Chapter 10 – The Sword God's Temple
Ignes looked ahead, his red eyes narrowing as the vanguard of the army came into view.
Leading the knights and mages was Prince Xavier von Ace.
He sat atop a tall, powerful warhorse that seemed to share his regal arrogance. Xavier's build was striking—strong enough to carry the weight of heavy armor, yet slender enough to maintain the grace of a high-born noble. His shoulder-length silver hair danced in the wind like a battle standard, and his cold, golden eyes looked as though they could freeze the very air in his path.
Behind him—
The four heirs of the great Dukedoms followed in a formation that represented the pillars of the Empire.
William von Heart — the mountain of the Heart family.
Benedict von Diamond — the sharp brilliance of Diamond.
Adrian von Spade — the silent edge of Spade.
Caspian von Club — the sturdy force of Club.
Behind them came the rest—a sea of steel and silk. Nobles, knights, mages, and the common people, all flowing like a single, massive river toward one destination.
The Temple of the Sword God.
Inside the temple, the air was thick with the scent of sacred incense and the low, rhythmic humming of the priests.
The prayers had already begun. They were songs for the dead, meant to guide souls back to the stars, and blessings for the living, meant to tether them back to a world of peace.
One by one, the soldiers stepped forward. The priests moved with practiced solemnity, using holy light to draw out the black, oily demonic miasma that clung to their armor and skin like a curse from the battlefield.
The atmosphere was heavy. Sacred. A place where the cost of war was finally tallied.
Ignes watched everything with a detached quiet.
Then—
His gaze shifted.
He looked toward the center of the hall, where the massive statue of the Sword God stood, looming over the mortals below.
Sword God…
The name felt jagged in his mind.
Ignes frowned slightly, a strange sensation prickling at the back of his neck.
Why does it feel so familiar…?
Sword God… Sword God… Sword God…
The words repeated, echoing in the hollows of his memory until the rhythm shifted.
Sword Hero…
The word changed. And suddenly—something clicked into place with the force of a physical blow.
Evander… the Sword Hero.
Ignes's eyes narrowed until they were sharp as needles.
So… that idiot actually chose to become a god?
But as he watched the priests working, a faint, genuine confusion crossed his mind.
How is he healing demonic miasma? I tried to teach him the simplest healing spells once… he couldn't even pass the basics without blowing something up.
Ignes stared at the statue, no longer seeing a deity, but a suspicious old acquaintance.
Something is wrong here.
After a moment, he forced himself to look away.
This was a temple, and the world was watching. It would not be wise if the high priests or the Duke noticed him glaring at their god with a look of pure, clinical suspicion.
Time passed.
The ceremony was an endurance test of its own. Prayers bled into blessings; blessings bled into long, droning chants.
Finally—
The last resonance of the bell faded. It ended.
Ignes let out a long, silent breath that felt like it had been held for a century.
That was… exhausting.
I truly, deeply hate sermons. They are too long, too repetitive, and entirely too loud.
Alexander glanced down at his son.
Seeing the weary, slightly annoyed slump of Ignes's shoulders, the Duke felt a flicker of paternal worry. Did the training yesterday truly take that much out of him? Or is the crowd overwhelming him?
Then, a mischievous thought occurred to the normally stoic Duke.
"If you are tired, Igna, you may step outside and rest," Alexander said.
Ignes immediately looked up at him, his eyes wide with a sudden, hopeful shock.
"…Dad."
"Does that mean it's finally over?"
Alexander looked at his son's hopeful face. For a moment, he couldn't resist.
"No," the Duke said calmly, his face a mask of perfect seriousness. "This was just the beginning. There is still a very long way to go."
Ignes's face fell instantly. The light in his eyes vanished, replaced by a look of utter, soul-crushing despair.
Nearby, the Dukes of the other three families were watching.
Seeing the interaction between the "Cold Duke of Heart" and his son—and seeing the young Lord Ignes look so genuinely miserable—they couldn't help but let out soft, stifled laughs.
The atmosphere, which had been as heavy as lead just moments ago, lightened. Even in a world recovering from war, a father teasing his son was a sight that made the peace feel real.