It was as if heaven and hell coexisted in the empire: one side cheered and applauded, while the other hurled insults and threw filth at the prison cart.
Gerald, once high and mighty, no longer held sway as he did in the past, commanding the land or listening to nobles recite the praises of the common folk.
He sat in the prison cart, dazed, as the wheels rolled over the muddy, uneven road, causing the cart—and him—to jolt incessantly.
Like an abandoned dog, helpless and alone, all he could hear were the people’s accusations, mockery, and insults.
He didn’t know how long he was paraded around, but it continued until the sky grew dim.
Without a sip of water or a bite of food, he was on the verge of fainting, his spirit and body pushed to their limits.
His body reeked, his skin sticky, his clothes covered in all sorts of garbage and household waste.
The filthy prison cart was dragged back to the dungeon.
The guards pulling the cart were far from courteous.
They grabbed buckets of water and doused His Majesty the Emperor, mockingly telling him to “take a bath and cool off” so he wouldn’t disgust them further.
They even taunted him with words:
“Comfortable, Your Majesty? Nice and cool, right? We specially prepared this bathwater for you. Why aren’t you shouting anymore? Don’t you usually call out for Lady Emilia at times like this, saying she’ll come back and deal with us? Haha, but when she did return, she didn’t give a damn about you.”
It was clear the guards, once wary, were now utterly unrestrained.
Their jeers and the chilling sensation on his body finally snapped Gerald out of his daze.
Too weak to retort, he seemed to exhaust his last bit of strength and fell silent.
“You’ll see,” he muttered, perhaps to bolster his resolve.
“I let her down, but I’ll make Emilia come back to me one day.”
Amid the guards’ laughter, he was dragged and tossed like a corpse back into the dungeon.
No food, no comfort—just a stinking cell and the squeaking of rats in his ears.
Barring any surprises, what awaited Gerald was endless torment.
The nobles wouldn’t let him off easily.
Like today, he’d be paraded through the streets repeatedly to quell the people’s anger and let them vent their frustrations until he was utterly worthless or served no further purpose.
In the end, he’d likely face the guillotine, his head rolling, concluding his pitiful life as a hero—the most pathetic and useless hero in history, a bold stroke in the annals of the empire.
He became a laughingstock among the empire’s people.
Perhaps he realized his fate.
Collapsing on the filthy ground, tears streamed down his face.
His earlier defiance gave way to pain and regret.
He didn’t want to die like this—not without earning Emilia’s forgiveness, not without growing old with her. His life had only just begun.
Escape?
How could an ordinary man like him break free from such heavy confinement?
It was impossible.
After the impulse faded, only cold despair remained.
“I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die. Emilia, save me. I haven’t atoned for you yet. I’m sorry, I love you… Please, save me,” he sobbed.
Exhausted, he fell asleep mid-sentence, only to wake up to the cruel reality of his life.
Unbeknownst to him, a shadowy, ghostlike figure appeared at the cell door, silently watching the half-conscious Gerald, their intentions unclear.
Surprises come quickly.
During one of the public parades, Gerald suddenly died.
Completely lifeless, he lay motionless in the prison cart like a dead dog.
Perhaps it was a severe illness left untreated, or exhaustion of mind and body, or starvation—people speculated endlessly.
The plan was to cremate him on the spot—clean and hassle-free.
No one wanted to be associated with Gerald, fearing it would give others an excuse to target them.
After all, a year ago, anyone linked to Emilia had been hunted down, executed, or assassinated.
Those without her protection were like headless flies, easily crushed by the united nobles and the church.
It took six months to completely purge Emilia’s associates, though some stragglers escaped.
No matter—it was enough to restore a semblance of order and peace to the empire.
Unexpectedly, Duke Olai, who had stayed out of the fray, stepped forward.
In front of the crowd, using magic to amplify his voice, he proposed throwing Gerald’s body outside the capital to feed the dogs—a final insult and punishment, ensuring he found no peace even in death.
No one noticed the faint smile on his face.
The crowd quickly joined in, cheering, while some nobles frowned, displeased.
They hadn’t expected Gerald, once a hero, to be so frail.
They had planned to use him for another year or so.
What a useless thing.
They’d have to find another emperor to serve as a scapegoat.
Anyone would do, as long as they shielded the nobles.
But even the dimmest person learns eventually—you can think others are fools, but don’t treat them as idiots.
With war looming and the enemy’s final probes approaching, the nobles’ good days were numbered.
Back to the matter at hand: the crowd had little objection to Duke Olai’s proposal and tacitly agreed.
The masses joined in, petitioning, as if reveling in one final celebration.
Only a few who knew the emperor sighed or felt pity, believing that, guilty or not, he didn’t deserve this.
But in the empire, might makes right.
Soon, with the crowd united, the supposedly dead Gerald was tossed outside the city like garbage.
A pack of wild dogs quickly gathered, drawn by the scent.
As the sounds of flesh being torn filled the air, the onlookers dispersed, uninterested in watching further.
Gerald had died too soon, disrupting many plans.
No one noticed that Gerald wasn’t actually dead.
“…”
Meanwhile, Sieg, riding a prisoner cart, got off halfway and returned to the ruins of the Demon King’s castle.
Along the way, someone called out, “Hey, you’re finally awake!” and rambled on.
If all went as expected, Sieg thought, something unexpected would happen—like a dragon appearing during an execution.
Probably not, though.
Why not teleport back directly?
He patted his empty pockets, gave a wry smile, and glanced at the girl’s bulging coin purse at her waist.
He said nothing, but his expression said it all.
After finally sending Emilia off to work to avoid her clinging to him again, he wanted some peace.
But then a few recurring NPC slaves popped up, asking the same questions they’d asked days ago.
Were they bots or what?
Suddenly, his pants exploded—or something did.
A resurrection totem popped out, floating before him.
It wasn’t for him but a precaution he’d set to prevent the useless hero from dying too soon and triggering the rise of a stronger one.
He hadn’t expected to need it so soon.
He pulled out a string of resurrection totems from his pants—enough to circle the earth three times.
Better safe than sorry.
Life needs room for error, doesn’t it?
If it’s not off, it’s on—answer me!
To outsiders, it looked like a circus act.
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