Chapter 14
Bendor Estate
It has been three days since Sylas initialized a new save point and three days since the Prince affirmed him as a prophet. While Valen went about the castle, inspecting it and talking with people, Sylas largely remained confined within the fancy quarters, trying to learn to read. As it turned out, he did not in fact know the gibberish lines and dots and whatnots of this world, forcing him to learn. Valen occasionally came about and helped, but since he was fairly busy, Sylas didn’t want to take up the young man’s time.
Grunting in frustration, he put the book down and sighed. Unlike on Earth, there was no 'language for dummies' and 'language for beginners' books and leaflets here. Instead, the expectation was that you were taught to read by someone during your early childhood… or you just never learned at all. Because of this, it felt like trying to learn English by reading Shakespeare most of the time as, within a single sentence, Sylas could pick up two words, perhaps, while the rest were just letters and symbols stitched together.
“Blah, fuck this,” he mumbled and stood up, walking over to what essentially became a buffet and pouring himself a cup of wine. It was painfully sweet, as though he was drinking raw sugar with some alcohol in it, but it was better than nothing. “That noble family should be arriving soon…”
Valen’s information on the family was fairly basic, unfortunately, as they were a minor Baron Estate. Their Patriarch was Baron Cyrs Bendor, a fairly unknown man who obtained his noble status some twenty years ago by fighting in the Ethernia—Vorivard conflict. As far as Valen knew, the man had four children, and no other outstanding features beyond being in charge of the castle. The Prince didn’t even know why the man was sent so far up here and what he had done to earn himself this ‘honor’.
All the same, it mattered little to Sylas; despite there being little entertainment in the middle of nowhere, he had enough on his plate for quite a few, long-winded restarts of the loop in case things went awry. Just to learn the language would likely take months, and that is only considering the most rudimentary reading.
Several more days passed similarly, with Valen overseeing the rebuilding of the collapsed part of the wall and with Sylas mostly confined to the inner sanctum, reading, drinking, and sleeping. There were no more prompts, though, admittedly, he did delay going out and picking up a sword. He decided to leave it for the next restart as he felt there’d be one. Circumstances behind the invasion were just a bit too perfect when it came to the Bendors’ departure. Though Sylas wasn’t going to accuse anyone preemptively, he was preparing to accuse them preemptively.
It was on a fairly cold and windy morning that the announcement reverberated throughout the castle: Bendors were returning. Such news would usually be accompanied by some fanfare, but considering that the castle's denizens were exposed to the Prince himself over the last week, the news elicited few cheers and even fewer gasps of amazement, if any.
Sylas wasn’t among them, however—he was excited for their arrival, if for nothing else but for the break in dry and boring and dull routine he’d developed. Additionally, he was also eager for a restart since the castle had almost completely run out of fruits.
He was perched by the gates first thing in the morning, but then he swiftly spun around and bolted away when he realized his testicles were withdrawing into his throat due to how cold it was. He would have sworn it was around eighteen thousand degrees below zero, and wouldn’t take any other answer. Inside, though not warm, it was much warmer, especially while wrapped inside three layers of thick blankets made from animal hide.
“Can you believe that, My Lord? Only that fat commander welcomed us at the gates,” a high-pitched and somewhat grating voice suddenly spoke from the outside, startling Sylas. Could it be? His smile beamed.
“Hm,” a disinterested grunt was her only reply as the doors open and three figures walked in—a man in his sixties, a woman trying to look forty, instead looking seventy, when in fact she was also likely in her sixties, and a young boy/girl(it was indeterminate) that couldn’t have been older than three-four.
“Aren’t you going to say something?!” the woman persisted as she undid her shawl, revealing her sagging neck that was bare of makeup. “You are the castle’s Lord!”
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“Quiet,” the man said lowly, clearly distracted by something. “Take Ader and leave. I need some peace.”
“But—”
“LEAVE!!” a sudden outburst startled both Sylas and the woman—no, in fact, it startled the young child the most. The thing immediately began crying like crazy, and the woman seemed on the verge of tears as well. Shaking and shivering, she hurriedly picked her child up and scurried out of the room, slamming the door on her way out, leaving the man alone.
He sighed heavily and, still having not noticed Sylas—which wasn’t strange as he was cooped up behind one of the curtains, not to mention wrapped up in several layers of blankets—walked over to a small cupboard, swinging it open and, after fiddling around a bit, retrieving a small, palm-sized bottle of sorts. Shit, so that’s where you keep the good stuff!
The man undid the cap and swung it down, his face immediately decreasing in paleness, his cheeks growing rosier. Nonetheless, his expression turned even darker as he leaned against the table.
“What the hell happened?!” he grumbled, his voice almost bedeviled. Eh? Sylas arched his brows curiously, deciding it was time he stepped out.
“I happened!” he exclaimed softly as he undid the curtain and walked out, startling the man who immediately reached for his waist and drew out a three-fingers-wide longsword, dropping the bottle in the process. The thing fell and crashed against the stone, the shards of glass bleeding out everywhere.
“Who are you?! How did you get in here?!” the man roared a set of questions, his thick beard shaking with his jaw.
“I am the reason for your downtrodden mood, young noble,” Sylas continued his patronizing ways, leaning against the stone and gingerly picking up a few grapes and nibbling away at them. “You expected death, yet life beckoned you. What a miracle!”
“…" Baron Cyrs' eyes widened while the grip on the sword tightened. Sylas already figured he'd die, so it was time to extract some information. He shuddered at the realization of how happy he was.
“Ah, I understand, I understand—the plight of plans and all,” Sylas continued. “But… I couldn’t just let it happen. Though I am vastly more important than them, these are all my fellow men, after all.”
“Just… just who are you? How much do you know?!” the man growled, clearly expecting Sylas to put up a fight and for him to drive the sword through as means of torture.
“Very little, actually,” Sylas, however, had no such intentions. He learned that the best way to get information from someone… is to be an idiot who doesn’t know anything. People get awfully chatty, feeling superior and all, and human vanity just can’t wait to spill all the beans out in the form of bragging. “In fact, I know so little it’s kinda embarrassing. I only know about the wall, about the guard, and about one, true love of every man: e-girls!”
“…humph, wayward beggar!” the Baron sneered coldly. “What? Just because of that you thought you could threaten me? I shall flay you limb for limb, disrespectful cod!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, chill out, man! While, yes, I was perfectly content with blackmailing you for some gold, the truth is actually different; suddenly, bum-fuck-outta-nowhere, I became super suicidal. Like, I can’t expect tomorrow's dawn. But rather than just ending my life, I figured I'd give you a head to behead so, you know, you can vent some of the anger off. In return, all I ask is some clarity on what I prevented… for the afterlife, I mean. Look, I even washed my neck, really, in preparation…"
“…” Sylas ramblings seemed to confuse Baron as he paused, his grip loosening. “Hah! Trying to deceive me?! Fool!”
“Jesus Christ… no, no, I’m not trying to deceive you,” Sylas sighed yet again. “Look at me! Do I look like someone trained in sword and shit? You can cut me up twice the way to Sunday and scramble me like eggs before I could even reach for my belt! Really, I came here to offer you my neck, really! Look, I just ask for some clarity, is all. If you can’t even give me that, then swing away, man. Here,” Sylas bent forward, halfway down, pulling the stray hair away from his neck and showcasing an actually clean neck. “Go for it. I am ready.”
Chop.
You have died.
‘New Dawn’ save point initialized.
“Ah, goddammit,” Sylas woke up grumbling. He truly hoped for at least some information, but perhaps he pushed too hard with the whole ‘chop my neck’ angle. At the very least, he did learn that the Baron was in on it. From how he behaved, it appeared he didn’t realize Prince Valen was in the castle. If he did, he’d have been far more eccentric and crazed, thinking his ploy was seen through.
Nonetheless, he at least had a starting point. He had almost a full week to brainwash the young Prince to hate the Baron with the fuel of a thousand suns and lock him up in a dungeon where they could slowly work on wriggling out answers in-between those crooked teeth.
Just like before, he waited for the Prince to return and replayed the hoodwink almost word for word, convincing the Prince that he was, in fact, a prophet, and then offering the young lad a Kingdom. Everything played out the same, scarily so, in fact—Sylas was somewhat shocked at his power of retention since it was definitely miles better than it was before. Far from perfect, but definitely better.
Following everything, during the third day since the 'New Dawn' and during one of the Prince's few breaks, Sylas decided to drop the bomb.
“Prince,” he said. “God has spoken to me.”
“O-oh?” partly excited and partly nervous, Valen focused on Sylas, holding the glass of wine near his lips but never drinking any. “What… what did He say?”
“He named me one of the main culprits behind the Ghoulish invasion,” Sylas’ words seemed to probe deep through Valen’s psyche, his expression immediately shifting to that of windy chill.
“Who it was? Who dared betrayed their fellow men?!”
“… it was this castle’s Baron,” Sylas said. “Baron Cyrs Bendor.”