Re: In My Bloody Hit Novel-Chapter 745: The King’s Death

Aetherion's gaze hardened, any trace of hesitation vanishing from his eyes.

"Then in that case," he said clearly, voice steady despite the bars between them, "we must ensure that both Chiron and the king die tomorrow."

The Regent met his eyes for a long moment… then nodded.

Aetherion continued, lowering his voice. "How many of my brothers remain loyal?"

The Regent answered without pause. "Enough. I can gather them. Not just the princes, but the nobles as well—houses across the kingdom that have not yet truly bent the knee to Silmarien. They are watching. Waiting."

Aetherion gave a slow nod.

"Good," he said. "Then make sure they are ready."

The two spoke in hushed tones after that—of timing, of signals, of how chaos could be turned into opportunity. When all that needed to be said had been said, the Regent pulled his hood back over his face and turned to leave.

He did not notice the floor behind him darken.

He did not see the thin line of crimson seep from the shadows, pooling silently against the cold stone.

A moment later, a figure entirely formed of blood rose soundlessly from the ground, its shape rippling and unstable, eyes glowing with a dim, hungry awareness. It lingered only long enough to hear the echo of their last words—then collapsed back into a shallow, darkened stain, vanishing as if it had never been there.

---

The next day came.

From the farthest reaches of the elven kingdom, nobles arrived in steady streams. Great houses and minor lineages alike passed through the forest gates, their banners lowered, their expressions solemn. This was the second time in a single month that so many of noble blood had been called together—and the tension in the air was unmistakable.

Whispers followed every step.

By now, the Mother Tree stood as a shadow of her former glory. Vast sections of her once-emerald canopy had turned gray and brittle, leaves falling in lifeless drifts that carpeted the ground like ash. The great trunk itself seemed thinner, strained, as though the life within was being slowly strangled.

And beneath her towering roots, a structure had been erected.

A guillotine.

Its blade gleamed coldly, positioned with cruel precision directly under the dying heart of the tree. Sacred runes lined its frame, humming faintly with ritual intent.

Elves gathered in uneasy clusters, their voices low.

"Is it truly necessary…?"

"I heard the tree has never shed leaves—not even during the ancient winters…"

"They say the king will die willingly."

"For the Mother Tree?"

"For the kingdom."

Murmurs spread like a creeping fog, fear and doubt threading through every word as all eyes turned again and again toward the gray canopy above—toward the place where a king was meant to die.

Silmarien arrived without fanfare.

No trumpets sounded. No herald announced his coming.

Instead, the forest itself seemed to part for him.

Elves standing beneath the Mother Tree slowly stepped aside, forming a wide, silent path as the king approached. Their expressions were conflicted—grief, reverence, disbelief, and guilt all mingling together. Some lowered their heads. Others pressed clenched fists to their chests in salute. A few wept openly.

At the front of the procession marched the royal guards, their steps perfectly synchronized, armor gleaming dully beneath the gray-filtered light. Each footfall struck the earth with solemn finality, as though counting down the moments of a life. Their spears were lowered, not in threat, but in mourning.

Behind them walked Silmarien.

His pace was slow. Deliberate.

Gone were the embroidered robes of kingship, the flowing silks and ceremonial gold. In their place, he wore garments woven entirely from living leaves and pale vines—ancient druidic attire reserved only for sacrifices offered to the Mother Tree. The leaves brushed softly against his legs as he walked, whispering with every step.

Yet upon his head still rested the great crown of wood.

It was massive, carved from the heartwood ofthe Mother Tree, its branches arching upward like frozen flames.

Runes of lineage and sovereignty pulsed faintly along its surface, declaring to all who looked that this was no mere offering.

This was their king.

Silmarien's face was pale, drawn into a carefully crafted mask of quiet sorrow. His eyes carried a pitiful softness, as though he had already accepted death and found peace within it. To those watching, he looked every inch the tragic ruler—noble, selfless, doomed.

But inside, his heart burned.

Damn you, Chiron, he cursed silently.

This flair. This theater. The leaves, the guillotine, the gathered masses—it was excessive. Cruel in its beauty. Effective.

He could already feel their gazes sinking into him, their emotions binding tighter with every step. Awe. Grief. Worship.

Still, he endured it.

Silmarien continued forward, past the sea of parted bodies, toward the guillotine beneath the dying Mother Tree—each step measured, each breath controlled—as the weight of an entire kingdom pressed down upon his shoulders.

Silmarien stopped at the foot of the Mother Tree.

Up close, its decay was unmistakable. The once-lustrous bark had dulled to ash-gray, its vast canopy thinning as brittle leaves drifted down like dying embers. The air around it felt heavy, as though the forest itself were holding its breath.

Silmarien turned.

His gaze swept across the gathered nobles, the soldiers, the common elves pressed shoulder to shoulder beneath the withering branches. For a moment, his expression was empty—dead, almost—before it softened into something fragile and mournful.

He inhaled slowly, then spoke.

"My people…"

His voice carried, steady and clear, despite the silence that swallowed it whole.

"I have worn this crown for barely a month."

A faint, bitter smile touched his lips.

"In that short time, I have known neither rest nor celebration. No feasts. No songs. Only burdens—ones I did not seek, yet ones I cannot turn away from."

He raised his eyes toward the Mother Tree.

"The bloodline of our old king came to me in a vision. Not as a dream of glory, but as a warning. The Mother Tree that stabilizes this Forbidden Cardinal Zone… is dying."

A ripple of anguish moved through the crowd.

"I was told there is only one way to save it. One way to save you."

His hand clenched at his side.

"A worthy soul. One who has shown bravery. One who will give their life willingly."

Silmarien lowered his head, his voice dropping.

"I searched this kingdom. I searched our history, our warriors, our elders… and I found none I could condemn to such a fate."

He lifted his gaze again, eyes shining now.

"But I am your king."

He removed the wooden crown and held it before him, reverent.

"And before I was king, I was an elf."

His voice strengthened.

"If my life can buy the survival of our people—if my blood can nourish the roots of the Mother Tree—then I will not hesitate."

He stepped forward, placing one foot upon the guillotine's platform.

"I ask you not to mourn me as a tragedy, but to remember me as one who fulfilled his duty."

Steel suddenly rang out.

The sharp sound of swords being unsheathed tore through the silence.

Gasps erupted as several nobles and guards stepped forward, weapons drawn, their stances hostile—aimed not outward, but toward the platform.

Before anyone could react further, a figure emerged from the crowd.

Chains clinked softly as Prince Aetherion stepped into view, flanked by the Regent at his side.