CH: 31: The Winner In All This?!

{Chapter: 31: The Winner In All This?!}

To them, Ottok's crimes weren't atrocities. They were backstories. Drama. Flavor. It made the show more thrilling.

The only difference between Ottok and them was that he had done his killing with his own hands, while they paid to watch others do it for them. But nobles did it with their own hands; however, it wasn't as cruel as any killing or r@p£ Ottok had committed in his whole life.

To the crowd, the fight in the arena wasn't about justice or morality. It was about satisfaction. It was about seeing someone brutalize a beast and walk away bathed in gore. It was about feeling power without earning it.

The nobility belonged to a similar category, albeit with much greater deprivation.

The irony wasn't lost on Dex.

Seated high above in the private box, Dex gazed at the maddened spectators and listened to the wild moans and screams from the rooms around him with a faint smile playing on his lips. His eyes—cold and unreadable—gleamed as he watched the chaos unfold beneath and around him. Unlike the others, Dex wasn't swept up in the hysteria. He was calm. Calculated.

And thoroughly amused.

This, to him, was art.

As a demon, he found the raw, unfiltered hatred, the raw pain and pleasure, and bloodlust of mortals particularly delicious. There was something about watching humans reveal their truest natures in moments like this that made his blood stir.

Dex, of course, loved it.

Unlike the dull-eyed indifference he often showed, there was a spark in him now. The demon blood within him—ancient and cruel—stirred at the sight of so many humans revealing their true selves.

It was delicious.

Even the fruit he held in his clawed hand seemed to taste better.

He chuckled to himself as the Qiya Demon Lion lunged again.

From the brutal arena floor to the velvet-lined box seats, the participants and the observers were united by one truth: To the nobles who are falling more deeper into depravity there is one truth among all:

Everyone was satisfied.

Even if for different reasons and ways.

---

More than ten minutes passed.

The battle had drawn to a close.

Ottok stood at the center of the blood-soaked arena, his body battered and torn. His chest heaved violently, his lungs working like dying bellows as he drew sharp, gasping breaths into his bruised body. Blood dripped from multiple wounds, including the mangled stump where his left hand had once been.

Only fragments of his armor remained, clinging to him like shredded leaves in a storm. His entire form was painted in sweat, dirt, and gore.

And beside him lay the Qiya Demon Lion, defeated.

The creature's massive body was still twitching with residual energy, but the fight had been drained from it. Its most grievous wound—an unrecognizable pulp of flesh on its forehead—was evidence enough of Ottok's savagery. The beast's skull had been caved in repeatedly by the brute's heavy axe, leaving bone, brain, and blood baking in the sun. A rancid stench of scorched fat filled the air around it.

The arena roared.

Thousands of people chanted Ottok's name, their voices echoing through the marble arches and shaking the very foundations of the Colosseum. Some called out with awe. Others shouted with blind rage. And yet others—perhaps the most honest of all—screamed in ecstatic, breathless adoration.

At that moment, Ottok was no longer a criminal.

He was a champion.

No one cared about the blood and innocence on his hands anymore. No one whispered about the lives he had ended or the women he had broken. The sins of his past were suddenly irrelevant. Swept under the rug. Forgotten.

Why?

Because he had won.

And when you're a winner, people will find reasons to forgive anything.

Even murder.

Even r@p£.

As the crowd's cheers continued to rise, so too did their hypocrisy.

Some who knew about the bodies still managed to say, "We weren't there, how can we know what really happened?" Others whispered, "Those girls... weren't they known to be loose anyway?" And for most, the prevailing thought was simple: It's not my problem. Why should I care?

Such is the nature of humanity—and perhaps all intelligent life.

People love to preach morality when it costs them nothing. But when it's inconvenient, when the sinner is useful or entertaining, their mercy grows wide and generous—especially when that mercy isn't theirs to give.

He was a champion.

The ancient instinct of humanity—to worship strength—had reared its head again. Justice was irrelevant. Morality was a whisper drowned beneath the roar of the crowd.

As long as he kept winning, Ottok would be forgiven. Celebrated.

Some even whispered that his crimes were exaggerated. Maybe the girls had gone to him willingly. That the people he killed had deserved it. The rumors spread like smoke. No one cared to confirm them.

They didn't want the truth. They wanted a legend.

And so they made one.

---

Dex, standing in the high balcony with his entourage, gave the field one last look. His golden eyes narrowed.

"This is what they cheer for," he muttered. Then, to the three men beside him: "We're done here. Let's go back."

He didn't look back.

---

Several days later…

The wind howled across the Galit Plains, carrying with it the stench of smoke and blood.

Inside the war room of Mogus Fortress, the atmosphere was tense. A large wooden table dominated the center of the room, topped by a sand-table map displaying troop movements, barricade locations, and areas recently lost to the enemy.

Crown Prince James stood at its edge, hands clenched behind his back, brow furrowed in thought. Around him were several armored officers, each with weary eyes and grim expressions. The lines of exhaustion and anxiety were etched into their faces.

The war had not gone well.

What had begun as a calculated military campaign had devolved into a slow and painful retreat. The Principality of Marton, once confident and proud, had been forced into a corner. A series of catastrophic strategic blunders had cost them dearly—towns overrun, supply lines severed, soldiers lost in the thousands.

The enemy advanced steadily, methodically, pressing their advantage with terrifying precision. No one dared to call it a rout—not yet—but every officer in that room knew the truth:

They were losing.

And unless something changed soon, they wouldn't just lose territory.

They would lose everything.

The war was far from one-sided—but to call it a balanced conflict would've been a gross overstatement. The Principality of Marton, once considered a stronghold of stability in the region, now found itself staggering under the relentless pressure of a coordinated and unyielding enemy assault.

While Marton's soldiers had fought with admirable valor, their courage could not compensate for the disastrous strategic blunders made early in the campaign. Those early mistakes had cost them dearly—not just in soldiers, but in territory, morale, and, perhaps most critically, the confidence of their own people. Entire defensive lines had collapsed, key border cities had been lost in a matter of days, and once-thriving supply routes now lay in enemy hands.

The proud armies of Marton, battered and demoralized, were now in full retreat. They dared not face the enemy in open battle, for to do so would be suicide. Skirmishes were avoided unless absolutely necessary, and every hill, river, and fortress they abandoned felt like another nail in the coffin of a nation that had once believed itself invincible.

Inside the command tent of Mogus Fortress—now converted into the temporary war room—Crown Prince James Woz sat in silent agony. His back ached from the stiff wooden chair beneath him, and his temples throbbed with the kind of headache that came not from fatigue, but from despair. He had just finished listening to several long-winded proposals from his senior generals—some urging caution, others suggesting a desperate final stand—but none offering a true solution.

He pressed his fingertips into his brow and let out a sharp exhale. His voice was low, muttered under his breath, but filled with venomous frustration.

"This is a mess…"

And it was. An absolute, miserable mess.

As crown prince, his responsibilities extended far beyond the battlefield. External threats were only half the equation. Internally, he was surrounded by opportunistic nobles—vultures dressed in silk and gold—who sensed weakness like blood in water. The moment they realized the tide of war had turned against them, they had begun sharpening their knives. Not to fight the enemy—but to carve out bigger slices of power for themselves.

Some whispered of succession. Others withdrew their private troops, "for security reasons." A few were already courting emissaries from foreign nations, gambling that Marton's throne wouldn't last another year.

James hated them.

He had fantasized more than once about dragging them all into the dungeon, purging them one by one in a bloody rebirth of the realm. But the conditions weren't right. The royal court was fractured, the treasury bleeding, and the support of the commoners tenuous at best.

So instead, he sat here. In this suffocating tent. In this damned war.

And the world just kept getting worse.

As if the collapse of his kingdom wasn't enough, he had also received the so-called "peace proposal" from the Principality of Ar—an offer that made his stomach churn with rage and humiliation.

It wasn't a treaty. It was a declaration of submission.

Their terms were brutal: open access to border provinces, taxation rights over three cities, an official oath of allegiance to the Aran crown, and—most insultingly—a forced marriage between one of Ar's royal cousins and a Woz bloodline heir. If James agreed, the Woz name would be reduced to little more than a decorative title. A puppet line used for ceremonial processions and pretty signatures.

In simpler terms, it would be the end of Marton as an independent state.

James clenched his jaw so hard it hurt.

If only Father hadn't been so easily manipulated… If only he hadn't placed trust in the whores, hadn't made so many costly miscalculations. None of this would be happening. He wouldn't be standing here cleaning up his mess, one humiliation at a time.

His hand dropped to his coat pocket, where a certain object lay hidden—a gift from the demon named Dex.

His fingers brushed against it, and a shadow passed through his gaze.

It was a simple object in appearance, yet it carried with it a power so vile, so devastating, that even James had hesitated when he first received it. Tens of thousands of lives… all extinguished in an instant, consumed in a ritual of sacrifice.

A forbidden act, even in war.

But now? Now, James was seriously considering it.

"If I sign that treaty, I will be remembered as a coward. A traitor to the bloodline. A prince who knelt when he should've fought."

But if he used the item…

At least then, the story would be different.

People might still hate him. They might call him a butcher, a monster. But they would not call him weak.

And for a future king, being feared or even loathed was preferable to being ridiculed.

In the grand game of nations, mercy was a luxury reserved for the victors. The defeated were judged not for the reasons behind their failure, but by the taste of their defeat. James understood this well. A successful ruler might be hated by history, but he would still be in the history books. The alternative? Obscurity.

He exhaled, steadying himself, and turned to the elderly general beside him—one of the last few commanders still willing to serve with unwavering loyalty.

"Since the army of the Principality of Ar has finished their reorganization, how long before they reach Grindberg?" he asked.

The general, a silver-haired veteran with a face carved by decades of warfare, bowed slightly before answering.

"Your Highness, if their pace remains steady, they will likely reach Grindberg before the sun reaches its zenith."

James nodded. His expression became sharp—focused.

"Very good. Then we still have some time. In that case, issue orders to prepare large quantities of rope. Enough to bind seventy to eighty thousand individuals."

His voice was calm.

Too calm.

A silence followed. The generals present exchanged glances—puzzled, tense.

One younger officer, perhaps more impulsive than the others, furrowed his brow and hesitated before speaking.

"Uh… Your Highness… Forgive me, but when you say 'prepare ropes' for seventy or eighty thousand people… are you suggesting that we—uh—tie ourselves up and surrender to the enemy?"

The room froze. One could hear the breath catch in every man's throat.

James snapped his gaze toward the man and scoffed.

"Don't be absurd. The ropes are for them. For the enemy soldiers we are about to capture."

A wave of nervous laughter rippled through the room.

"…Ah. Of course. As you command, Your Highness."

But the uncertainty remained. And it wasn't just the younger officers.

Many generals lowered their gazes, their faces caught between disbelief and resignation. They had seen the pressure mounting on the prince, day after day. They had watched him age ten years in ten weeks. They knew that this war was slowly killing him from the inside.

Some of the older generals wept openly. Not from fear, but from guilt. From helplessness. From the painful knowledge that they could do nothing to ease the burden on their prince.

They would have given anything to take up arms, ride into battle, and spill their last drop of blood for their homeland. But those days had passed. Now they were administrators of defeat, scribes of a crumbling kingdom.

'The pressure on His Highness is too great after all!'

Several older generals immediately burst into tears.

They can't wait to go into battle and kill the enemy to serve their country!

He could only let them use their imagination.

James saw the tears, and for a brief moment, he was tempted to say something. To explain. To reassure.

But what could he say?

That he was planning a mass sacrificial offering? That he was trading lives for power?

No words would make that right.

So instead, he stayed silent.

Let them imagine what they would.

Let them believe in one last victory.

Even if that belief was built on blood.

*****

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