"In the world of death, there are no wounds, and there is no pain."
Nolan left another gash across Mohg's chest, then thrust forward, piercing Mohg's heart once more.
He did not pull the Claymore out. Instead, Nolan twisted his wrist with practiced ease and gave it a forceful churn.
A bone-chilling crunch rang out as the heart that had still been beating moments ago was crushed completely into a mass of pulp.
Mohg's remaining left arm lost all strength at once. It had only just begun to lift before it sagged limply back down.
The Omen was like a furnace spewing blood. That blood seemed hotter than an ordinary person's, spraying wildly outward.
Blood was everything to Mohg, but now he could do nothing. The blood he loved most no longer obeyed him, and the Invisible Mother gave him no answer.
"How sad. Are pain and wounds truly what you love? Or are they only what you were powerless to refuse?" Nolan asked coldly, still gripping Mohg without letting go.
The silver-white wings on his back suddenly spread wide, carrying Mohg into the air at breakneck speed as they vanished into the distant sky...
They rushed toward the Dynasty's Spirit Shrine, just as he had brought the knight to pay homage to his lord earlier. This time, it was the lord's turn to give the knight his command.
Nolan lowered the dimly glowing Dark Moon Greatsword and let Mohg's body slowly slide down the blade to the ground.
Soon, he saw the Omen in the darkness slowly stretch out a hand. The sight genuinely surprised Nolan, and he could not help raising an eyebrow.
He had used the power of death just now. Was a body of the Aspects of the Crucible really that powerful? Could it even resist death? He had never heard of such a thing.
Nolan watched in silence while tightening his grip on the Claymore. He had only wanted to give this lord and vassal an ending. He had never planned to leave Mohg alive.
Mohg's face was blank. There was no pleasure, no pain, and no wailing. He only looked at the old man who had accompanied him until now.
It seemed this fellow had finally reached the end. Though even if he could climb back up, it would not matter. Since Nolan could defeat him once, he believed he could defeat him a second time.
The Omen suddenly began coughing violently, spitting out great mouthfuls of blood. It splashed onto the hand reaching toward Ansbach, dyeing it bright red... and then he collapsed completely.
So this guy really wasn't cold-blooded after all.
The Omen lifted his head slightly, his empty, unfocused eyes gazing up at the vast starry sky.
His lips moved faintly, as though he wanted to say something, but his voice was barely audible.
"You were right..." he murmured.
"What did you say?"
"Mother..." Mohg's eyelids drooped, but tears slid silently down his cheeks. "It's so dark here. The wound... it hurts so much..."
"Hey, you really are just a brat who never grew up," Nolan said irritably, though his voice grew softer and softer.
So this conspirator was still a child after all. All he had wanted was to stop being hurt and get away from that dark sewer. Even being abandoned by his mother had not changed his longing for her.
This fellow and his equally childish twin brother, were they truly of Marika's bloodline? They had not inherited even a trace of her cold-heartedness.
Power resided in that body where nobility and baseness coexisted, yet all it had done was hide love inside its heart.
The Omen's eyes lost all light, like candles snuffed out. His once-mighty body, which had been as robust as a small giant's, began shrinking rapidly.
As though time had reversed, he was living through a nightmare of backward growth, gradually turning from a grown man back into something thin, small, and withered.
Then the world fell silent. Only then did his fragile body finally look somewhat like a child's, though it was still aged. So in the end, he really was that person who had never grown up.
He died.
...
In the distant Royal Capital Leyndell, inside a cramped, shadowed room, Morgott curled up in a corner, his body trembling faintly.
An indescribable pang of anxiety surged through his heart, and he murmured involuntarily, "Little brother..."
He did not know why he had suddenly thought of that younger brother. He had clearly seen him only a few days ago, beneath the Royal Capital in the Subterranean Shunning-Grounds.
That twin brother had been guarding a room for him, a place that absolutely could not be found by outsiders.
Because the source of the Frenzied Flame, which sought to destroy everything, including the very existence of this Dynasty, and threatened the Lands Between, was there.
The Three Fingers.
To Morgott, it was an existence he could never tolerate, no matter what.
"Your Highness, what is the matter?" A knight slowly raised his head, his gaze fixed on the noble figure before him.
In that instant, he seemed to see something that should never have appeared on his lord's face. A faint trace of tears at the corner of his eye.
The knight who asked the question was an Omen, regarded by the world as a curse. Yet precisely because of that special identity, knights like him had instead become Morgott's most trusted confidants.
Only they themselves knew in their hearts that they were kin to the great Grace-Given Lord, His Highness.
It was this great Prince who had led them, step by step, out of the dark, damp Subterranean Shunning-Grounds where sunlight never reached, and allowed them to bathe once more in warm, bright sunlight.
For Morgott, they felt endless reverence and loyalty. They were even willing to give their lives for him.
Before his kin, the Omen did not hide himself with light, shadow, or a hood. He shook his head. "It's nothing. Let's continue. Have there been any new reports from the front?"
"Our forces have broken through the Bridge of Iniquity defenses. Er... General Margit... has decided to rest for now before continuing the advance," the Omen Knight answered in plain, direct words.
These "wild children" knew nothing about speaking like officials. The Subterranean Shunning-Grounds were a place where fists did the talking. The elegant language of nobles was truly hard to learn. Fortunately, Morgott was tolerant enough of them and did not force them to learn all that red tape.
"Has there been any movement from Shaded City or the Haligtree?" Morgott asked gravely. This was what concerned him most right now.
The Consecrated Snowfield to the north had already been tightly sealed off by Leyndell, but he still could not feel at ease.
During the Battle of Leyndell, Shaded City had served as the Haligtree's forward base. If they joined this war, the situation would become far more uncertain.
"None. Those cowards are hiding behind closed doors. They must be terrified of Your Highness's might," the Omen Knight said with absolute certainty.
"It is also possible they are waiting for us to fight among ourselves until both sides are badly weakened, then seize the chance to strike and reap the fruits of victory."
Morgott narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze deep and sharp, as though it could see through every scheme and plot.
But just then, a faint, indescribable unease rose in his heart, forcing him to reassess the situation before him.
...
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