Five of the intruders crept into the king's room, moving with practiced silence while the others stood outside as silent sentinels, ready to intercept anyone who might come near. Their steps were so quiet, not a single soul noticed their approach.
"Who are you?" the king demanded, his voice steady but filled with a rising tension.
Inside the room, only three guards stood their ground. The intruders believed this would be an easy fight, as it had been with the others. Three of them rushed forward, blades flashing—but the guards countered with swift, practiced movements. Sparks flew as steel met steel, and the realization dawned too late on the attackers—these were no ordinary palace guards.
Steel clashed violently as the fight erupted into a deadly dance, the guards pushing back the surprise assault with precision.
One of the remaining intruders lunged straight at the king. The king, calm and resolute, drew his own sword and met the strike head-on, parrying with a strong counter.
A guard, seeing the king in danger, hesitated for a split second, wanting to rush to his aid.
"Don't worry about me. Protect yourself first!" the king ordered sharply, his tone cutting through the noise.
The remaining intruder joined his comrade, both of them pressing the attack on the king. Yet, to their surprise, the king fought back with the grace and strength of a seasoned warrior, holding his ground against two assailants.
Meanwhile, outside the room, the sounds of clashing steel echoed faintly. Some curious guards approached, sensing something amiss.
But the intruders who had stripped the uniforms from their fallen victims stepped forward. "The king has ordered us to not let anyone enter," they lied smoothly.
Deceived by the familiar uniforms and the tone of authority, the guards nodded and left without pressing the issue.
Inside, the fight intensified. Suddenly, Aamon appeared in front of the door. His breaths were heavy and labored, his body weakened by the masked man's spell, but his determination was unwavering.
"The king has ordered us to not let anyone enter," the disguised intruders repeated coldly, stepping forward to block his path.
Aamon's jaw clenched, his muscles tensing. "Get out of my way!" he growled, shoving at one of them. The intruder resisted, drawing a blade.
Aamon's eyes darted to a discarded sword lying on the ground—likely dropped by one of the fallen palace guards. Without hesitation, he seized it.
"I don't have time for this," he hissed, gripping the weapon tightly.
With a surge of energy, he whispered, "Sword Art: Lightning Speed." In a blur of motion, faster than the eye could follow, he cut through all of the intruders in an instant. Their bodies crumpled to the floor before they could even react.
Aamon didn't waste a second. He shoved the heavy door open and burst into the room, ready to fight for his king's life.
A moment ago…
Allesio awoke abruptly, a deep sense of dread filling his chest. He had the unsettling feeling of being watched. As his eyes snapped open, he saw a glint of steel—a blade aimed directly at his heart.
With a sharp, instinctual movement, Allesio grabbed the attacker's wrist, twisting it until the sword clattered to the floor. He jumped out of bed, only to find himself surrounded by four more assailants.
"What the hell is happening here?" Allesio's mind raced, trying to piece together the situation.
One of the attackers lunged. Allesio caught his arm and threw him into another, knocking both of them down. Ducking low, he rolled forward, slicing one attacker's leg as he moved. In a flash, he hurled his sword at the one who had first attacked him.
Only one assailant remained. Seeing how formidable Allesio was, the last attacker panicked, leapt from the window, and fled into the night.
Allesio wasted no time. Grabbing his sword, he dashed out of the room, his heart pounding with fear and confusion. His thoughts were consumed by one thing—his father. He sprinted toward the King's chamber.
As he neared the room, he saw Aamon cutting through the guards at the entrance and rushing inside.
Allesio froze for a split second, horror blooming in his chest. He didn't know those "guards" were intruders in disguise, nor could he fathom why Aamon was so desperate. A terrible thought crept into his mind—was Aamon betraying him?
In the King's room…
Aamon burst through the door, only to be met with a horrific scene. The three loyal guards lay lifeless on the floor, one of the intruders dead nearby. But the true horror struck him like a blade to the heart—the King was slumped over, a sword pierced through his chest.
As Aamon stared in shock, the remaining intruders fled, disappearing into the shadows.
Aamon's hand trembled as he moved toward the King, instinctively wanting to pull out the sword. But the King's weak voice stopped him.
"Please… take care of Allesio," the King whispered.
It was the first time Aamon had ever heard the King say "please." Until now, the King's words had always been commands, spoken with unwavering authority.
Just then, Allesio stormed into the room. His eyes widened in disbelief as he took in the scene—the blood-stained sword, the lifeless King.
"No… no! Father!" Allesio's scream echoed through the chamber. He rushed to his father's side, sobbing, and with shaking hands, pulled the sword from his father's chest. But it was too late. The King's body went limp, his spirit already gone.
At that moment, Tharil, Tharok, and a throng of guards flooded into the room.
They saw Allesio, bloodied sword in hand, crouched over the King's lifeless body.
"How could you… kill the King—your own father?!" Tharil's voice rang out, filled with false outrage, twisting the scene in front of everyone.
Allesio's grief twisted into fury. His gaze locked onto Tharil, and with a roar, he charged at him, sword raised.
Tharok hastily tried to conjure a protective barrier around Tharil.
But Aamon stepped between them, catching Allesio's arm mid-swing.
"Why are you protecting him?!" Allesio shouted, his voice cracking from anger and heartbreak.
Aamon's voice was hard as he called out to the guards, "He's the killer. Take him to the dungeon."
Tharil's eyes gleamed with triumph, though he tried to mask it with a somber expression.
Allesio fought against the guards' grip, struggling and screaming, but his strength gave way under the weight of his despair. Tears streamed down his face as they dragged him away.
As the guards escorted Allesio out, Tharil leaned in close to Aamon, his voice low and smug. "You made the right choice," he whispered.
Aamon didn't respond. His fists clenched at his sides, his thoughts swirling with doubt, guilt, and a thousand silent questions.
Allesio was thrown into the cold, damp prison. Heavy chains bound him to the stone wall, cold iron biting into his wrists. Guards stood at every entrance, their expressions stoic, unmoved by his fate.
Days passed. Each one heavier than the last. As the hours dragged on, the fire that once burned in Allesio's heart began to wither. The weight of his father's death pressed down on him. His friend—no, his brother—had betrayed him. His mind was tangled in a web of despair and anger, slowly unraveling from the inside.
One day, Aamon arrived at the prison.
"I need to speak with him," Aamon told the guards.
They hesitated, but his insisted. The cell door creaked open, and Aamon stepped inside.
"It's been a while," he said softly. "How are you holding up?"
Allesio's head snapped up, his glare sharp and burning. "You should know, since you're the one who put me in this hell." His voice trembled with anger.
"There's a reason I stopped you that day," Aamon said, his tone steady but tinged with regret.
Allesio turned his face away, refusing to answer.
"If you had killed Tharil in front of everyone, it would've sealed the accusations against you," Aamon continued. "They would have seen you as the true murderer. Things would have spiraled out of control."
"Oh? And now they don't think I'm the killer?" Allesio shot back bitterly.
Aamon hesitated, then spoke. "I saw the face of one of the real killers. He was one of those masked men, the ones tied to this conspiracy."
"Like I'm supposed to believe anything you say," Allesio scoffed, his voice dripping with venom.
"You once said you trusted me like a brother," Aamon reminded him, his voice low.
"That was my mistake," Allesio whispered bitterly.
Aamon's fists clenched, his voice rising in frustration. "After everything I went through to stop the assassination, risking my own life, kept as captive, and holding on for days—this is what you think of me?"
"You were just doing your duty," Allesio said coldly, his eyes blank and distant. "That's what the Royal Guard is for, isn't it?"
Aamon's shoulders sagged. He drew a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
"Did the Royal Advisor do his job properly?" Aamon said quietly. "No. Not everyone does their job well, especially when they have no personal stake in it."
He turned toward the door. "Something big is coming, Allesio. Get yourself ready."
Without waiting for a response, Aamon left the cell, the heavy door clanging shut behind him.