Jourell picked up his silverware, even with a blade pressed against his throat. With an unsettling poise, he cut into his cold steak and took a bite without blinking.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jourell said, not even glancing at Cyrill.
"Oh, is that so?" Cyrill countered.
Cyrill shot a look at the maid, who gave a sharp nod. Immediately, she let out a piercing whistle. A second later, "slam," the dining room doors burst open. Everyone whipped their heads toward the entrance. Two male servants marched in, dragging a middle-aged man who looked to be in his fifties.
He had heavy dark circles under his eyes and a grim face buried beneath a thick, overgrown beard, dressed in the tattered rags of a peasant. The pungent stench radiating from him was so foul that Casey, still sobbing, had to cover her nose; Esme did the same. Yet, Jourell continued to eat, his appetite completely unfazed.
The man stood in silence, head hanging low. His face was as pale as a corpse, his hair and beard had turned white, and saliva leaked from the corner of his mouth into his filthy beard. His eyes were vacant, and his hands trembled uncontrollably. Jourell shot the man a cynical smirk before turning back to his plate.
"Fine. You're right. That is indeed my father, and I'm the one who locked him up. But he can't help you. As you can see, he's useless now," Jourell said casually.
Watching Malcolm's pathetic state, Cyrill slammed his fist onto the table. He was fuming at a son who could do such a thing to his own father, but he forced himself to stay composed. He turned to Jourell with a smile, even as the veins in his forehead began to bulge.
"What was your reason for locking your father up and turning him into... this? You'd better hope the answer sounds good to me," Cyrill demanded.
"The reason is simple. He just wouldn't die, and I am the sole heir to House Laython. I don't really need to explain the details, do I?" Jourell replied calmly.
The room fell into a heavy silence. Cyrill was vibrating with rage, as was Casey—who, having just lost her own father, looked like she wanted to slam Jourell's head into the table. Esme and Noah were equally disgusted by Jourell's callousness. But before anyone could act, "sreeg," Dustin suddenly stood up with a smile.
"This is the moment I've been waiting for," Dustin said.
"Huh?" Cyrill, Casey, Noah, and Esme all turned to look at him. Dustin was smiling as if the situation were unfolding exactly as he had seen in his visions. He walked calmly behind the broken Malcolm, and the two servants stepped aside to make room.
Dustin stood directly behind Malcolm and placed his palm firmly on top of the old man's head. A brilliant green light surged from his hand, enveloping Malcolm's entire body.
The moment Jourell saw what Dustin was doing, his face went deathly pale. His composure shattered. He tried to stand up, but the maid behind him shoved him back down. Slowly, Malcolm's corpse-like face began to regain its natural color. His hair and beard shifted back to a golden blonde.
His vacant eyes started to focus, his mouth closed, and the trembling in his hands slowed down. Malcolm closed his eyes, his expression becoming peaceful, as if he were soaking in a warm, comforting bath.
"Hey... what are you doing!?" Jourell screamed.
"Shhh... don't be so loud," Cyrill replied, pressing a finger to his own lips.
As if hearing his voice, Malcolm opened his eyes even while still shrouded in green light. He turned his head immediately toward his son, causing Jourell to flinch in terror. Malcolm's expression was flat, but his eyes were razor-sharp and focused. Cyrill, seeing Jourell jump, let out a cynical smirk.
"Now... get ready to take your punishment from your father, you brat," Cyrill said with pure satisfaction.
Jourell could only sit in silence, not daring to look at his father. Dustin lifted his hand; the green light vanished, and he staggered backward. The two servants behind him caught him instantly.
"I'm alright, thank you," Dustin said to the servants, who simply nodded.
Malcolm stood up. This time, his posture was straight and powerful. He walked over to his son and, "slap," he struck his son so hard the younger man's head snapped to the side. He then glanced at the maid, who immediately bowed and released the knife from Jourell's neck.
Malcolm looked at Cyrill, Casey, Noah, and Esme one by one, then turned to Dustin, who gave him a nod despite staring straight ahead. Finally, he turned back to Jourell, who was clutching his cheek.
"As of this moment, you are no longer my son. Guards!" Malcolm thundered.
Several soldiers rushed in. Malcolm's hands snatched his son's clothes, hoisting him up before throwing him toward the two guards. Jourell's face was a mask of resignation; he offered no resistance.
"Take him to the dungeon. I'll deal with him later. And call the servants to clear away this food. I have guests," Malcolm ordered firmly.
"Yes, my Lord," the soldiers replied, looking visibly eager as they dragged Jourell out.
Shortly after, the real servants arrived. Cyrill could see their faces glowing with renewed energy. Once the table was cleared, Malcolm spoke.
"Forgive my son's behavior and thank you for freeing me. For six months, I was poisoned every single day until I ended up like that, rotting in the dungeon," Malcolm said.
"It's alright, Lord Malcolm. There is something important we need to discuss," Dustin said, sitting beside him.
"Very well, I am listening," Malcolm replied.
Dustin immediately explained their plan. Cyrill leaned over to Casey and whispered.
"So this is what he meant about speaking with Lord Malcolm?" Cyrill asked.
"Probably. He saw it all... including your secret. I never knew you were a Holy Assassin from the monastery," Casey answered.
"Something like that... sorry I never mentioned it. And thanks for calling me a 'Holy' assassin—usually I'm just a Shadow Assassin. Family business, you know," Cyrill replied.
"But thanks to you... we survived. Thank you," Casey said.
"No... it was all that bald guy. He already knew this would happen and didn't tell us the details of his plan. That bastard. I seriously hate him," Cyrill grumbled, though Casey could see the admiration and respect in his eyes as he looked at Dustin.
"Hehe, true enough," Casey replied, turning back to Dustin and Malcolm.
They watched as Dustin continued his talk with Malcolm, who nodded seriously, occasionally glancing at Casey and Cyrill. Suddenly, Malcolm raised his hand, and Dustin stopped mid-sentence.
"Say no more. I will prepare ten thousand of my men to strike the Toreno border and launch a direct assault on Toreno Castle. We move today. Allow me a moment to prepare," Malcolm declared.
"Thank you, Lord Malcolm," Dustin said, standing and bowing.
"Thank you, Lord Malcolm," Casey added with a bow, as did Cyrill.
Malcolm turned to Casey and smiled. He leaned down toward her, his gaze softening.
"You look exactly like your mother. Forgive my son's actions—he has no respect for a beautiful woman and intended to harm you," Malcolm said.
"Oh... you knew my mother?" Casey asked, stunned.
"Margaret Rochel. She was my younger sister. It's a tragedy she passed from that illness," Malcolm answered.
"So... you're... my uncle?" Casey asked, her eyes wide.
"That's right. I am your uncle on your mother's side," Malcolm replied with a gentle smile.
"So... I still have family?" Casey asked, her eyes welling up with tears.
"I am your family. Please, come to me whenever you need help. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have much to do before we depart," Malcolm said.
As Malcolm walked out of the room, Dustin let out a sigh of relief. Casey began to cry while smiling as Esme comforted her, also in tears, while Noah stood by nodding with a smile. Cyrill turned to Dustin.
"Hey, cue ball. Next time you have a plan, explain the details. Don't be so ambiguous; you're giving me a headache," Cyrill said.
"If I had explained it, you wouldn't have acted exactly as my vision required," Dustin replied with a smirk.
"Grrr... fine, you're right. You're still annoying, though," Cyrill said, sitting back and crossing his arms, looking away. Behind him, the three servants—who were actually his subordinates—struggled to hold back their laughter.