"So where is Lloyd? I thought he would come."
Avi stood in a corner of the grand hall, where all glory and radiance seemed to gather. The orchestra murmured in a slow, subdued cadence, and a warm, solemn force settled over everything like a benediction.
Arthur… or rather, the Duke of Phoenix, shook his head.
"We've placed him in temporary isolation. I trust the Witchers, yes, but… to die and return to life—such a thing is too grotesque, far beyond our understanding. Whether it's us or Lloyd himself, there must be a process of acceptance."
"A process of acceptance? I've heard a bit about it. Though, knowing Lloyd's rotten temperament, I doubt he'd feel much resistance at all."
Avi spoke plainly.
The Duke of Phoenix glanced at the old steward, as if surprised that he too knew Lloyd so well—or at least knew that vile disposition.
"Indeed. Gaining an extra life for free… that lunatic is probably happier than ever."
He let out a quiet sigh, his gaze drifting toward the center of the hall. Warm light descended like a blessing, and beneath its gentle glow the girl appeared almost sacred, light as if she might drift away. It was as though even the heavens favored this moment—the gloomy sky itself had cleared, if only slightly.
"Celia wished he could be here to witness this. She never said it aloud, but… she did. She's the kind of girl who hides everything deep within her heart."
Avi watched the figure advancing along the red carpet. Beneath countless gazes, she walked farther and farther, until the woman atop the endless steps smiled faintly and extended her hand.
This was the Platinum Palace—holy, solemn—the very axis of power for Old Dunling, and indeed all of Invervig.
Today, an ancient rite would unfold here.
This was the moment of succession for the Stuart dukedom. By the Queen's hand, Celia would inherit a century of honor and become the youngest Duchess.
"Is that so?" the Duke of Phoenix sighed. "There's something I never understood before… but now, I think I do."
"What is it?"
"The difference between Eve and her."
Avi paused, his gaze turning strange, as though he could not grasp why such a comparison would be made.
"You may not know this, but when that bastard Lloyd tried to kill my daughter, he didn't hesitate for a second. Yet when it came to Celia, he took Lawrence with him and chose to self-destruct… The plan was never meant to unfold like that."
He spoke slowly.
"But looking at it now, perhaps we only made him more complicated than he truly is. Strip away the identities, and they are just ordinary people."
Ordinary people?
It was difficult—almost absurd—to imagine Lloyd as anything of the sort.
"Think about it, Avi. A girl, at her darkest hour, when her mind was still unformed… that is when emotions burn the fiercest, the purest. And someone drags her out of a suffocating sea, leads her toward the light, teaches her strange and wondrous things along the way… anyone would feel something peculiar. Perhaps admiration. Perhaps love."
The Duke of Phoenix let out a soft chuckle. What a cursed sort of tale… and yet life often unfolded just like this. A single meteor streaks across an endless darkness, and you, like a fool, chase after its falling trail—because it is the only light you have ever seen.
"We once had a hypothesis: that corrosion works both ways. While demons erode humanity, humans, in turn, erode demons. They influence one another. Only… the human side is far weaker. Lloyd may be no exception. He was influenced by Celia, even if he never realized it."
"What kind of influence?"
Avi's curiosity stirred.
"Humanity."
The Duke answered simply.
"I always saw Lloyd as a beast… or perhaps a machine. Efficient. Cold. The crude jokes, the mockery—it was all a façade to lower our guard. But in that moment, I saw something else… a struggle. A struggle between humanity and savagery."
"We don't know what they went through together, but it's clear enough—through their mutual influence, Celia taught him what it means to be human."
As if recalling something faintly amusing, he continued,
"Would you believe it? Lloyd is also a philanthropist. Most of what he earns is donated to monasteries that raise orphans."
Avi's expression shifted in visible disbelief. It was nearly impossible to reconcile that image with the man they knew.
"So that was it. At that time, he was happy—because if Celia died, he would have no weakness left, becoming pure will. And yet… he was also miserable. Because if she died, he would truly become nothing more than a bloodthirsty beast. That girl was the thread binding him to this world."
The Duke of Phoenix watched the girl beneath the light as she bowed. His vision blurred for a moment. Perhaps, many years from now, another girl with hair like burning flame would stand there, inheriting the honor of the phoenix. The thought carried a strange, unspoken weight.
"In everyone's life, there are always a few special people, aren't there? The kind who can make you abandon even your most stubborn ideals."
His voice slowed, his gaze settling on Avi.
"And for you… who is that person?" Avi asked.
"Eve, of course. She is my last warmth."
There was no attempt to conceal the affection in his voice, though to Eve, that love might well feel incomprehensible.
"To say I defend the human world would be inaccurate. I defend her world. The rest of humanity just happens to live under the same sky as she does."
"So protecting everyone else is merely incidental?"
"Of course it is. None of you pay us, after all."
The two old men shared a rare moment of laughter, light and unguarded.
But the Duke of Phoenix's expression soon hardened. He turned to Avi, his gaze sharp, laden with authority.
"You know what I'm about to ask, don't you?"
The old steward nodded, as though he had long anticipated this moment.
"The moment Celia came into contact with you, I had a feeling… I thought I could conceal it for a lifetime. That once I died, the truth would vanish with me."
His eyes drifted forward, toward the girl standing like a swan beyond the crowd.
"This information came after Lloyd regained consciousness. He failed to stop Lawrence. Celia was captured and used as a conduit to spread the corruption… yet no large-scale demonization occurred. The Stuart faction—those on our watchlist—remained untouched."
The Duke spoke in a low voice.
"Lloyd may be mad, but as a detective, he says things that cannot be ignored. Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."
His voice grew heavy.
"Celia… is not of Stuart blood, is she?"
It was a dreadful secret—one that could stir a storm vast enough to swallow nations.
And how bitterly ironic it was: at this very moment, Celia stood receiving the mantle of honor, while that very honor rested upon a lie.
Yet the old steward remained calm.
"Yes."
He even smiled.
"This was always a lie riddled with flaws. How could the noble Stuart bloodline have fallen into Gaulonaro? And even if it had, their enemies would have wiped it out entirely. It was nothing more than a self-deceiving jest."
"Then… why?" the Duke of Phoenix asked, unable to understand.
In truth, nothing this conversation revealed could change what was already set. Celia was the last Stuart. Avi, the final servant of that ancient house. So long as he affirmed her identity, no one could prove otherwise—and the strange memetic corruption, the power of demons, would never be allowed into public sight.
"You were the guardian of this bloodline. And in the end, you defiled its honor… was it merely to ensure the Stuarts would continue?"
Avi shook his head. In his clouded eyes, the light reflected faintly.
"No. That is not it, Duke Phoenix. Honor has never belonged to blood. Even if the old Duke Stuart still lived, he would have agreed with my decision."
"What decision? To pluck a random girl from nowhere to solve the problem of extinction?"
There was anger in his voice.
"You have disgraced Navis Stuart."
Navis Stuart—the man who, in war, bestowed everything upon his people, and later carved his legend into history during the War of Radiance.
It was meant as a harsh condemnation.
Yet to Avi, it sounded like the finest jest in the world. He laughed even harder, then looked back at the Duke.
"No. No one would condemn me. Least of all Navis Stuart. On the contrary, he would praise me—for I have done what he always wished to do."
The Duke stared at him, uncomprehending.
And Avi continued, almost lightly—
"Do you know his true name? It was Navis Dodd… the son of a blacksmith."
The terrible truth was laid bare, spoken as casually as if it were nothing at all.
The Duke of Phoenix found his thoughts dragged back to the rumors once whispered of the House of Stuart—the warning left behind by the long-fallen Baskerville family. Fragments, scattered and broken, now aligned at last into a single, terrible whole. Astonishment seized his face.
After a brief silence of shock, he spoke.
"So… those stories were true."
"Of course they were true," Yavi replied calmly. "It's just that everyone stood together, tightly bound, and not a single soul let it slip. And so Navis Dodd became Navis Stuart."
He continued, his voice steady, almost indifferent.
"Yes, that is the truth of it. The blood of Stuart had long since been extinguished—one hundred years ago, in that ancient castle, when it perished alongside the old count."
A pause followed, then he asked in return:
"But what of it, Duke of Phoenix?"
"The bloodline is gone, yet the glory of Stuart still endures in this world—does it not? And more than that, it burns ever brighter. Glory has never belonged to blood. It belongs to human will. What does death matter? Someone will always stoop to lift it from the dust, to wipe it clean, and carry it forward. Will is stronger than blood. It can never truly be slain."
The Duke's breath grew ragged. Human hearts, he realized, were far more intricate than any demon—so complex that even he could scarcely grasp them. Each word struck like a hammer against his chest. At last, he forced out a question:
"But… why?"
Why cling to this so stubbornly? A century had passed—why such unyielding devotion?
"Because we must carry on the name of Stuart," Yavi answered, "and preserve its glory. It is the only way we can repay what that war once bestowed upon us."
To let that name endure—that alone was their tribute to the old count.
"And besides, it is no longer merely a surname. It has become a shared will… and the people bound together by it."
His voice deepened, heavy and resonant, rising with the music swelling through the grand hall like a sacred hymn.
"Stuart will not fall. It will never fall. So long as there are those willing to walk this path, any one of them may bear the name Stuart."
Thunderous applause erupted.
All gathered there rejoiced in the moment of bestowed glory—and it was in that very instant that the Duke of Phoenix felt countless gazes upon him. He looked up sharply, only to find familiar faces among the witnesses. One after another, they met his eyes, smiling, nodding in quiet acknowledgment.
He knew them—those who had once sworn their oaths in war. The collective of Stuart.
This was Selene's investiture. Every family had sent a representative; none had ever been absent.
For the first time, as Arthur, he felt the creeping weight of the unknown—unknown Old Dunling, unknown Invervig. Never had he imagined that such a force could exist, hidden so deeply, yet so vast. And in that unsettling awareness, realization dawned upon him.
"You… were the ones who chose Selene?" he asked.
Yavi nodded.
"Everyone quite likes the girl. She can be a bit willful—but then again, she is a girl…"
He spoke on, as though recounting something ordinary. An ancient will bound them together, much like the Purging Mechanism bound its own collection of madmen.
The Duke of Phoenix looked upon Yavi with a trace of reverence, then toward the crowd that had acknowledged him.
"I will keep your secret."
"Even if you spoke, it wouldn't matter. No one would believe you—just like Baskerville."
Yavi's tone remained even.
The ceremony came to an end. The crowd surged forward, surrounding the young duchess, celebrating her newfound honor.
"Oh—before I forget," Yavi added, as if recalling something trivial. "Please deliver this to Lloyd."
He produced a badge—the crest of House Stuart: sixty-one swords interwoven into a circular shield.
"Selene said she granted it to Lloyd at the very end."
The Duke accepted it, hesitation flickering in his voice.
"You do realize… at that time, she did not yet possess the authority of a duchess. And the Queen has already placed strict limits on such… indiscriminate grants."
"Of course I know," Yavi said with a faint smile. "But even if the Queen acknowledged it, what difference would it make? Lloyd is a demon hunter—a madman who lives by slaughtering monsters. He is destined to remain in the shadows, shunning the light. Besides, if he were truly granted the title, he'd probably add some peculiar prefix when introducing himself."
He chuckled softly before continuing.
"This is nothing more than the recognition of a willful child. He will not appear in the official history of Stuart, nor be recorded. At best, he might occupy a fleeting corner in some obscure chronicle—long, long after we are gone."
"Does that have any meaning?" the Duke asked quietly. An honor unknown to the world seemed little more than a beautiful illusion.
"Yes… it has no meaning," Yavi admitted. "He will belong to no place, no record. And yet, precisely because of that, it will mean everything. He will always remain in that most precious place."
"Where?" the Duke asked, curiosity stirring.
"Here."
Yavi lifted his hand and gently tapped the Duke's chest.
"And here," he added softly, as though speaking of someone else's heart.
The old steward departed, as did the others, gathering around the girl now adorned with honor, celebrating her. The Duke of Phoenix remained where he stood, dazed. An ancient secret had just been unveiled—so casually, as though it were no more than an afternoon conversation. Yet only now did its echoes begin to reverberate, heavy and unrelenting, shaking the soul.
After an indeterminate span of time, he finally lowered his gaze to the badge in his hand.
It differed from the standard Stuart crest. Upon the circular shield of swords, one more blade had been added—the sixty-second sword.
The thirty-third bearer of the present age.
A sworn one, destined to remain hidden within the dark.