Ep 77. Confessions of the Historian: Answer In Death

Ep 77. Confessions of the Historian: Answer In Death

Confessions of the Historian are non-continuous pseudo chapters that feature a timeframe far removed from the main story. They will not affect the main story’s update schedule, and will instead be uploaded at random intervals alongside them.

Ep 77. Confessions of the Historian: Answer In Death

If there was a God, a true divinity possessing of omnipotence...

Then such a being would, undoubtedly, wish to wash their world of us.

Mankind is condemned to a life of suffering and hatred. Such is our punishment for the maddening world we have created together.

Then, the only key to redemption, is truly a simplistic one: to not be punished, one must simply become the punisher.

One must become the God that washes away all our sins.

...Is that not the conclusion you reached, one thousand years ago?

✧ ✧ ✧

How many people were there that day?

Were they dressed proper?

Were they rich or poor? Kind or selfish?

The adults could answer these questions. Their father could easily answer these questions.

But the little girl merely hung to the stone tablet. On that day, she hadn’t the mind to care about petty details like that. She’d embraced the stone, her agonized cries drowning out the world around them.

Of course, no one else was crying. Even in a strange ritual like this, their status disallowed them from grieving in plain sight.

That, or...no one was grieving to begin with.

“Felicis.”

Even when an elderly voice would call the little girl’s name, she wouldn’t even so much as look towards her father.

Instead, everyone else at the ritual would mockingly look at the ignored noble. They’d all voice the same opinion in unison in their demeaning voices.

“Perhaps she didn’t hear you through all her bawling.”

“True discipline only shows in turbulent times like these.”

“She is a little young to know proper manners.”

...Manners?

Was that really what’s keeping all of them from mourning before someone’s grave?

Sadly, it didn’t matter to the noble. He merely returned a faked, apologetic smile to his colleagues, and would call his daughter’s name again.

“Felicis! Cease your crying. Remember your place.”

Only then did she look at the man behind her.

“What place?”

Her question wasn’t out of curiosity or confusion. Instead, layers of deep-seated hatred were forming her speech as she talked back to her father.

“You killed her. I’m a murderer’s daughter.”

A few of the adults audibly laughed at the little girl’s hateful remark. They quickly ceased their sounds out of politeness, but to them, Felicis’ words were merely hilarious.

They could laugh over this. Unlike their father.

Felicir remained silent. But when he glanced to the side, he could see their father’s unmoving eyes, slowly thinning out to hold back an angered outburst.

✧ ✧ ✧

The little girl’s screaming filled the mansion for quite some time.

Every time the cane was swung unto Felicis, their father demanded silence each time – and yet, she’d always scream something back. She’d call him a murderer and hypocrite.

‘Why’s she doing that?’

In Felicir’s eyes, it almost seemed as if his little sister was inviting their father to wield further violence. If she’d complied obediently, then the beating might’ve ended by now.

Instead, even when Felicis could barely open her bleeding eye, the other still retained its hateful glare. The countless bruises and bleeding wounds did little to kill the little girl’s spirit. She’d bitterly curse at being born into this wretched nobility, under the murderer that claimed to be her father.

And it would continue on for hours on end. Felicir stayed silent all the while, watching it unfold as told.

And when his sister’s screaming finally fell silent, their father would grab the girl by her collar, tossing her like one would a dead animal. She’d collapse in front of her brother, motionless in her thinned breathing.

“Do not let your unruly sister influence you, Felicir.”

“...Of course.”

“Take her away. And do not serve any food to her this week.”

“...”

She was barely 10.

It was too early to act an adult.

✧ ✧ ✧

The first thing Felicis saw when she came to was a worried servant, caring after the little girl as gently as possible from the bedside. Although her body still screamed in pain, it was still far less compared to what it had been when she was awake.

But even that gentle care felt repulsive to Felicis.

“...Go away!!”

She swung her bruised arm sideways, knocking off the medicine that was held in the servant’s hand. The woman momentarily flinched, but soon quickly retrieved the medicine that had fallen unto the floor.

Felicis began to well up in tears. Not long ago, it would’ve been her own mother at the bedside.

She’d never see that sight again. Ever.

“Who do you think you are?! You’re not mother, Aldrid. You’re a nobody!”

After picking up the medicine once more, the servant apologetically returned to the little girl’s side. She was lowering her posture to meet Felicis’ hateful glare, returning a saddened smile at the angered outburst.

“I’m sorry, Lady Felicis...but you still have to treat your wounds. Otherwise, you’ll scar.”

“...”

Her mother had always told her to be careful not to trip on her dress. She’d hold the little girl’s hand, pulling her up whenever it seemed like she’d fall.

- ‘Be careful, Felicis! Can’t have our little princess getting hurt now.’

- ‘But even if I get hurt, you’ll make it better! Right, mother?’

- ‘Haha...of course. Always.’

She’d never hold that hand again.

“...Okay.”

“Don’t get sick.”

“...Okay.”

“And don’t cry.”

“...Okay. I won’t...”

The little boy beamed a soft grin through his bleeding lips. As Aldrid busily began tending to his wounds, Felicir’s mind faintly began to grasp at what their mother might’ve wished for in her children.

And, inevitably, his next question began to linger in his mind.

‘...What would that take?’

✧ ✧ ✧

After whole years, Felicir still found himself still pondering over the exact same things he’d pondered over as a child.

At first, it was simply because he was told to.

He feigned kindness. Acted loyalty. To behave as taught wasn’t any more difficult than learning how to read and write.

- ‘Felicir. When our crusade ends, this entire city will belong to our family.’

That’s what his father would tell him.

Even though the man had never taken part in this so-called ‘crusade’ that had spanned throughout the last few years, he’d boast humanity’s work as his own. Demonkind’s fall was, in his words, a work of his people – and therefore, his own.

Was it rubbish? Probably.

But Felicir didn’t care. He’d grin and nod, just as he was taught.

And then, his father would always say...

- ‘Excel. Become a man deserving of my city, Felicir.’

Again, he’d grin and nod.

Excelling wasn’t difficult. Compared to the small effort it took to fulfill his father’s expectations, the prize he’d one day inherit was far more valuable.

He was taught to chase success. Just like his father, Felicir knew painfully well the value of prestige and power – that they were valuable assets, far outweighing the lives of commoners.

However, the boy also knew the value of what others couldn’t see – just like his mother had.

Unlike his father, she wouldn’t have traded the world for her children. His mother had possessed something intangible through him and Felicis – something that was of priceless value, and yet remained outside of even their father’s grasp.

Then, who was right in the end? Which parent was he supposed to truly take after?

‘...Hm.’

Felicir mused at the thought.

Everything that belonged to his father would one day become his. As the only heir, that was just a plain truth.

But that wasn’t even remotely close to the future his mother had wished in her children. Of that, he was certain of.

She wouldn’t have wanted them to live the exact same lives as their parents had. She wouldn’t have wanted them to live in this cursed world, among the cursed people that inhabited it. If she could, she would’ve rebuilt the world for her two children.

‘Isn’t that right, mother?’

“...One day, it’ll come true.”

Quiet words escaped Felicir’s lips as he stood before his father in the noble’s office. A silver gleam shone out of his wrist, revealing a sharpened dagger that was then suddenly driven into the noble’s chest.

Fresh blood pooled out of his father’s newest wound. The man widened his eyes in surprise, but all he could see was an unnerving grin on his son’s face.

“Felicir, you...? Why...?”

They were poor choices for a noble’s final words. But being his father’s last question to ever be asked, Felicir felt the need to answer.

Why?

Was it to steal his father’s power and prestige? Not really.

Was it vengeance? Not really that, either.

To achieve justice? As if.

It was just the most efficient way forward; that’s all there was to it. His father was an obstacle in the path he’d chosen, and so, the noble had to be removed. They were wasting precious time and resource, after all. The sooner they were gone, the better.

But unfortunately, this coward of a noble wouldn’t understand that.

So instead, Felicir returned an answer that his father would understand. Even if it was a ridiculous one.

“Ah, apologies. I slipped my hand.”

Felicir then ‘slipped’ his hand once more, slashing the blade sideways. The victim’s exposed heart pumped out streaks of blood onto his chair and floor, its beating diminishing further and further.

Once the noble’s breathing completely ceased, Felicir casually slipped his bloodied hand into the inner pockets of his father’s overcoat. He plucked out an antique iron key, which he then used to open the lowest drawer of his father’s office desk.

A jagged stone was emitting a brilliant blue gleam from within. Felicir took it into his hand with a devilish smile on his face, letting the fragment sink into his body without resistance.

“There we go.”

Unlike his father, he wouldn’t chase after what others had told him to chase.

And unlike his mother, he wouldn’t settle for what he already did have. Not until the very world would rest on his palm.

Only then could he break them free from this cursed place – from all the cursed things that surrounded him and his family.

For that ideal, nothing was too much. The ends would justify the means.

‘Isn’t that right?’

If it weren’t, then surely someone would’ve told him so.

✧ ✧ ✧

To remake one’s world.

To raise one’s family to levels of divinity.

And to continue that world by eliminating everything that threatens it.

Perhaps it was only natural that you would come up with such a solution. It’s a simple, efficient answer. Considering your efforts, one could even call it selfless.

But, I wonder...how did you reflect in your sister’s eyes?

How would you have reflected in your mother’s eyes?

If either had told you that your methods weren’t right – and showed you another way forward – would things have changed?

...

Your tale ends with this page, Reaper. But even in your long journey, I could not find an answer to your question, and thus I must leave it empty.

Your claimed that your ideals were not your own. But your ideals were not your sister’s. And your ideals were, unfortunately, not your mother’s.

...I do not know whose ideals you were chasing.

I’m afraid no one will.