Chapter 639: The Collapsing Statue
"The speech is about to begin. Please remain quiet. Due to recent unrest, the Empire is acting in your best interest for safety—"
A familiar male voice echoed from the loudspeakers at the Ceremonial Plaza.
In the crowded throng, Fael couldn't help but clench his fists, veins bulging on his forehead. Hatred blazed openly in his eyes beneath the hood.
"Hans... One day, I will kill you," Fael growled through gritted teeth.
This Count Hans had only recently taken office as an imperial official. His origins were mysterious, but he was mainly tasked with maintaining order in Dragonhead City—or, more precisely, in Collins City.
Barely into his post, Count Hans had displayed ruthless efficiency. He discovered the exact time and location of a Dawn Crusade operation, and set a deadly trap, nearly annihilating every member involved.
Then, he publicly executed the captured rebels, hanging them on gallows for three days and nights. The horrifying spectacle threw all of Dragonhead City into terror. Even devout believers no longer dared to aid the Dawn Crusade.
Fael had taken part in that attack. He would've ended up dangling from the gallows too.
It was his comrade—his childhood friend—Nico Gibson who had shielded him at the cost of his own life, allowing Fael to escape the Empire's deadly net.
Now, hearing that familiar voice again, Fael could vividly recall the image of Nico's mutilated body hanging there. His entire body shuddered.
Clutching the crossbow in his hand, Fael muttered, "Nico, do you see this? The time for vengeance is near."
Days ago, the Empire issued a decree forcing the populace to attend the speech. According to the Dawn Crusade's deductions, the speaker was likely to be Count Hans himself.
That damned dragon lackey had just orchestrated a bloodbath—surely, he now sought to intimidate every citizen and resistance faction in the city to further his ambition of enslaving the Aetherians.
Fael's solo mission—was to assassinate Count Hans.
Fael knew full well this was a one-way trip.
Given the discipline of the Empire's guards, the moment he struck, he would be riddled with bullets.
But he felt no fear. He no longer cherished his life. Only the conviction of revenge kept him breathing.
Ingrid's smile, Nico's dying words, Karen's roar—each memory was kindling that fanned the flames of vengeance.
"Evil dragon, I'll fight you and your lapdogs to the bitter end!" Fael silently screamed toward the stage, his bloodshot eyes seething with hatred.
The Ceremonial Plaza was overflowing with forcibly gathered Aetherians. Tiefling guards and wyvern riders patrolled in increasing numbers.
Fael knew the speech was about to start.
He quietly loaded the Sun God wrist-crossbow, lowered his hood, and looked around for a suitable position.
With such heavy security, he had only one shot. One failure meant an inescapable death—and with it, his chance for revenge would vanish.
In the crowd ahead, he saw the dragon-blooded noble smiling falsely as he waved to the people, flanked by Tiefling guards.
"Despicable bastard."
Fael looked up—yes, it was him, Count Hans, the butcher of seventeen Dawn Crusaders!
But the timing wasn't right. Too many eyes. He had to wait until Hans was on stage, full of smugness—then strike.
Only then would the Aetherians see that the Ember Empire was not invincible, that even dragon lackeys could bleed.
He would make them realize—Emperor Amanata had not forsaken North Aether!
But Fael noticed someone beside Hans—a woman cloaked in an imperial robe. Her graceful figure couldn't be hidden by the attire.
Strangely, she felt familiar. Comforting. But he couldn't recall where he'd seen her.
"Another Empire official? Hmph. Just another vulture."
But then Hans didn't ascend the platform as Fael expected. Instead, the woman began climbing the steps—reluctantly.
Hans remained surrounded by guards, unmoving, smiling as he watched her.
Fael's face darkened beneath his hood. "So Hans isn't the speaker..."
But he swiftly reaffirmed his resolve. He checked his crossbow and kept scanning for a chance to shoot the woman.
He didn't know her—but she served the Empire. That alone was reason enough for her to die.
Who she was didn't matter. What mattered was breaking the people's fear of the Empire. Destroying the red dragon's idol.
Fael slowly raised his hand, pretending to adjust his collar, but he was actually lining up the shot.
"Come on..."
He licked his dry lips. The sharp bolt aimed at her brow. His finger rested on the trigger.
"Let this be the end of the evil dragon's tyranny."
One pull—and the sun-blessed bolt would pierce her skull and end this mockery of a speech.
But just then, the woman removed her hood, revealing her face.
Gasps swept the crowd.
Fael stood frozen, jaw dropped. Confusion, shock, and disbelief clashed in his bloodshot eyes.
Impossible...
The fair face and golden hair of the woman onstage merged with the dreamlike figure etched in Fael's memory.
That image belonged in dreams, not reality. What was she doing up there?
Was he dreaming?
Or...
A thousand thoughts flooded Fael's mind. The perfect statue in his heart was cracking.
He went pale, lips trembling. He whispered, "Ingrid..."
The Aetherians around him murmured too.
"Gods, she's alive!"
"It's Bishop Ingrid!"
"Is it really her?"
"Didn't Emperor Cassius kill her? Was that just a rumor?"
"Even Bishop Ingrid has pledged loyalty to the Empire?"
In Collins City, the Church had once held great sway—and Ingrid's prestige was legendary.
Bathed in stares, Ingrid scanned the crowd's many familiar yet changed faces, forcing a smile.
Clutching her robe, she spoke gently: "Everyone, long time no see. I'm Ingrid Garces, former honorary bishop of Collins Diocese, and now..."
She paused briefly, then continued, "Court Cleric of the Empire."
"What?!"
"Bishop Ingrid has really joined the Empire!"
Fael's pupils dilated. The statue in his heart crumbled.
Everything he'd done now felt meaningless—worse, a cruel joke.
"No, this can't be true!" Fael shook his head violently, collapsing backward. "It's all lies! Lady Ingrid would never become a dragon's slave!"
He threw off his sleeve, revealing the crossbow. Nearly fired it in panic.
People nearby scattered in fear. Some recognized him.
"Enemy attack! Secure the area!"
Tiefling guards rushed in from all directions, rifles raised, surrounding the "madman."
"He's armed!"
"He's on the wanted list—Fael of the Dawn Crusade!"
"Catch him! Don't let him escape!"
Fael was pinned to the ground, shackled. But he struggled, shouting through tears: "Lady Ingrid would never surrender!"
On stage, Ingrid heard the commotion and turned. She saw a familiar face, now aged and worn.
"Is that... Fael?"
Fael had once been a blind youth. Ingrid had healed him with divine magic. He'd devoted himself to the Church ever since.
Ingrid remembered him as quiet and devout, always early to worship.
She couldn't reconcile that gentle youth with the raving "terrorist" before her.
How had he ended up like this?
Hearing his shouts as he was dragged away, Ingrid longed to help—but felt powerless. She silently whispered, "I'm sorry."
She was filled with guilt toward her former Church brethren—but had no other choice.
Years in Istalria had shown her the Empire's might. Aetherian resistance was hopeless.
All she could do was minimize losses. Save as many lives as possible.
"I'm sorry... but this is all I can do."
She took a deep breath and picked up the speech Hans had prepared for her.
"I came here to tell you—I am not dead. The rumors that Emperor Cassius killed me are false.
My fellow citizens, the Ember Empire seeks not to exploit, but to create a peaceful and advanced new order.
His Majesty Cassius once said: 'All revolutions stir fierce backlash from the old powers.'"
And so, under gentle sunlight, Ingrid calmly delivered the Empire's policies and ideals. The Aetherians below listened quietly.
It was like years ago, when she had once preached Amanata's teachings.
Dragonhead Prison. In a dark, damp dungeon.
"No... Impossible...
Lady Ingrid is dead. She's dead. This is all lies..."
Fael, disheveled and filthy, curled in a cell corner, shivering.
People said he'd gone mad. But Fael knew—if he accepted it, everything he'd done would be meaningless.
With his faith shattered, he deceived himself—trying to rebuild his broken idol from fragments.
"Tap. Tap. Tap."
Footsteps approached.
Fael looked up, trembling. The man wore formal imperial dress, bore a dragonblood sigil. Looked thirty-ish—Count Hans.
Enemies face-to-face, eyes blazed.
Fael grabbed the bars, slammed his head against them, shouting: "You! You dragon-loving bastard! You lied to me! You monsters murdered Lady Ingrid long ago!"
Hans shook his head. "Fael, stop pretending to be insane. It only makes you more pathetic. You know the truth. You just don't want to face it."
"You—"
Fael slumped. His eyes empty. He muttered, "No... It can't be true..."
He looked up, tears streaking his face. "Where is Lady Ingrid? I want to see her!"
"Fael Greyd, you led multiple uprisings, dealt great harm to the Empire and public order. By law, you deserve the gallows. You have no right to see Lady Ingrid.
But... she remembers the past. She's giving you a chance to atone. Hand over all intel on the Dawn Crusade and its affiliates—you'll see her again."
"But..."
"No 'but.'"
Hans stood at the bars, looking down at him.
"His Majesty Cassius once said, 'An intelligent betrayal is better than a foolish loyalty.' You know what that means."
Fael was silent. Then he asked, "Can I ask one last thing?"
"Of course."
"Are those her own words? Lady Ingrid's?"
"What do you think?" Hans leaned close, that half-dragon face wearing a cryptic smile—one Fael found more terrifying than any demon's.