Count’s Youngest Son is a Warlock

Lucion collapsed before he could run any further. With the darkness drained, he could no longer sustain his possession with Bethel and was released.

But Lucion roared at the top of his lungs inwardly.

‘It’s severed…!’

The red thread connecting him to Heint had been severed.

How long had he waited for this moment?

How desperately had he wished for this day to come?

Joy surged within him, so overwhelming it was almost unbearable.

However, that joy was short-lived. Dizziness overtook him, and he began to fall, only for Hume to catch him just in time.

—Lucion. Lucion.

Ratta, unable to contain her tears any longer, emerged from the shadows and tightly grasped the hem of Lucion’s clothing.

“Y-Young Master.”

Hume hesitated before carefully removing his mask, his voice trembling with regret.

“I’m sorry. I… I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you.”

Unable to contain his tears at the sight of Lucion’s bloodstains and the wounds on his body, Hume felt a deep sense of regret.

Why was he so powerless against corruption?

Why did he despise his own limitations so deeply?

“Ugh.” Lucion groaned as he tried to move, blood dripping from his nose.

[Stay still. Just stay still.]

Russell, though unable to physically hold Lucion down, hovered anxiously, his face tense.

[Hume, we need to use the Sunbeam now.]

“Yes, we must,” Hume agreed, nodding in response to Bethel’s urgent voice. He gently laid Lucion down and turned to Heint, who had approached quietly.

Hume glanced at Heint, who appeared poised to kneel immediately, his mouth agape.

“Is that you, Hume?”

“Yes, Mr. Heint.”

“Lucion.”

Hume gestured towards the corner. “I’m sorry, but I need your help for the young master. Please, gather light for the Sunbeam.”

Without hesitation, Heint complied, channeling light into the Sunbeam.

“Thank you,” Hume said and bowed his head earnestly before rushing back to Lucion. He used the purified light of Sunbeam to let healing particles rain gently over Lucion’s body.

As Lucion’s wounds began to close, Heint watched in silence.

When Lucion’s eyes fluttered open, they locked onto Heint’s face. Fear gripped him instantly, but he forced himself to sit up and speak.

“I’m sorry, brother.”

In that instant, Heint’s face twisted. 

Hearing Lucion’s heartfelt apology brought back the memories of his own doubts—of wanting to kill Hamel as a warlock and of not being able to trust him. All those doubts came crashing down on him like waves.

Lucion’s face was pale, devoid of color, with blood stains still smeared around his lips, and the wounds from Hotram’s attack were visible on his tattered clothing.

Why?

Why was Lucion apologizing?

Anxiety welled up in Heint, mixed with a profound sense of guilt.

“You don’t have to apologize… I was the one who deceived you. I—”

“Lucion!” Heint’s voice rose involuntarily. “Why?” His lips trembled as his voice faltered. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“If I had told you, would you have believed me?” Lucion asked, his smile filled with sorrow.

Heint froze, unable to respond.

“Would you truly have believed me if I had told you I was a warlock?”

“Of course, I—”

“I’ve spent all this time as Hamel, gathering information for you and for the empire. Even so, you doubted me, didn’t you?”

The understanding in Lucion’s gaze was unbearable. Heint felt as though the ground beneath him was crumbling. 

It was none other than himself that had created that look in Lucion’s eyes.

Heint felt himself sinking into overwhelming despair.

“You saw me differently, didn’t you? Just because I’m a warlock. Even when I begged you to trust me. Even when I swore I was different from the others, you doubted me.”

Lucion’s voice trembled with every word, cutting deeper into Heint’s heart.

“No matter how much I denied it, no matter how much I tried to prove I was different, it didn’t matter. The truth doesn’t matter to people like us. Just the fact that I’m a warlock was enough for them to rip me apart.”

He paused, trembling, before continuing with a shaky breath.

“Brother, do you understand now? The truth doesn’t matter all that much. I’m not the one who decides. As soon as it’s known that I’m a warlock, no matter what I do, I become the villain. That’s why I stayed silent. That’s why I hid it.”

“I’m not just wearing this stupid mask and acting like a fool! I just wanted to live. To not be killed. To not see the people I care about hurt because of me…”

Heint finally understood the depth of Lucion’s feelings, the ones he had expressed so painfully that day.

It must have felt as though he was vomiting blood. As though his entire world was crumbling around him. 

It must have been a pain beyond anything Heint could imagine.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, Lucion,” Heint said, his voice heavy with emotion. “I feel disgusted with myself for saying it, but that’s all I can offer. I’m truly sorry.”

He lowered his head, shame burning within him that all he could do was apologize.

“Brother,” Lucion called softly, but even then, Heint couldn’t bring himself to respond. He was too overwhelmed by shame, guilt, and sorrow.

“Are you… going to kill me?” Lucion’s cautious question broke the silence, and a single tear slid down Heint’s cheek.

It wasn’t a pity.

The desperation in Lucion’s voice pierced through him, and Heint could no longer contain his emotions.

“There’s no way. No way I would ever do that,” Heint said firmly with sincerity, the veins in his neck standing out.

How could he ever think of killing Lucion?

How could he even dare?

“Sir Heint, please take good care of Hamel. There’s something heartbreakingly unsettling about him. Doesn’t it seem like he’s crying out with his entire body? That’s how it looks to me, and it’s unbearable.”

Ketlan’s words rang in Heint’s mind.

Hamel—or rather, Lucion—had always been crying out. Ketlan had seen it, but Heint had failed to notice.

“Lucion,” Heint said, raising his head. He drew his sword and plunged it into the ground in front of him.

Lucion’s gaze wavered, unsure of what was happening.

“I, Heint Tria, swear on my sword and my honor that I will protect Lucion Cronia until the day I die.”

The most sacred vow a knight could make.

A knight’s oath.

By putting everything on the line, Heint declared he would never harm Lucion, no matter what.

“That’s enough,” Lucion said softly, a trembling smile breaking through his tears.

Despite his smile, tears streamed down his face uncontrollably. His mouth tasted of blood, and every breath carried the metallic tang of it. The emptiness of the darkness felt like it was tearing his body apart with every movement.

His eyelids grew heavier, as if someone were pulling him into unconsciousness. Yet, he was terrified to close his eyes, afraid that if he did, everything might prove to be a dream.

He feared that the red thread connecting him to Heint hadn’t truly been severed.

Terrified, Lucion looked at Heint, tears falling endlessly.

The salty tears mingled with the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, creating a strange, bitter flavor. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop crying.

—Don’t cry, Lucion. If you cry, Ratta will be sad too.

Ratta, who was already in tears, spoke with a trembling voice.

[It’s okay, Lord Lucion.]

Bethel’s voice was soft as he patted Lucion gently.

[Yes, it’s all okay now. Don’t force yourself to stay conscious any longer.]

Russell wiped Lucion’s tears away, his expression filled with concern.

Overwhelmed by grief and pain, Lucion bit his lip, trying to suppress his sobs. But his trembling shoulders betrayed his efforts.

Watching Lucion cry like a lost child, Heint apologized again.

“I’m sorry for not trusting you… for not realizing sooner, Lucion.”

At those words, Lucion finally let out the sobs he had been holding back, little by little.

“Young Master.”

Hume couldn’t stand watching any longer.

How much must it hurt to shed tears with a body so full of wounds?

“Everything is fine now,” Hume said gently. “It’s okay. Don’t hold it in anymore. This isn’t a dream.”

“Really?” Lucion asked, his voice tinged with desperation.

Hume gave him a broad, reassuring smile.

“Yes, it’s true. This is reality, not a dream. Have I ever lied to you, Young Master?”

No, Hume never had.

Finally, Lucion smiled faintly and let his eyes close. As his body slumped, Hume caught him, holding him carefully.

Lucion’s breath was a bit ragged, but his face looked so peaceful.

Hume turned to Heint.

“I don’t know if it’s my place to say this, but the Young Master was deeply afraid of this moment. So… thank you.”

“I… I don’t deserve to be thanked. Please, don’t thank me,” Heint said, his voice thick with emotion.

“I believe the Young Master would feel grateful nonetheless,” Hume replied gently.

“Even so, I…”

“I understand things didn’t go smoothly along the way. The Young Master was stubborn at times, too. But Mr. Heint, here you are, trusting him now.”

“…” Heint looked at Hume, uncertain of how to respond.

Hume smiled kindly.

“That trust is exactly what the Young Master longed for with all his heart.”

At those words, Heint finally let his tears fall freely—tears of regret and guilt, but also tears of respect for Lucion, who had sacrificed so much for the empire, even through his pain.

* * *

“Where is Hamel-nim?” Kran asked Heint as they ascended.

The halted transportation device had been restarted by Reint and Peter working together.

The knights and assassins joined forces, moving through the tower floor by floor, defeating the mages who had attacked them.

Along the way, a strange phenomenon occurred where corpses disappeared, but that fact was unimportant to Kran.

As they reached the fifth floor, Kran still hadn’t seen Lucion.

No, he couldn’t even see Lucion.

“We, no, Hotram—the leader of the Hand of the Void—was defeated, and he left,” Heint replied naturally. But Kran could tell it was a lie.

Unable to hold back, Kran approached Heint. His eyes were drawn to a familiar fragment lying on the floor.

Wasn’t that part of Lucion’s mask?

“Who was with Hamel-nim when he killed him?” Kran asked sharply.

“It was Heint,” Carson interjected, pointing toward Heint.

Without hesitation, Kran grabbed Heint by the collar and shoved him against the wall.

“Where did he go?” Kran asked, his voice low.

“Won’t you be contacted soon?” Heint replied cautiously.

Hume had mentioned they would receive contact later. At the time, Heint hadn’t understood which side Hume meant, but now, it seemed likely he had meant Kran.

“Did you see him?”

Heint hesitated briefly, sensing the sharpness in Kran’s gaze. This was no ordinary question.

Did Kran know Lucion’s true identity?

After a moment’s pause, Heint nodded.

“Yes.”

Just then, a ringing sound echoed from Kran’s communication device. He sighed in relief, his tense expression softening into a smile as he turned away.

“Yes, this is Kran,” he answered.

* * *

‘Hello.’

As Lucion regained consciousness, a black figure, wearing the mask Hamel had once used, waved at him.

It was no longer something that could simply be called a black figure; it had taken on a distinct shape.

With the mask on, the hair was cut to the shoulders.

‘Why am I seeing you?’ Lucion asked, his voice tinged with annoyance.

The black figure chuckled softly.

‘You’ve got the black orb now, so wouldn’t you naturally end up meeting me? Now, sit down for a moment.’

There was a sofa placed where the black figure pointed.

‘Surprised, aren’t you, Lucion?’

At the black figure’s words, Lucion frowned.

‘Are you talking about Hotram?’

‘Hotram? I’m not sure we’re even having the same conversation,’ the black figure replied, seemingly amused.

‘The boss of the Hand of the Void,’ Lucion clarified.

The black figure tilted its head, as though the name caught it off guard.

‘So, this time, that guy’s name is Hotram?’ it muttered.

‘It turns out it wasn’t just my imagination. Unlike in the previous world, the boss of the Hand of the Void has changed.’

Only then did Lucion realize the reason the boss of the Hand of the Void looked different. And he also noticed that the black figure hadn’t reacted to the mention of ‘the previous world.’

‘That guy was possessed by Veronia,’ Lucion explained.

To be more precise, Hotram had summoned Veronia.

It only made sense that Hotram and Veronia had known each other all along. 

If that was the case, then Hotram—or rather, the organization called the Hand of the Void—was nothing more than a puppet of Veronia.

But why? What was Veronia’s goal?

‘And?’ the black figure asked, its tone dripping with curiosity.

‘I… or rather, Bethel and I… blew away one of his eyes,’ Lucion replied, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

The black figure immediately leapt up, excitement radiating from its every move.

‘Can I hug you?’ it exclaimed.

‘No,’ Lucion retorted, recoiling slightly. ‘Get lost.’

‘How petty! Joy should be shared!’ the figure complained before reluctantly sitting back down.

‘What story are you going to tell me today?’ Lucion asked, steering the conversation.

The black figure sighed dramatically, disappointed by Lucion’s evasive response.

‘Do you remember the last story?’ it asked.

‘You said Veronia went to the darkness and prayed.’

‘That’s right. He begged desperately,’ the figure said with a chuckle before continuing. ‘But the darkness, which exists for everyone, refused his plea to prevent corruption.’

At that, Lucion burst into laughter.

The thought of the darkness rejecting Veronia’s pathetic prayer filled him with satisfaction. If the darkness were present, Lucion felt he’d even offer praise for its decision.

‘Listen closely now. This is the key point,’ the black figure said, leaning forward as if savoring the moment.

‘The servant of darkness killed the darkness to survive—and wore its guise.’