Chapter 118: The Poet’s Choice

Chapter 118: The Poet's Choice

"When I woke up, I was already locked in the dungeon of Ironfort."

Dorian said, his voice flat.

His companions looked at him with sympathy.

"Are you injured? I have some healing herbs here." Sylvira said with great concern.

"Oh, that'd be great."

"I also have some weapons here," Tove said. "Do you know how to operate a catapult?"

Dorian politely thanked her for her kindness and tactfully declined the catapult.

"Hey, what Dorian needs most right now is food!" Xiaoqi said. "Look how starved the poor guy is!"

Tove and Sylvira quickly promised to send Dorian some of their people's delicacies later. Even Mr. Shadow, who seemed uninterested in worldly matters, agreed to send Dorian some supplies.

"Speaking of which, didn't you try to escape?" Xiaoqi flew up to Dorian, examining his noticeably thinner face. "With your Supernatural Ability, there shouldn't be any lock that can hold you, right?"

"I tried." Dorian gave a bitter grimace. "I turned the cell door into a rose hedge and tried to escape. But the Ironfort soldiers are far more numerous than I imagined... Well, they gave me a good beating, and now I'm locked in the tower again.

"After that, I conjured vines to escape through the window, but I didn't expect guards patrolling below the tower... Now they've assigned a squad to watch me in shifts. At the slightest movement from me, they rush in and beat me."

Dorian couldn't help but let out a choked sob as he spoke.

Mr. Shadow tsked. "How about I break you out of there?"

Tove nodded vigorously. "That's right, Mr. Shadow can 'descend' beside you at any time. With him there, no amount of guards is a problem."

Dorian opened his mouth, about to say "then please do it," but another thought surfaced in his mind. He shook his head.

"No. It's easy for me to escape alone, but what about my troupe? It wouldn't be realistic for so many people to escape together, would it?"

"You'd rather stay in prison like this?" Mr. Shadow asked.

"I have to keep things as they are for now. I will definitely escape, but not right now. Though I don't know when the opportunity will come either." Dorian smiled, bitterness filling his eyes. "I can't abandon my troupe members. I can't abandon my homeland either. I've already been exiled once; I don't want a second time!"

The group let out a collective sigh. Since Dorian had made his decision, no one wanted to go against his wishes. Mr. Shadow assured him that if he changed his mind, he could help him leave the prison at any time.

And with that, the Divine Council came to an end. Dorian lay on the hard wooden bed in the tower cell, watching the translucent figures, half-embedded in the stone walls, disappear one by one. In the end, only his own breathing remained in the cell.

His Divine Casket soon received several kinds of food. He saw a cake as hard as rock (it looked like rock too—for a moment, he thought Tove had sent him catapult ammo), which was the dwarves' travel ration—a small bite could sustain a person for a whole day. There were also elven fruits and pastries, as well as herbs made by Sylvira herself.

Dorian took off his shirt, wincing as the movement pulled at his injured muscles. He applied the herbs to his wounds, and within minutes, the pain vanished, replaced by a warm sensation at the injuries, the herbal fragrance spreading through the air.

By evening, more baked bread, roasted meat, and a mug of beer had been moved into the Divine Casket. Dorian recognized the label on the beer bottle—it was a brand unique to the Holy City. This made Dorian almost certain that Mr. Shadow was in the Holy City—that he was the spy who had infiltrated the Tribunal.

Mr. Shadow had also given him a Little Straw Effigy. When necessary, he could use it to summon that reliable companion for assistance.

The kindness of his companions made Dorian's eyes sting. He had only intended to vent about his misfortune at the Divine Council, but when his companions actually began to pity him, he felt uncomfortable.

He was truly pathetic. His other companions were all fighting for their Patron's great cause and their own fates. Setting aside Sylen, who had left, Miss Tove, Miss Sylvira, and Mr. Shadow were all top-tier warriors.

But what about him? Locked in a prison tower, liable to be beaten at any moment, unable to protect even his own troupe members. What kind of troupe leader was he, then!

If only his ability were stronger—even if not as powerful as Mr. Shadow's—maybe he wouldn't have ended up in this mess.

No, no—he wasn't saying the ability the great Patron had given him was inadequate. The Patron's foresight was beyond the grasp of a mere mortal like him. The Patron had given him "Bloom" for a profound reason.

It wasn't that the Supernatural Ability was lacking—it was him. It was how he used it that was wrong.

He wasn't like Miss Tove, a dwarven warrior. Nor like Sylvira, a born leader. He was just a failure—exiled from his homeland and disgraced. Aside from wielding a pen, he had no skills to speak of. And even that pen often fell short of what others could do. "The Prodigal's Return" was only written with inspiration from the divine messenger—it wasn't truly his own doing.

Though he always said cheerfully, "We're all so strong," he knew very well that it was his companions who were strong—he was just the hype man scattering flowers behind them. To be ranked alongside the others was really overstating his own worth.

What could someone like him possibly do? He seemed only good for holding everyone back...

The second task the Patron had given him was to write a heroic epic. He had thought that staging "Chainbreaker" would complete the task, but his card hadn't budged at all. This showed his efforts were far from what the Patron required...

Was he really so incompetent?

"No!" Dorian suddenly sat up from the bed, muttering to himself. "The Patron chose me from among the masses—there must be a reason for it. There are so many heroes, sages, and wise men in the world—why not choose them instead of me? This means I must have something to offer. I must be able to do what others can't. Why am I selling myself short?"

The cell's wooden door was pounded heavily. "What are you doing?!" the guard outside roared. "Keep yapping and I'll beat the crap out of you!"

Dorian shut up immediately.

He tiptoed off the bed and padded barefoot to the window—the cramped cell had only one small window set with iron bars. The cold wind from the heights poured in, making Dorian shiver.

Through the window, he could see the moat outside the seemingly impregnable Ironfort and the guards patrolling the main gate. This fortress had once been Starfall City's stronghold against land-based enemies; now it was a prison for criminals.

Beyond the moat, the entire city slept in the night. Tonight's moonlight was exceptionally bright, as if the legendary moon goddess had shed her light out of pity for him. He could see the royal palace's elegant walls, the iconic dome of Queen Wilhelmina's Theatre, and the unmistakable clock tower of the Starfall City Museum.

Further off, lights twinkled at the docks, and the sea waves rose and fell, glimmering under the moonlight. In a few hours, when the pale sun rose, the docks would come to life.

Ships entering or leaving port, workers chanting in unison as they unloaded cargo, freight wagons ready to roll, pumping the blood of commerce into every vein of Moltalia with unmatched efficiency. That scene had been captured by a painter three hundred years ago in "Morning at Starfall City Docks," becoming a treasured national treasure of Moltalia.

Thinking of that painting, inspiration struck Dorian like a thunderbolt.

"I need ink and a pen!" he murmured to himself. "And paper! No, I can conjure paper myself. I have to write all of this down! But if I write 'that kind of poetry,' the Church will find out and ban it, and it'll bring trouble to anyone who reads it. But these poems won't. I know exactly what I need to write!"

Under the moonlight, the poet and playwright knelt on the floor, hands clasped together. When he opened his hands, lying in his palm was a dried white petal the size of his palm, conjured from thin air. He had read in a botanical compendium that such petals, once dried, could be used for writing.

He lowered his head, kissing the petal with reverence and excitement, and the ice-cold floor tiles stained silver by the moonlight. He tasted the soil of his homeland.

Now, the Apostle of the Patron of Art and Beauty was about to begin his work.

*

In the guest chamber of the palace's west wing.

The fire in the hearth burned brightly, its light falling on the face of Duke Alfonso of Cold Mountain beside the flames, yet it brought no warmth to his expression.

"Your Grace," a guard captain pushed open the door and bowed to report, "all twenty-four members of the Kalest Theatre Troupe, including the leader, have been arrested. Also, seventeen spectators who violently resisted arrest have been taken into custody."

"Lock up the troupe leader," Alfonso said coolly. "As for the others, teach them a lesson, then let them all go."

"Your Grace?"

Alfonso turned around, adjusting the folds of his sleeves. "There are so many who oppose me in Starfall City. If I locked everyone up, three more Ironforts wouldn't be enough. There will be many more to imprison in the days ahead—better make room."

"We could hang them..."

"And turn them into martyrs?" Alfonso sneered. "Capture the ringleader first. Without that troublemaking leader, the rest won't amount to anything. That's why I despise these literati the most—learn a few characters, read a few books, and they think they're hot stuff. The more they learn, the more rebellious they get."

The guard captain bowed his head. "Yes."

He bowed and left. A few minutes later, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor. Cardinal Fiore strode quickly into the guest chamber.

He had already changed into a brand-new ceremonial robe, woven from pure white wool, with gold and silver threads interweaving in splendor, as resplendent as the sun and moon shining together.

The old one had likely already turned to ashes. Though it could have been washed clean, it was said that these bishops always burned their dirty, worn-out garments directly. After all, they had plenty of money to buy new ones.

Two Holy Nation guards stood behind him, as still as stone statues.

"Your Eminence, Cardinal Fiore," Alfonso said with a slight bow, his tone as flat as if he were discussing the weather.

"You're remarkably calm!" Cardinal Fiore snapped.

"I've already arrested those involved."

"Just arrested them?!" Fiore frowned.

Alfonso clasped his hands behind his back: "I am deeply sorry for what happened to you, that such a thing could occur under my governance... Mortalians are simply... somewhat uncouth by nature."

"Uncouth?" Cardinal Fiore raised his voice, like a kettle about to boil over, "Those actors stood on stage and called a bishop a 'robber plundering foreign wealth,' called him a 'false believer who commits injustice in the name of God'—and you think that's merely 'uncouth'?"

"That was a story set in the ancient empire."

"Do you take me for a fool? Do you think I can't see what it was insinuating?! This is the second time, the second! Are those eyes of yours just for decoration?"

"Oh? The famous Kalest Theatre Troupe was endorsed by a bishop of the Dawn Church. I only went because you invited me. Was I the only one who failed to see what they were up to?"

Cardinal Fiore's cheeks flushed crimson; you'd think his face had turned into a tomato.

He demanded, "What is your intelligence service doing? The Kalest Theatre Troupe rehearsed for an entire week, and your people didn't catch wind of it at all?!"

That remark stung like a needle, making Alfonso flinch. His most elite spies and confidants were indeed not in Starfall City right now. He had sent them elsewhere, which is why he'd let his watch over the city slip. But he absolutely could not let Fiore know that.

"Your Eminence," he said, "my people are busy maintaining order across the realm, securing supply lines, coordinating with your nation's troops, and hunting down stragglers from the battlefield—every one of those tasks is more important than keeping tabs on a bunch of actors."

Fiore sneered: "If you can't rule this nation, the Holy See should consider finding a new ruler."

"You don't rule with words alone. If you gave me more men, I wouldn't be so short-handed."

Fiore frowned. Though the Holy Nation had backed the Duke of Cold Mountain as their future puppet king, they also feared his power, purposely keeping him from commanding the army. If his strength grew, he might start thinking about rebellion.

For now, he couldn't afford to openly turn on Alfonso. The Holy Nation would eventually rule Moltalia directly. Until then, Alfonso was still a useful tool.

Fiore said dismissively, "Oh, I overlooked that. I'll mention it to the Holy See."

Whether the Holy See would agree was out of his hands.

"Also, Your Grace, there's something I've been meaning to ask you." His tone became more casual, but his gaze sharpened. "The Moltalian royal family—the king, the queen, the princess—are they really all dead?"

Alfonso's fingers twitched again inside his sleeve.

"Of course. I confirmed it with my own eyes," he said.

"I received a message from Grand Master Antonella: Prince Aster also died in battle. The Moltalian royal bloodline has come to an end, and you are the grandson of a king, the son of a princess—there's nothing wrong with you taking the throne. Though Moltalian succession law says that daughters and their male descendants have no claim to the throne, laws can always be changed. In our Holy Nation, sons and daughters have equal inheritance rights. As long as you convert to the God of Dawn, He will surely bless you."

"I'd be honored," Alfonso lowered his head.

"Without our Dawn Church, you would have no legitimacy to claim the throne or rule this nation. Remember that well."

"I'll never forget it."

Fiore seemed to feel he had finally gotten the better of Alfonso. He brushed imaginary dust off his white robe, turned, and strode away triumphantly. The two stone-like guards immediately came to life and fell in step right behind him.

The sound of footsteps gradually faded down the corridor, eventually disappearing behind the heavy doors.

Only Alfonso remained in the guest chamber.

He stood by the window, gazing out at the night. The fire in the hearth crackled.

The royal family was all dead.

He had said those words so smoothly, so convincingly, that he almost believed them himself.

But he knew Stella was still alive.

She had escaped through that tunnel. That damned guard, and those accursed rats (rats! He had been defeated by a bunch of rats!) had ruined his plan. By the time his soldiers finally crawled under the stone wall, the tunnel was already empty.

Stella had vanished, like a drop of water swallowed by the sea. Perhaps she was already dead, Alfonso mused. A pampered princess, lost in the chaos of war—how long could she survive? Maybe she starved, maybe bandits killed her for her valuables, maybe she broke her leg in a ditch, crying out with no one to hear her, dying slowly and miserably.

But Alfonso couldn't risk it. If Stella ever returned... she was the last living descendant of the former king, the "innocent and kind" little princess, the most beautiful jewel of the north. And him? A shameless traitor, a despicable chameleon, a loathsome sellout. Who the people would support, any fool could see.

If Stella married some foreign prince, or some local lord, it would be even worse. Even if she had no claim to the throne herself, her husband would take up arms to win her that golden crown.

Whose sword was sharper, whose army was stronger—that's where power came from.

Those with power made the laws. And the laws never protected those who didn't have it.

"I must find her," Alfonso muttered to himself. "No matter what it takes!"