The Useless Extra Knows It All....But Does He?-Chapter 370 - Looking into the dark past! (2)
Aldric lifted the scorched parchment closer to the lamp.
The brittle paper trembled faintly between his fingers as his eyes traced the uneven lines of ink—names written hastily, some half-erased by fire, others barely legible. His brows knit together, deeper with every word.
"...These people..." he muttered.
His lips pressed into a thin line.
"...don’t they all hold rather high positions now...?"
His finger slid down the list.
Council aides. Treasury overseers. Shrine administrators. Envoys who now walked openly through the cathedral halls, wrapped in silk and authority.
And then—
His breath caught.
"...They all interacted with..." his voice dropped, disbelief seeping in, "...Bishop Truce."
The name sat there like a wound that refused to close.
Aldric’s hand tightened. Slowly, deliberately, he folded the burnt parchment and slipped it into the inner pocket of his robe—close to his chest, where his heart hammered too loudly.
Then he turned back to the archives.
He did not stop.
Books came and went. Ledgers replaced reports. Reports replaced confessions disguised as testimonies. The mana-lamps dimmed further, reacting to the hour, but Aldric merely wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and kept reading.
Time lost meaning.
Ink blurred at the edges of his vision. His eyes burned. His shoulders ached from hunching over the desk for too long.
Still, he did not stop.
At last, his hands came to rest on the cover of a thick tome.
He closed it.
The sound echoed softly through the archive.
Aldric leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling unevenly.
"...Is this really the Holy Kingdom of the Goddess?" he whispered.
The words tasted bitter.
"...The faith my daughter believed in...?"
His gaze lowered slowly, unfocused.
"Then why," he murmured, voice cracking despite his effort to keep it steady, "does the faith of those rotten bastards not shatter when they do things like this...?"
His hand trembled.
"Why is it only hers...?"
He bowed his head, gripping the edge of the table until his knuckles whitened.
Then—
His eyes shifted.
Another book lay nearby, separate from the rest.
Thinner. Older. Its spine marked with a seal of judgment.
A record of criminals.
Aldric frowned and reached for it, fingers brushing the worn cover.
He looked toward the door.
"Come here," he called quietly.
The divine knight entered at once, armor catching the lamplight as he bowed his head.
"Why is this book here?" Aldric asked, holding it up. His tone was calm—but strained.
The knight hesitated only briefly. "Father... you said you needed everything related to the bishops."
He swallowed.
"This is the list of criminals apprehended under their authority. Those judged, imprisoned... or executed."
Aldric’s grip tightened around the book.
The knight shifted his weight, unease flickering across his face. "Father... it will soon be time for Sister’s execution."
The word execution struck like a blow.
"I—I need to return to my post," the knight continued softly. "You should come as well... to see her... for—"
Aldric’s expression faltered.
His shoulders stiffened.
"...You can go," he said quietly, cutting him off.
The knight looked up, startled. "Father?"
"I won’t be able to witness it," Aldric added, turning away slightly. "Not like this."
The knight clenched his fists, then bowed deeply. "...Yes, Father."
Footsteps receded.
The door closed.
The archive fell silent again.
Aldric remained still for a long moment.
Then his gaze drifted back down—
To the book of criminals.
Slowly, he reached for it.
Aldric opened the book.
The spine creaked softly, as if protesting being disturbed after so long. Dust lifted into the air, catching the dim glow of the mana-lamp as page after page turned beneath his fingers.
Names. Dates. Charges.
Each entry was meticulous—almost reverent in its cruelty.
He leaned closer, eyes scanning the text while his free hand brushed over the sketched portraits beside each record. Faces stared back at him from yellowed paper: men and women frozen in charcoal lines, some defiant, some terrified, some disturbingly calm.
"Embezzlement under divine authority." "Unauthorized sacrificial rites." "Collusion with heretical factions." "Human trafficking disguised as pilgrimage."
Aldric’s breath grew shallow.
His fingers trembled as he turned the page.
Another portrait. Another list of crimes. Another signature stamped with episcopal approval.
A soft sound escaped his throat—something between a breath and a sob.
"...So many," he whispered.
The letters blurred.
A drop fell onto the page.
Then another.
He didn’t notice at first.
Only when the ink began to bleed did he realize tears were dripping freely from his chin, splashing onto the book he held so carefully.
His shoulders sagged.
Can I really do nothing...?
Is this all I am?
His grip tightened, knuckles whitening.
What kind of helpless father lets his daughter walk into a cage like this?
His vision shook as memories forced themselves forward—her small hands clutching his sleeve, her laugh echoing through the orphanage halls, the way she had looked at the statue of the Goddess with such pure, unwavering faith.
"...Why," he whispered hoarsely, voice cracking, "didn’t I stop it..."
His head lowered.
Why didn’t I stop the Pope when he chose her...?
Why didn’t I refuse? Argue? Fight?
A tear slid down the bridge of his nose and dropped onto the page.
Why didn’t I just take her far away... somewhere no one could ever find her...?
His chest hitched violently.
"I’m sorry..." he murmured, as if she could hear him. "I’m so sorry..."
His hand shook as he turned another page.
Please...
I just hope... I just hope he can save you...
The page flipped.
And his hand froze.
Completely.
The world seemed to narrow to a single point.
His breath stopped.
His pupils dilated as his eyes locked onto the new entry.
A portrait stared back at him.
Faded. Old. But unmistakable. 𝕗𝐫𝐞𝕖𝕨𝐞𝗯𝚗𝕠𝘃𝐞𝚕.𝐜𝗼𝚖
A man with unfamiliar eyes.
Unfamiliar jawline.
Unfamiliar... presence.
But...
Aldric’s fingers spasmed.
"N-no..." he breathed.
With trembling hands, he reached into his robe and pulled out the folded paper he had always kept close to his chest.
He unfolded it.
Looked at the drawing of a broken brooch.
Then back at the book.
Paper.
Book.
Paper.
Book.
His breathing grew ragged, uneven.
"...It’s the same..." he whispered.
His eyes dropped to the line beneath the portrait.
Reason for arrest:
His vision blurred again—but this time not from tears.
He wiped his eyes roughly with the back of his sleeve and leaned closer, as if proximity might change what he was seeing.
The line was there.
Clear.
Undeniable.
Empty.
No specific reason.
Aldric moved.
No—he lurched.
The chair screeched backward as he stood too fast, nearly toppling over. The book slipped from his fingers once, struck the table with a dull thud, and he snatched it back up with shaking hands. The burnt parchment was already crumpled in his fist, edges biting into his palm as if trying to draw blood.
His breath came in sharp, uneven pulls.
"...I need—" he muttered, voice hoarse. "I need to reach there..."
He didn’t bother closing the bookcase. Didn’t bother hiding the records. The world had narrowed to a single direction.
The door burst open.
Warm afternoon air slammed into his face as he stepped out, robes flaring wildly around his legs. His hood fell back, white hair plastering itself to his damp forehead as he broke into a run.
The streets of the Holy Kingdom were eerily empty.
Lanterns flickered along marble roads. Banners hung limp, their holy sigils watching silently as Aldric ran beneath them like a man possessed. His sandals slapped against stone, breath rasping, chest burning.
"I need to reach there... fast... faster..."
His knees protested. His lungs screamed. His vision blurred at the edges.
He didn’t stop.
He couldn’t.
He cut through alleys meant only for priests. Vaulted low steps he once climbed slowly with age. His hand brushed walls for balance, leaving faint streaks of sweat and dirt behind.
The bells rang again.
Closer now.
Louder.
Final.
A glow appeared ahead—firelight, mana-light, crowd-light.
Aldric rounded the corner—
—and slammed into a wall of people.
Thousands.
Packed shoulder to shoulder.
Silent.
Not murmuring. Not praying.
Watching.
His heart dropped.
"No—no, no, no—"
He shoved forward instinctively, book pressed to his chest, parchment clenched so tightly his fingers had gone numb.
"Please—" he gasped. "Please, make way—"
No one moved.
Faces were turned forward, eyes fixed on something beyond him, expressions carved from stone and dread.
Aldric pushed harder.
"El—excuse me!" he shouted, voice cracking. "P-please—make way!"
He wedged himself between two bodies, earning startled looks and irritated hisses. Someone grabbed his sleeve; he tore free. Someone cursed; he didn’t hear it.
His breath came in broken sobs now.
"Please... please... I need to—"
He forced his way through inch by inch, shoulders scraping, ribs aching, vision tunneling as the silence of the crowd pressed in on him like a weight.
The light ahead grew brighter.
The air heavier.
And with one final, desperate shove, Aldric broke through the last row—
gasping, shaking, eyes wild—
just as the execution square opened before him.
