Reincarnated as the Weakest Magical Beast-Chapter 115: Incoming darkness

And when the time came for him to face the Trial of the Crown, that memory awaited him.

The trial had mercilessly dragged him back to that very night, restoring every detail with cruel precision: The broken pillars stood once more, the blood stained the stone floor, his father’s lifeless body lay where it had fallen, and his mother knelt before him, clear-eyed and trembling.

The trial did not ask him questions. It did not offer riddles or battles of strength like what it did with the previous kings.

Instead, it forced him to relive his darkness moment.

Again and again.

Each time, he raised his sword with the same grief in his heart. Each time, she looked up at him with tears in her eyes and begged him to end it before the corruption returned. Each time, his blade descended.

And each time, it shattered.

The sound of breaking steel became a curse that echoed endlessly within that realm. The scene would dissolve, only to reform exactly as before. No matter how tightly he gripped the hilt, no matter how fiercely he steeled his mind, there would always be that final instant of hesitation. Love would slip into his heart like poison, and his resolve would weaken.

Hundreds of times, he failed.

Thousands of times, he watched her change again, heard her laughter twist into something monstrous, and felt her strike him down. The trial allowed him no rest. There was no passage of day or night, no relief from exhaustion. Only repetition. Only judgment.

At first, he raged against it. He shouted into the empty sky of that realm, demanding to know what more it wanted from him. Had he not already suffered enough? Had he not already paid for his weakness?

But the trial was merciless. It demanded that he confront a single truth.

A king cannot falter.

Not even before the one he loves most.

Slowly, painfully, something within him hardened. The grief did not disappear, nor did the love in his heart fade. Instead, he learned to carry both without allowing them to control his hand.

When the moment came again, and his mother knelt before him with tears shining in her eyes, he did not look away.

He did not tremble.

He resisted the debuff.

He spoke softly, telling her that he loved her, and that he would remember her as she once was.

Then he brought the sword down.

This time, the blade did not break.

Steel cut cleanly.

The demon fell.

And the realm of the trial shattered like glass struck by a hammer.

When his consciousness returned to the royal hall, the golden crown rested upon his head, and the chamber was filled with thunderous applause. Nobles cheered. The people cried out in joy. Bells rang across Lionera to announce the coronation of their new king.

They saw a strong ruler standing tall before them, composed and unwavering.

But within his heart, there was no triumph.

There was only pain.

Not the wild pain of grief, but something deeper and colder. The pain of knowing that, in order to wear the crown, he had learned to silence the part of himself that once hesitated.

Still, he could not allow that truth to show. A king must not reveal weakness before his court. And so he smiled, lifted his goblet high, and declared a grand banquet in celebration of the new reign. Wine flowed freely, music filled the golden hall, and laughter echoed long into the night.

He played his role flawlessly.

Only much later, when the palace corridors had grown silent and the last of the candles had burned low, did he finally retreat to his private chamber. There, with no eyes upon him and no duties left to perform, the weight of the crown became too heavy to bear.

He sank to his knees.

And for the first time since completing the trial, he allowed himself to break.

****

"Oh god..."

Mimi’s heart throbbed painfully as the last of the story settled into silence.

So that was the truth.

She finally understood why King Amaras had buried it for nearly a thousand years, why not even his most loyal retainers had known. If such a secret had spread through Lionera in those days—if the people had learned that their beloved queen had become a demon and that their new king had once failed to end her—the kingdom would have drowned in panic and doubt.

The trial had not merely tested strength.

It had stripped him bare.

It had forced him to choose between love and duty, and then punished him until he could make that choice without hesitation.

It was ruthless.

The throne room remained heavy with silence. The Deathguards stood frozen where they were, their expressions rigid. Even the twin knights, who had faced countless battles without fear, seemed shaken to their core.

Only the priest—Veronica—lowered her head and wept openly, her hands clasped before her chest, her face drawn with pain.

Mimi swallowed hard.

Slowly, she turned her gaze back toward Emilia, who still sat upon the throne, unmoving, eyes empty and distant as her consciousness remained trapped within the trial.

What is happening in there...?

As she wondered that, a chill ran down her spine.

Please...

Please let it not be something like that!

Well, given that her master had grown up surrounded by warmth, loved by her parents, raised with laughter and comfort, compared to the tragedy of King Amaras, Emilia’s life had been bright.

There should be no deep wound for the crown to tear open, no unbearable regret for it to exploit.

Right...?

Mimi’s tail swayed uneasily.

Maybe I’m just thinking too much, heh...

Yet even as Mimi tried to reassure herself, doubt lingered.

From what she had understood, the crown did not merely repeat past suffering. It sought judgment. It examined the heart of the one who wore it, weighing whether they were worthy to bear Lionera’s throne.

And judgment did not always demand trauma.

It demanded weakness.

But... do Master Emilia even have a weakness?

The thought had barely formed—

"Arrrfh! What the—what is happening?!"

Mimi yelped as a sharp, crushing ache exploded within her chest. It was not a physical wound, yet it hurt far worse than any claw or blade ever could.

An overwhelming surge of grief and despair flooded through her senses so violently that her vision blurred. The emotion was immense, suffocating, so deep and heavy that it felt as though it would swallow her whole.

It was not her own.

It was coming through the bond.

From Emilia!

The sorrow pouring from her master was vast and bottomless, like an endless abyss opening beneath Mimi’s paws. It pressed against her mind with unbearable force, threatening to tear her apart.

"Master—!"

She lifted her head.

And her blood turned to ice.

Emilia remained seated upon the throne, posture straight, her face calm as if she were deep in meditation.

But from her eyes... dark red streaks began to trail down her cheeks.

She was crying blood.

The sight was wrong. Terribly wrong!

There was no expression upon Emilia’s face. No scream. No movement.

Only silent tears of crimson sliding down pale skin.

"What in the heavens..." one of the knights whispered.

"M-my liege, what is happening? Is this part of the trial?"

Even King Amaras looked stunned. His expression hardened, yet for a brief moment, confusion flickered across his face.

"This is... not normal," he said slowly.

The air in the chamber shifted.

A suffocating pressure descended upon them, heavier than before, darker than the lingering aura of the dungeon. It felt as though something unseen had stepped into the room.

Then the entire throne hall began to tremble.

The golden walls groaned. Cracks spread across marble pillars. Chandeliers swayed violently overhead as dust and fragments of stone rained down, as though an unseen force sought to tear the chamber apart.

Mimi’s fur stood on end.

"Oh... you cannot be serious," Amaras muttered, his voice stripped of its earlier composure.

"My liege!" a knight called out, gripping his weapon. "What is happening?"

Amaras’s gaze sharpened and slowly shifted toward the far end of the hall, where the shadows had grown unnaturally deep, writhing faintly against the golden walls.

"It seems," he said grimly, "that someone has decided to interfere."

His jaw tightened.

"That wretched bastard."

The oppressive force intensified, pressing against them like a living presence.

Without another word, Amaras stepped forward and drew his sword in one smooth motion. The Deathguards immediately followed, steel flashing and magic flaring as they formed a protective circle around the throne.

"Deathguards!" the Lion Sword King commanded, his voice steady and resonant despite the tremors shaking the hall. "Prepare for combat! Do not allow any evil to interrupt the trial!"