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Chapter 262 - The Radiant Lie

Holy sigils flared briefly, shimmering with sanctified light before fading once more into stillness. Some among the congregation clenched their hands until knuckles whitened. Others bowed their heads. A few broke, quiet sobs muffled by cloth and restraint.

No bodies were returned.

There were no coffins.

Only names.

When the final prayer was spoken and the last hymn faded into silence, the congregation slowly dispersed. The ceremony ended without applause, without celebration—only bowed heads and heavy, measured footsteps echoing across marble.

Outside the hall, beyond the sanctified grounds, lay the **Field of Remembrance**.

White stone stretched as far as the eye could see.

Tombstones—countless tombstones—stood in perfect rows, each engraved with a name, a rank, and a date. No remains lay beneath them. Only memory.

Families wandered among the stones in silence.

A mother knelt before one, trembling fingers tracing letters she already knew by heart.

A brother stood rigid before another, jaw clenched tight, refusing to cry.

Some brought flowers. Others brought prayers. A few brought nothing at all—because nothing could fill the space left behind.

Above it all, the sky remained overcast, clouds heavy and unmoving.

And deep within the capital, unseen by the mourners, a holy mark continued to burn—

a reminder that the war was not over,

and that what had survived the battlefield had not been buried with the dead.

Among the countless white stones, **Lucan** stood still.

He wore white like the others, but it sat on him differently—too clean, too untouched by dirt or time. His hands were clenched at his sides, knuckles pale, as he faced a single tombstone set slightly apart from the rest.

**Count Alaric Carvon.**

His uncle.

There was no body beneath the stone.

No remains to return.

Only a name carved into cold marble.

Lucan stared at it, unmoving.

*If he hadn't stepped in…*

*If he hadn't chosen to protect me…*

The thought refused to finish.

Alaric would still be alive.

That truth pressed down on Lucan's chest harder than any wound. His uncle had not fallen for glory, nor for the empire's praise. He had died buying time—shielding Lucan with his own life, without hesitation.

And Lucan hadn't even been able to retrieve his body.

No proper rites.

No farewell.

Not even ashes.

Just this stone, standing in place of everything that was lost.

His fingers twitched, hovering just above the engraved name before curling back into his palm. He didn't cry. He didn't pray.

He simply stood there, silent, the overcast sky reflected faintly in the polished surface of the tombstone.

Around him, families mourned.

But Lucan remained alone—

burdened by a life that continued

because another had ended.

---

The next day.

A vast platform of white stone had been erected in the heart of **Lumenia**, overlooking the central plaza. Suspended above it, **magic crystals** hovered in precise formation, their multifaceted surfaces shimmering as they recorded and transmitted the scene.

Across the world, those same crystals flickered to life.

On airships drifting between kingdoms.

In taverns thick with smoke and murmurs.

In public squares where commoners gathered beneath open skies.

The image stabilized.

Standing at the center of the platform was a man draped in immaculate white-and-gold robes, posture rigid, expression carved from stone.

**Lord Arithor.**

Royal Adviser of the Holy Empire.

A crystal microphone floated before him.

He waited until the plaza fell completely silent.

Then he spoke.

> "By order of the Holy Empire of *Lumina Sancta*…"

His voice carried—amplified by magic, calm and authoritative, leaving no room for interruption.

> "I, Lord Arithor, Royal Adviser to His Divine Majesty, address not only our empire… but all kingdoms under the light and beyond."

He inclined his head slightly, a gesture rehearsed to perfection.

> "First, we extend our deepest condolences to those who have lost loved ones in the recent conflict. Their sacrifices will never be forgotten. Their names will be etched into history as heroes who stood against darkness itself."

A pause.

Long enough for the words to settle.

Then his tone shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

> "The Holy Empire hereby confirms that the **Demon King** has been slain."

A ripple spread through the plaza.

Across the world, gasps and murmurs erupted.

> "The **King of Vampires** is dead."

Another pause.

Then—

> "However…"

The single word chilled the air.

> "Darkness does not end so easily."

Lord Arithor raised his gaze, eyes hardening.

> "A new threat has emerged."

The crystals flared brighter.

> "The Demon King's **son** lives."

Whispers swelled into noise.

> "A new Demon King has risen."

His voice remained steady, almost regretful.

> "This child was born of the late Demon King and a **Night Elf consort**—a being of corrupted lineage, steeped in shadow."

He allowed the weight of the words to sink in.

Then he drove the blade deeper.

> "But investigations have revealed something far more troubling."

The crystals shifted, displaying sigils, blurred imagery, fragments of magically reconstructed memories.

> "The mother was **not merely a Night Elf**."

A beat.

> "She was a **High Elf**."

The reaction was immediate.

Outrage.

Shock.

Disbelief.

Lord Arithor continued, his voice now edged with accusation.

> "A high-ranking figure of the elven race—one who should have stood beneath the light—chose instead to consort with demons."

He turned slightly, as if addressing unseen representatives beyond the plaza.

> "The Holy Empire formally demands answers from the **Night Elves**."

His words hardened.

> "Why was one of your own in league with the Demon King?"

> "Why was such a union concealed?"

> "And how deep does this corruption truly run?"

Silence followed—thick and deliberate.

Then came the decree.

> "By authority of the Holy Empire…"

A golden sigil ignited behind him.

> "A **worldwide bounty** is hereby placed upon the Demon King's child."

The number burned into existence across every screen.

**100,000 GOLD**

> "To any individual, mercenary group, or kingdom who brings him to us…"

Another pause.

Then, cold and absolute—

> "…**dead or alive**."

The broadcast ended.

The crystals went dark.

But the damage was already done.

Across the world, conversations ignited.

Greed stirred.

Fear took root.

And somewhere far from Lumenia—

moving through shadow, pain, and blood—

The hunted king walked on, unaware that the world had just been taught his face… and his price.

The crystals flared once more.

Across every projection, every enchanted mirror, every floating screen—the image **changed**.

A single frame filled the air.

A child.

White hair, long and untamed.

Crimson eyes—too sharp, too old for someone so young.

A faint shadow clung to him unnaturally, as though light itself hesitated to touch his form.

The image was imperfect—clearly reconstructed from magic, fragments of memory, and battlefield residue—but it was unmistakable.

Beneath the image, words burned into existence in brutal, unforgiving gold.

**WANTED**

**DEAD OR ALIVE**

Below it, the sigil of the Holy Empire pulsed, followed once more by the bounty:

**100,000 GOLD**

The image lingered.

In taverns, cups froze halfway to lips.

On airships, sailors stared in silence.

In guild halls, mercenaries leaned forward, eyes gleaming.

In temples, priests whispered prayers—some for salvation, others for blood.

Parents pulled children closer.

Hunters smiled.

Kings took note.

And in the Night Forest, far from the reach of those screens, a boy carrying two sleeping infants moved through the darkness—mana burning quietly through his veins, pain locked behind clenched teeth.

Unaware that the world now hunted his face.

Unaware that his existence had been reduced to a single frame.

A picture.

And a price.

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