Chapter 88: The Waning Twilight of Honor and the Quiet Village of Shadows
Chapter 88 — The Waning Twilight of Honor and the Quiet Village of Shadows
Johannes Schultz would forever engrave in his soul the moment when the shroud of defeat enveloped the proud Schultz lineage, staining it with a darkness deeper than any battlefield shadow.
No victory, no matter how fiercely wrested in skirmishes past, could brighten the grim horizon that stretched before him. Docilia’s downfall offered no promise of reprieve—only a slow, inevitable decline.
Day by day, the lifeblood of the army waned: supplies dwindled, morale eroded like cliffs against a relentless sea. Appeals to the higher echelons were met only with icy commands to wait—no counsel, no aid, no hope.
The war, once a roaring tempest of ambition that vowed to consume the lands around it, dragged on through biting seasons that froze both body and spirit. With the chill, the soldiers’ health faltered, succumbing to the merciless cold that crept into their bones.
In the end, the mighty empire of Docilia—heralded to conquer and claim dominion—crumbled into bitter defeat.
Johannes had known all along this was the inevitable path.
The once-thriving legions of hundreds of thousands returned in fragments—mere tens of thousands bearing scars both visible and unseen. A calamity beyond reckoning.
Yet more insidious than the battlefield losses were the wounds to the Schultz family’s honor.
Neglected amid the chaos of war, the affairs at home now pierced deeper than any blade.
Fearing exposure of royal excesses—lavish siphoning of military funds—they cast blame upon Duke Schultz, accusing him of embezzlement on an unfathomable scale.
Johannes watched helplessly as the royal court tore his family asunder.
His mother’s grace tarnished by scandal, his father’s wrath a constant storm.
The noble Schultz name began to decay with each passing day, its luster fading into shadow.
From the moment he caught the cold, accusing gaze of his father, Johannes vowed a singular, unyielding purpose:
He would bring down the royal family.
To triumph, he needed allies—those the crown feared and distrusted.
His first gambit: to win over the formidable matriarch, the old wife of Marquis Russell.
But how to persuade a woman famed for her iron will and unforgiving nature?
“Why does the ailing Duke Schultz seek this old woman’s audience?” she hissed. “Surely not to beg for aid.”
As expected, she was a fortress of scorn and suspicion, her words sharpened claws that pricked and repelled.
Yet Johannes did not come hoping for easy succor.
Though despised by the court, he was spared outright dismissal—an unspoken nod to his potential worth.
“I seek no favors. My affairs are settled. I came only to see you,” Johannes replied with quiet resolve.
“Is that so? It gladdens this old heart to know someone cares for a lonely woman.”
“It is nothing of consequence.”
A dry smile crept upon Johannes’ lips.
The stern matriarch led him inside the drawing room.
“Wait here. I will send for tea. There is much I wish to speak, but over tea, we shall converse with greater ease.”
“Thank you,” Johannes bowed.
As she turned to depart, an aged portrait slipped from her grasp, fluttering to the floor.
Quick as thought, Johannes snatched it up. The painted face stared back—a face that chilled his blood.
“Pay this no mind!” the old woman snapped, reclaiming the portrait.
“…Is this your deceased son?” he asked.
“Yes… but,” she faltered, clutching the image close.
Johannes’ eyes narrowed, cold and unyielding.
Max Russell—her son, the enigma.
Whispers had long swirled around the Marquis: a boy of solitary nature, estranged from society and family alike; who defied his mother’s iron hand by loving a commoner and vanished without trace.
Rumors claimed he had returned, lifeless and cold. Some whispered Old Mrs. Russell herself had ended his life.
The truth remained veiled.
Yet now, it seemed the proclamation of his death was false.
Johannes steadied himself and met her gaze.
“That is the face you have sought in desperation.”
The matriarch’s composure shattered; she hurried away, dismissing his words as folly.
But in that fleeting reaction lay his certainty.
Max Russell bore an uncanny resemblance to one Johannes knew well.
Could this be the divine instrument of his vengeance?
The cramped space beneath the train seat was suffocating—a tomb no human should endure.
The hallway outside had buzzed ceaselessly since my disappearance; the noise a constant reminder of the chaos I’d set loose.
I’d toyed with abandoning my hiding place, overwhelmed by the magnitude of events, but I could not yield.
Hope fluttered weakly in my chest—the faintest clue that I might meet my father once more.
Time stretched interminably in that shadowed refuge.
When silence finally fell, I straightened my aching back and slipped from the cramped shelter.
A weary moan escaped me.
Every fiber ached, muscles screamed for reprieve.
“Madness. Why not seek another way? Never again this torment.”
But then, a face I dared not see emerged before me.
“What are you doing here?”
Johannes Schultz sighed, offering his hand.
“What lies did that bastard feed you? If he deceived you, I should have ended him rather than listen.”
“…Where is the sign?”
Embarrassment tinged my voice as I glanced at Johannes.
In the end, I had come with him to Büttenburg Station.
Though my supposed father bade me travel alone, fate would not grant such freedom.
“I won’t ask why. I understand your choice.”
Johannes’ words were both comfort and confession.
Could he, too, know my father lived? Could he grasp my turmoil?
Before us lay Würtenburg Station’s hill; not long until an aged wooden sign would appear, just as Giltheon had foretold.
“This way.”
Reaching the sign, I scanned the landscape and quickly spotted a lone street vendor—a splash of crimson against the sea of green, impossible to miss.
Approaching cautiously, I found the old man with the half-bald crown of hair Giltheon described.
“I… hello. I was told to come here. Do you know Fixer Giltheon?”
The man said nothing, instead extending a weathered palm.
“Ah!”
I drew forth the two notes, flipping them open. After scrutinizing the pages, he retrieved a key tied with a red ribbon from a worn package and offered it to me.
“This your house key?”
A nod confirmed.
“And how do I reach this address?”
His bony finger pointed downhill, toward Herzburg.
“Thank you.”
With Johannes, I followed the winding path.
The road stretched far beyond my expectation.
Though not frail, my feet began to protest the journey.
I stifled curses with clenched teeth as the village gradually emerged—an enclave untouched by time, its ancient architecture preserved, no modern building in sight.
This was the village of alchemists, a relic of old.
Did anyone truly live here? Yet life persisted in sparse pulses.
Still, unease gnawed at me. This place was steeped in blood and shadow.
Tattered Docilian flags hung limply from branches, bearing curses scrawled in angry red beneath.
I swallowed hard, nerves tightening.
“This place chills me…”
Why had my father summoned me to such a forsaken haunt?
Deeper into the village we ventured, watched with suspicion from every corner.
