with inhuman precision, each strike leaving afterimages of golden light. Arthur fought with brute force, his greatsword cleaving through attackers in wide, brutal arcs.

Julius "accidentally" deflected a dagger meant for Arthur's blind spot.

The young lord's eyes widened. "Vaelorian—?"

"Don't mention it," Julius said, already turning away.

Alex's voice stopped him. "You're favoring your left side."

Julius didn't look back. "Old injury."

Lie.

The pain in his right arm had been growing steadily since the first drop of the Crown Prince's blood hit the floor. Beelzebub's power writhed beneath his skin, drawn to the violence like a shark to blood.

He needed to end this performance soon.

---

Silence fell as suddenly as it had broken.

The last assassin slumped to the ground, a throwing knife protruding from his eye socket. The nobles panted, their fine clothes torn and stained. The King stood surrounded by his guards, his face ashen but regal.

And the Pontifex—

The Pontifex was untouched. Not a single crease in his robes, not a hair out of place. His golden eyes swept the room before settling on Julius.

"Lord Vaelorian," he said, his voice carrying effortlessly. "You fought bravely."

Julius inclined his head, letting a sheen of sweat glisten at his temples. "Anyone would have done the same."

The Pontifex's smile was beatific. "Would they?"

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

Merlin stepped forward, his staff tapping against the bloody marble. "The prince lives. Thanks in no small part to your quick actions, Julius."

Careful.

Julius allowed himself a modest shrug. "Sophia did the hard work."

Alex's sword hadn't lowered an inch. "You moved like you knew the attacks were coming."

The words hung in the air like a guillotine's blade.

Julius met the Hero's gaze without flinching. "I've survived three assassination attempts this year alone. Patterns emerge."

Before Alex could press further, the Pontifex raised a hand. "This is not the time for accusations. The Crown Prince needs healing. The kingdom needs stability." His gaze never left Julius. "And you, Lord Vaelorian, need your wounds seen to."

Julius looked down.

The sleeve of his right arm was soaked through—not with blood, but with something darker, thicker. The fabric clung to his skin, revealing the outline of writhing black veins.

The nobles recoiled.

Sophia's breath hitched. "Julius…?"

He flexed his fingers, watching the way the tendons moved beneath the creeping corruption.

"Poison," he said lightly. "Nothing our healers can't handle."

Lie.

The Pontifex's smile deepened. "Of course. Shall I escort you?"

Julius matched his smile. "I wouldn't dream of troubling you, Your Holiness."

A beat.

Two.

The Pontifex inclined his head. "As you wish."

---

The royal vaults lay beneath three layers of warded doors, each more imposing than the last.

Julius disabled them all with methodical precision:

1. **The First Door:** Guarded by twin knights sworn to silence. Joseph distracted them with news of a second attack in the gardens.

2. **The Second Door:** Sealed with a puzzle lock attuned to Belmont blood. Julius produced a handkerchief still damp with the Crown Prince's lifeblood.

3. **The Third Door:** Warded with holy sigils that burned the unholy. Julius let Beelzebub's power rise just enough to corrupt them from within.

The final door swung open without a sound.

The vault stretched before him—a cathedral of treasures illuminated by floating orbs of mage-light.

- **The Phoenix Crown**, said to grant its wearer visions of past and future.

- **The Gauntlets of Titanus**, capable of shattering mountains with a single blow.

- **The Tear of Solaris**, a gem containing a fragment of the sun itself.

And there, at the heart of the chamber, suspended in a cage of golden light:

**Kurozai.**

The Necro Blade. The Sword of the Demon King.

Its blade drank in the light, darker than the void between stars. The hilt pulsed like a living heart, wrapped in leather Julius knew was human skin. The air around it vibrated with a sound almost like whispering.

Julius approached it as a pilgrim might approach an altar.

"They said you were destroyed," he murmured.

The whispers grew louder.

He reached out—

---

Pain.

White-hot. Cleansing.

Julius looked down.

His right arm was gone. Severed cleanly at the elbow, the stump cauterized by what could only be holy fire. No blood spilled—the wound was sealed instantly.

He staggered back, his vision swimming.

"Ah…"

The whisper slipped out before he could stop it.

Behind him, silk rustled against stone.

"Did you truly believe," murmured the Pontifex, "that I wouldn't notice?"

Julius turned.

The Pontifex stood framed in the vault doorway, his golden robes unmarred by battle. In one hand, he held a sword of pure light. In the other—

Julius's severed arm, already crumbling to ash.

"You played the hero beautifully," the Pontifex continued, stepping forward. "But heroes don't covet the weapons of demons."

Julius coughed, tasting iron. His knees hit the ground.

The Pontifex loomed over him, his holy blade rising.

"Tell me, Julius," he whispered. "When you meet your god, will he recognize you?"

The light descended.

And Julius—

Julius laughed.

---

Black fire erupted from the stump of Julius's arm.

The Pontifex's blade met not flesh, but a writhing tendril of pure shadow. The holy steel hissed like water on hot iron.

Julius raised his head, his eyes now pools of endless black.

"Funny," he rasped, as the darkness coiled around him. "I was going to ask you the same thing."

The last thing he saw before the vault exploded into chaos was the Pontifex's smile finally, finally slipping.