The Royal Wedding
The heavy rain eased into a light drizzle. The drums and horns that had pierced through the downpour also fell silent.
Having climbed the steps, Roberta silently looked at Ulrich's back as he stood with his hands resting on the railing. From the royal seating of the jousting arena, he gazed out over the entire scene.
A deep silence still lingered across the arena. Hundreds were present, yet not a word was spoken. The anomaly had stolen their senses. Each person struggled to comprehend what had just happened.
Why had mana disappeared? Why had it drained away? Why had it returned?
They sought answers—but among those present, only a few knew the truth. Roberta was one of them.
He tampered with the celestial register.
Just like before.
She recalled the village of Tapio, the apprentice priest. In that village blessed by the evil god Kunkan, what had Ulrich done? He had removed names from Kunkan's register and inscribed them anew into the registers of Dieus and Ganymea.
The same had happened to Oxsana, the wife of Lord Matthias. The witch who had turned her stepdaughter into a four-legged beast had transformed into a crow to escape—only to lose her mana and collapse.
At the time, Roberta had assumed Oxsana had made some foolish mistake and lost control of her magic. But now, looking back, she realized—
Even then, Ulrich had already been manipulating the celestial register right before her eyes.
"Sir Ulrich."
As Roberta approached, Ulrich turned around. Still in disguise, he appeared as a bearded man in his forties. No matter how many times she saw it, his skill in disguise was remarkable.
"What of Moretti?"
"Fritz is handling him with the patrol. Shall I bring him here?"
She added that the three conspirators they had captured were being interrogated.
"No, that won't be necessary. It won't mean much."
"Won't mean much?"
"They're merely the tail. Not the masterminds behind what we witnessed—just a severed tail. You saw it yourself, didn't you? Do those three have the skill to assassinate the archbishop?"
"Not to that extent… no. They were skilled, but not that skilled."
Archbishop Vinicio had been killed in the temple along with several guards. To accomplish that without causing a disturbance required exceptional ability—and in Roberta's judgment, Moretti and his companions did not possess that level of skill.
"Exactly. The ones we're looking for are someone else."
There was another mastermind beyond the three they had captured. The one who had generated that immense flow of mana during the confrontation—Ulrich identified that person as the true culprit.
"Someone capable of killing the archbishop and his guards with ease, while also creating such a massive disturbance in mana without being detected."
"Do you think that person is still here?"
"For now, I believe they've left."
For now.
At those words, Roberta scanned the arena. The long silence was beginning to break. People, recovering from the shock, started murmuring among themselves.
The Hilderson clan and the Pantheon-aligned nobles glared at each other with sharpened intensity. Hands tightened around weapons.
The conflict was not over. None of the root causes had been resolved. The anomaly had only stunned them temporarily—soon, the fighting would resume.
"Then… they'll return."
"If we don't settle things now, they will."
Keeping her eyes fixed on the arena, Roberta asked in a low voice:
"Will you reveal yourself here?"
Instead of answering, Ulrich gave a faint smile.
He reached behind his head, tying back his rain-soaked brown hair, then removed part of his beard, refining his appearance.
From a shabby middle-aged man in his forties, he transformed into a composed man in his thirties.
Turning back toward the railing, he placed his hands upon it.
At that moment, Count Meyer Wilhelm, who had been watching him closely ever since his arrival, shouted:
"Silence!"
The noise cut off instantly.
People turned to look at Wilhelm—then noticed that both he and King Richard beside him were staring at the same place. Following their gaze, the crowd turned their heads.
And they saw Ulrich.
Under countless eyes, he slowly swept his gaze across the audience before finally speaking.
"Greetings. I am Ulrich—Ulrich of Dithmarschen."
A wave of shock rippled through the crowd. Most stared at him in disbelief, and even members of the Hilderson clan were among them. Yet they only gasped silently, covering their mouths.
"Hard to believe, isn't it? You likely imagined me as a wrinkled old man. You question whether I am truly Ulrich, Duke of Dithmarschen—and if I am, how I can appear so young."
A few people nodded unconsciously.
"This appearance is due to certain circumstances. Those circumstances are not singular—and one of them is something you have just experienced yourselves."
The audience's eyes widened.
"I temporarily took away the source from which you draw mana. Of course, I had no intention of harming you—so I returned it."
Roberta saw someone in the crowd open their mouth, about to voice a suspicion. But as soon as he met Ulrich's gaze, he flinched and turned his head away.
They doubted—how could a human possibly do such a thing? Yet at the same time, the thought that it might be true stirred fear within them. All the spectators, except for the clan, felt the same.
Ulrich swept his gaze over the crowd for a moment before speaking.
"Let me ask you something. In the history you have learned, has there ever been anyone who could perform such a feat?"
There hadn't been. Even Roberta, who had studied at higher institutions, had only read passages in sacred and apocryphal texts where registers were altered. She had never seen any record of a person exercising such power to move names between them.
If even she had not known, there was no chance the newly risen nobles—whose education had been disrupted by civil war—would know.
"Let me ask again. If you were the head of the Holy Church—or the legitimate heir of Kormilius—what would you do with a human who possessed such an ability?"
There had never been anyone like Ulrich, but there had been individuals with strange talents.
Each time, the Holy Church judged them by determining the source of their power. If it came from an evil god, they were deemed a servant and executed. If it came from a benevolent god, they were revered as saints.
"The fact that I have lived for ages as a human without being branded a servant of an evil god—and the whispers you have heard from priests that I should be granted the throne—should give you some idea of the Church's judgment."
Several among the audience groaned softly.
"There is no need to be alarmed. Who would simply watch such an ability without acting? The Pantheon is no different. I have received such offers my entire life—and I have refused them. Even after resolving the turmoil within this kingdom, I refused the throne for the same reason."
Then he added:
"But what the Holy Church—no, the Pantheon—offered me was not merely a kingship. You believe that the Pantheon, through the priests, granted me legitimacy over Osnover. But the crown I was offered… was the crown of an emperor."
Shock turned into outright disbelief. The audience held their breath. It was the same reaction Roberta had when she first heard it.
It was only natural. The masters of the Pantheon were the lineage of Kormilius, and they had established the Third Empire. For them to offer Ulrich the imperial crown meant they were asking him to overthrow that empire and inaugurate a Fourth Age of humanity.
"Can you prove it?"
A noble, unable to hold back, raised his voice.
"Can you prove that what you say is true?"
"Unfortunately, I have no physical evidence. It was arranged verbally, and the only proof—the crown itself—I melted down as soon as I received it. I then used it to make the crown my son now wears."
Then he turned his head.
"However—"
The audience followed his gaze.
Standing in one corner of the stands was a dwarf—Toruhel Aladelione, from the Peyra mountain pass.
Roberta remembered him. He had been seated among the royal guests. Unfortunately, he had not managed to flee before the unrest began and had taken refuge at the edge of the stands to avoid being caught in the fighting.
"Toruhel of the Peyra pass—would you tell us what it was that you crafted?"
Startled by the sudden attention of hundreds of eyes, Toruhel flinched. But after clearing his throat, he steadied himself.
"…It is as the Duke of Dithmarschen said. My brother and I forged the imperial crown. We received the request from the lineage of Kormilius, and we were told it would be offered to the new emperor who would reign over Osnover."
He went on to explain that he had come to Osnover because he had heard that the crown they painstakingly made had been damaged, and he wished to confirm it.
"Thank you for your words. Now—does anyone have anything further to say?"
No one spoke.
The audience stiffened, avoiding his gaze. It would not have been difficult to hire a single dwarf as an actor. But the anomaly they had just experienced was too great to dismiss Ulrich's claims as nonsense.
Ulrich had said he took away the source from which they drew mana—and no one failed to grasp the meaning of that. And as their thoughts reached that point, the reason the Holy Church had supported him also became clear.
A man with such power—and one who had lived for centuries yet remained young. Was it truly so unreasonable to make him emperor?
With tensions between the lineage of Kormilius and the Jokuster dynasty at their peak, seeking a replacement was only natural—and who could be more suitable than him?
Even without knowing the deeper truths that Roberta and the Hilderson clan did, it was not difficult for the audience to understand—and accept—Ulrich's words.
"What I have told you is the reason my son, Richard, stood against the Holy Church—and the truth behind the chaos we face today. It stems from my abilities… and my own indecisive nature. For that, I offer you my apology."
Ulrich bowed his head briefly.
A strained murmur passed through the Hilderson clan.
"If you wish it, my son will step down. If there is someone fit to succeed him, I will entrust the throne to them. But understand this—if you rose seeking the Pantheon's forgiveness, it is a futile endeavor."
Unless someone took up the imperial crown, the Holy Church would not change its stance. There was no one present who failed to understand what that meant.
"There is no reason for us to continue fighting. If you promise to sheathe your swords and grant a reprieve, I will make a promise as well. I will go to the Pantheon and have the excommunication placed upon my son lifted—and the summons upon this land withdrawn. It will take time, of course. But compared to spilling blood on this land again, it is nothing."
When he finished speaking, only the soft sound of drizzle remained.
Ulrich waited in silence for an answer—but even after a long while, no one spoke. Only as he began to turn away did the noble who had spoken earlier call out:
"Why did you refuse it?"
Ulrich smiled faintly, without a sound.
"I already tried it once. It was meaningless."
Roberta caught a hint of bitterness in that smile.
Ulrich turned fully and left. As she looked around at those who remained, they could only stare at the place he had stood—wearing expressions that defied words.
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