Steel-grey eyes bore down on me, void of emotion or concern. In their presence, I felt as insignificant as a grain of sand, my gaze instinctively lowering in subservience.
"Your failures have resonated throughout these halls, finally reaching my ears,"
the words flowed calmly, yet their gravity caused ripples in the room. The shuffling and murmuring of the crowd soon hushed, though snippets of their comments lingered in my ears.
"So, his time has come at last."
"His ignorance in attempting—"
All sound faded when the man seated on the throne surveyed the room. In that silence, his voice continued, each word carrying weight.
"Your actions have led to your demotion and sentencing to the Darklands."
No explanation followed; it was beneath him to elaborate. The guillotine of judgment fell upon me, the room enveloped in silence.
Those words were the final stone added to the mountain already on my back, causing me to collapse. My forehead met the floor.
"P-p-please! I beg of you!"
A complex swirl of emotions flooded me—fear, indignation, alienation. I felt entirely alone and spoke out of turn.
"Please, give me another chance, Father."
A flash of disgust crossed his face, quickly replaced by annoyance.
"You are no son of mine. Remove him from my sight."
One of the guards by the throne advanced, seized me, and guided me out of the room. Tears streamed down my face as I ranted about the hypocrisy of my father's court. The eyes that followed held pity, yet no one spoke up. They merely observed.
I recall this scene as my last day as the count's illegitimate son, but something was different.
As I was dragged away, the room began to warp—walls elongating and contracting, colors shifting and oversaturating. Shadows extended across the floor, and the people, once robust, decayed before my eyes. Near the door stood a man I knew well, a man I had once admired, the only person with the power to aid me.
"Rutherford!"
I called out, expecting him to merely watch as I was led away, hope fading because the one who could help me had chosen not to. But something changed. The guard's pull ceased, the room froze, and its hues settled in a sinister direction.
Rutherford's gaze swept around, and he spoke. Except it wasn't Rutherford's voice—it was the deep baritone of the apparition.
"Whatever it is—fate, destiny, or some other force—you are here, and I am about to cease."
The man posing as Rutherford advanced toward me. My attempts to move or speak failed. I could only watch as he closed in, stopped, and sighed.
He glanced at the throne's occupant, now in a decayed form, and uttered,
"I am Beelzebub. Lord of gluttony."
A smirk curled on his lips, followed by a hollow laugh tinged with pain and sorrow, shifting gradually into the maniacal laugh of one teetering on the edge.
"Who would have thought it would come to this? I've truly fallen."
His gaze dropped to the floor, and for a moment, I saw not Rutherford but myself, burdened by insurmountable struggles.
He looked back at me.
"You shall inherit some of my authority, should you live. But you shall also bear the responsibility of protecting the supreme one. Yes, the supreme one will endure… should—"
Beelzebub seemed to falter, murmuring about the 'supreme one' still being alive. Shaking off the momentary lapse, he roared at me with manic fervor.
"RETURN, RETURN AND AND LAY VENGEANCE UPON THE PRINCES!"
My soul quivered, every cell in my body felt torn asunder.
My eyes snapped open.
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