Chapter 113 Heart of the Storm (I)
◎Beheading◎
Yulia rubbed his hands vigorously. The water in the silver basin was clean and transparent. No matter how hard he rubbed, he could not rub out any dirt. However, he still scratched the skin on his hands frantically. The turbulent water surface reflected the distorted face of the young knight. There was a strange blush on his face, and his weirdly widened eyes made him look like a frog with its neck strangled. His handsome face was twisted into a daunting look by this morbid excitement. He was like a madman who was immersed in his own world.
The sound of splashing water echoed in the room. Yulia rubbed his hands intently. The skin on the back of his hands was bloodshot and cracked, but he still enjoyed asking for water and washing his hands these days. It seemed to have become his secret pleasure.
Yulia stared at the clear water surface, always imagining that big clumps of red would burst out in it. When he thought of this, he felt that hot, wet and sticky texture on his hands again, the smell of blood came to his face, and a pair of eyes that were still open were staring at him.
His breathing became rapid and violent, like the low panting of a wild animal, pulling his lungs in his chest to inhale and exhale in big gulps, and excessive oxygen was poured into his body. He felt his soul flying out of his body, floating up happily and lightly...
Frederick Claudius Portia.
Yulia kept repeating the name in his mouth and in his heart, which gave him a morbid feeling. Just repeating the name could bring him to a climax of joy.
What a noble surname! What a noble bloodline!
He chuckled. Who could have thought that such a noble duke, the last descendant of the royal family, would end up dying in his hands?
he! A humble commoner, a nobody born in a haystack, ended the life of a duke with his own hands!
This was the first time that he truly experienced the feeling of holding the lives of others in his hands and playing with them—not those submissive servants, but real big shots, nobles whom he had once only dreamed of!
No one was informed of the arrival of Francis IV. When Julia saw His Majesty in his room, he was so frightened that he collapsed to the ground. The naughty little emperor did not announce his arrival with fanfare. He seemed to have a sudden urge to inspect the progress of the war. Then one day, he suddenly ordered Julia to take a team of guards and cross a valley on the front line.
Yulia is not very smart, but he is not really stupid.
He knew that was something only baits did, and the little emperor, who doted on him to the extreme, had a sweet smile on his face when he ordered him to be the bait, as if this was just another erotic game between them.
Yulia was terribly frightened, but he did not dare to resist.
In fact, he had no idea what happened that day. The Papal army that was chasing him suddenly retreated halfway, and then the other side started fighting again... In short, when he returned trembling with fear, he saw His Majesty sitting on the crossbar of the chariot, looking down and playing with a dagger, with a young man tied up in front of him.
Yulia recognized the young man from the mark on his clothes.
This is the supreme commander of the Papal Army, the Duke from the Portia family.
Surrounded by a bloody battlefield, the Calais soldiers were searching for survivors, dragging the bodies of their comrades out of the pile of corpses, and stabbing any enemies who were still breathing.
He had never seen such a cruel scene before. He felt nauseous and could not help but hold on to the tree next to him and vomited until everything in his stomach was vomited out. Finally, he vomited out clear water. Only then was he barely supported by the servants and walked in front of the emperor with a pale face and trembling.
The little emperor tilted his head lazily and looked down at him condescendingly.
His eyes moved around his legs that were as soft as noodles and his pale face. The bored little emperor suddenly perked up, a smile appeared on his lips, and he asked in a compassionate and gentle tone, "Are you scared, dear?"
Yulia gave a stiff smile.
Francis IV pointed at the young man pinned down by the soldiers and said, "Look, this is my brave opponent, the respected Duke of Luxembourg."
His tone was full of respect, but who knows if he actually had even a shred of respect in his heart. This madman, pervert, probably didn't even understand what respect was.
The man raised his head when he heard his words. His clothes, which were torn in the battle, were covered in blood. His disheveled hair was soaked with blood and coagulated into thin strands, emitting a foul smell. Yulia noticed that he had a very handsome face. Although it was also covered in dirty dust and blood, and there was even a fresh scar on his forehead, it did not prevent Yulia from seeing his superior bone structure and the pair of purple eyes in the deep eye sockets.
Yulia tilted her head back in surprise.
Purple eyes...
He still remembered why he was chosen by the emperor and received his current supreme honor.
"Most of the descendants of the Portia family have a pair of purple eyes like this. Very beautiful, isn't it?" A hoarse voice sounded lightly beside Yulia's ear. The warm breath hit the sensitive cochlea, and Yulia felt that all the hairs on his body were standing up.
François IV got off the carriage at some point and walked silently to his side. His fluffy, wooly curly hair rubbed against the skin on Julia's neck, bringing out a tingling sensation. The emperor had a strong scent of myrrh, and Julia had been puzzled by this more than once - this spice was expensive, but was mostly used in religious occasions. It had become another representative item of the Vatican, and few people would use it for incense. After all, there were so many good-smelling spices in the world, so why bother to give yourself a Vatican scent in private? This is like deliberately wearing a monk's robe while flirting, which is too exciting and advanced for people of this era.
Julia didn't think that His Majesty was a person with such a "special" hobby, so he didn't understand why Francis IV had a special liking for myrrh.
The rich aroma left him, and the little emperor bent down, lifted up Redrick's hair with the tip of the dagger, looked at his face, and soon felt bored.
"That's a terrible look."
The little emperor commented lightly, then turned to his lover and said, "My dear, there is an opportunity for you now."
Yulia heard the young man's smile as he spoke in the midst of the nausea in his stomach, as if it was no big deal: "...Kill him and bring his head to me, and you can get the small town of Vasetin north of Dudlai as your fiefdom."
Julia was a selfish, shallow, greedy and bad person, but he had never killed anyone. François' words pierced into his ears like a venomous snake, sowing poisonous seeds in his heart.
He did not remember how he took the dagger from His Majesty's hand. It seemed as if he was walking on clouds, and each step he took could not touch the ground. He was extremely frightened and his whole body was shaking, like a mouse that knew there was a trap in front of it, but still lingered for the cheese hanging in the trap.
Redrick raised his eyelids from his hair and glanced at him.
This look was like a bucket of ice water, falling from the sky and soaking Yulia's whole body.
Contempt, arrogance, disdain... Julia could see in it all the cold treatment he had encountered in the past twenty years of his life. When he was an inconspicuous violinist in the orchestra, the nobles holding wine glasses all looked at him in this way. They never expressed their disdain in a big way, but Julia could sense the condescending contempt from their silent avoidance, the meaningful smile on the side of their faces, and their unstoppable footsteps.
However, unlike the circle of gentry and manor owners that Yulia used to mingle in, the one kneeling before him and awaiting his final judgment was an aristocrat among aristocrats, a real big shot.
What a noble Duke! His fate is entirely in his hands! This realization made Yulia's fear miraculously disappear, and another kind of excitement spread from the bottom of his heart. Yulia felt that his body was full of strength. This strength allowed him to transcend everything in the world, so when Redrick looked at him with such eyes, Yulia felt unprecedented anger.
You are just a poor creature waiting to die, a prisoner who should be begging for my life. Why are you still looking at me with such a condescending look? !
The huge anger overwhelmed Yulia's reason. By the time he reacted, the knife in his hand had already pierced Redrick's neck, and the gushing blood splashed all over his head and face. He heard the little emperor's muffled laughter, and then a light-hearted instruction: "- Cut the joints, don't break my knife."
The blade made a creaking sound as it scraped across flesh and meridians, and bones made a scraping sound. When he moved his hand, the blood that could not be cleaned gushed out from the ferocious neck, and there seemed to be no end. Yulia kept cutting and cutting, and his fear and panic turned into numbness in the end. He waved his arms mechanically, and felt that everything in his sight was blood red. His fingers pinched into the sticky and soft flesh, and every movement made a sticky gurgling sound. This sound echoed in his dreams day after day, as if he could never wash his hands clean.
But Yulia was not afraid. He recalled over and over again everything that happened that day, and gained a twisted and morbid feeling from it - so what about the Duke? So what if he is the last descendant of the royal family? Still died in his hands!
After that day, whenever he thought of the name Rederic Claudius Portia, his lower body would become uncontrollably hard. This had nothing to do with any emotions, it was just his nerves recalling the intense surging sensation. Julia supported his hands on the edge of the silver basin and smiled with joy.
Since Frederick's death, the Calais no longer concealed their actions and openly displayed all their flags, including the royal flag symbolizing the presence of the monarch.
Raphael developed a low fever on the day he arrived in Assyria by boat. The unstable life on the boat reduced his appetite to the lowest point. If it weren't for Ferrante's various means of coaxing and persuading him, Raphael would even not eat for two days in a row and only drink a little water to fill his hunger. The news of Redrick's death was like the last feather that completely crushed his poor body.
However, compared with the previous severe illness, this time Raphael just felt tired and weak. The continuous low fever made his eyes red and his patience dropped to an unprecedented level. He always couldn't sleep. Ferrante had to use some crooked ideas and find a way to consume his energy in bed and force him to close his eyes and rest for a few hours.
The Pope's flag was flying over the castle again. With the commander-in-chief captured and killed and the soldiers leaderless, the Pope's arrival was undoubtedly a shot in the arm. Raphael would walk around the barracks every morning, say a word or two to every soldier, and in the afternoon he would go to the town to meet with the local Assyrian residents.
A kind, amiable and considerate monarch was obviously easy to win the love of the people. He said to the soldiers, "Rederic's death is not the end of everything. He gave his life for the Papal States. We must inherit his will and move forward." He said to the local residents, "The deceased commander was my brother. My grief exceeds that of anyone else, but I do not regret letting him go to the battlefield, because this is our own Assyria, and the Sargon family will always be the protectors of this land."
Gentle words, empathetic expressions, considerate listening... Raphael easily presented himself in front of the people - showing the image of a monarch worthy of following. No one could resist his charm, because the negative emotions caused by Rederic's death were quickly transformed by him into a more determined and burning flame of revenge. The voice praising the Sargon family once again resounded across this vast land, accompanied by Raphael's name and his glorious image.
On the fifth day after his arrival, the Calais side could no longer hold back and asked to meet with the Pope. The envoy who came to deliver the invitation looked at Ferrante, the Pope's spokesperson, arrogantly and mentioned Rederick's name in a contemptuous and oblique manner.
Everyone knows that Frederick's head is still in the hands of Francis IV. They are using him to threaten Raphael. Although it is low-level, it is very effective.
Raphael was half lying in an armchair, listening to Ferrante's retelling, with a pipe in his mouth. A thin milky white mist came out of his mouth, and there were faint red marks under his messy collar. He opened his eyes, and a thin layer of water vapor was in his lavender eyes. His face still had the fatigue brought by the illness, but his eyes were filled with a bright cold light brought about by the medicine.
The messenger put before him the question that Raphael had been avoiding. ┇
Raphael rubbed his brows: "...Can't I get it back?"
Ferrante knew what he was asking, so he squatted down and massaged his legs, while answering softly, "That madman nailed his head to the castle gate. The surrounding area is flat and there are patrols everywhere. It's not impossible to rob it, but the casualties will be considerable."
Raphael clenched his fists and exhaled heavily: "I understand, let's arrange a meeting."
He did hate Redrick, but he never thought of letting Redrick suffer such an insult. Death in battle was the choice and destination of a hero, but no one should accept being humiliated by the enemy in this way after death, no matter if he was Raphael's brother or not.
"They can arrange the location. Send a message to Florence and ask Lesherte to prepare to set off."
Showing weakness is only temporary, and he will always make François pay tenfold or a hundredfold the price.
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