I Became a Dark Fantasy Villain-Chapter 599

Ding—

The church bell tolled, sound rolling out through every open city gate until it echoed into the farthest corners of the streets. In front of the church, nobles gathered in their ceremonial robes, each one straightening their collars and fixing their posture.

Ding—

This bell signaled that all preparations were complete. Once the residents, who had been waiting in their homes, had all gathered, the ceremony would begin.

"Hmm…" Martin, dressed in a brown ceremonial robe, scanned his surroundings with a somber gaze.

Soldiers stood with their backs to the nobles, encircling the square. They also lined the main road that led away from it, leaving a path for the carriage to pass. Beyond them, the figures of the residents began to appear, one by one.

Their bright faces were likely due to their anticipation of the feast that would follow the ceremony, and, of course, the end of the past few days' hard labor. Nearly every resident had been pressed into service for the city’s preparations.

"Tsk."

But Martin, looking at them, let out a low click of his tongue. Just as he pressed his lips together as if to hold back a sigh, a whisper came from his side, "Something seems to displease you."

Martin’s brow furrowed slightly as he turned his head. A man with a gaunt face and tousled hair was watching him with a strange look in his eyes.

After meeting his gaze for a moment, Martin said, "The streets are about to get filthy again, Sir Wizzle."

"Aha, so that was it. It seems I misunderstood." The man, Wizzle, chuckled and swept his hair back.

As Martin’s gaze lingered for a moment on his hand, which had only three fingers left, Wizzle added, "I thought for a moment that you were displeased with the coronation itself."

Martin’s eyes twitched. For a long time, the established nobles of Orendel and the newly risen nobles from the mercenary class had kept each other in check, constantly at odds. The relationship between Martin, a city official, and Wizzle, a former mercenary known as Six-Fingers, had been no different.

"Of course not. I am merely concerned."

All of that was in the past now. War, chaos, and rebellion—through the process of some losing their lives and new figures filling their places, they had naturally come together as one. It was also thanks to the common problem of survival that they faced.

"Well, in that, I feel the same," Wizzle said with a somewhat frivolous laugh and turned his gaze.

A long, red carpet was laid out in the center of the square where the nobles were gathered. It was a path that led from the main road to the tall, newly built dais in front of the church’s main doors. It was the path of destiny that the Bastard King would have to walk to have the crown placed upon his head.

"Given the times," Wizzle added, his gaze fixed on the firmly closed doors of the church. His eyes narrowed slightly.

Martin, who had nodded slightly in agreement, looked in the same direction and murmured, "Yes. Far too hasty."

Most of those gathered had never witnessed a coronation, but none would have disagreed with him. The preparations had taken barely five days, and only nobles from nearby cities who rode in haste had managed to attend. Even the Red Knight, the king’s most cherished companion, had not yet returned.

"Well, it must be because of them," Wizzle said, clicking his tongue.

Martin, his eyes still on the closed church doors, nodded again. "That is my thought as well."

Inside the church waited nobles from the Empire, along with a silver-haired elder fairy. Thanks to the stir they had caused throughout the city, there was no one unaware of their presence. Clearly, the king meant for them to witness the coronation before they departed, so that word would reach both the royal family and the Great Church.

Wizzle’s lips curled faintly. "His Highness may have acted indifferent, but he must have wanted the recognition of the Empire and the Great Church."

"And that is why I am all the more concerned. Holding the ceremony does not guarantee that he will receive their recognition."

To ascend the throne, one had to prove legitimacy. The ceremony had to be overseen by one with rightful authority, the crown set in proper hands. Or, the gods themselves had to grant their blessing.

"There isn’t even a priest of the Grand Church here," Martin whispered.

The bishop had long fled in the chaos of war. The church had been left empty, barely maintained.

Wizzle shrugged. "Surely His Highness considers them sufficient."

"He must. However, I cannot help but feel that it will not be enough. If he is not recognized even after holding the coronation…" Martin trailed off.

It was no exaggeration to say that Orendel had come this far thanks to the king’s ability. The Bastard King had never made a wrong decision. Even when it seemed so, he had always somehow produced a successful result. That was why, despite his birth, he was called a king.

"Then all that His Highness has built would crumble," Wizzle murmured, taking a deep breath.

He understood the weight of it as well. This was a matter of the kingdom’s very survival, the same reason other new kingdoms on the frontier refrained from holding coronation ceremonies.

"It seems I am not the only one with such worries," Martin added, sweeping his gaze across the gathered nobles

Most of them had seen firsthand what a king who had lost his judgment could do to a country. They had also taken part in a rebellion, whether by choice or by force. If the king’s legitimacy and sanctity were denied, they would be nothing more than rebels, or worse, dreamers of another uprising.

"Let us have faith. His Majesty’s decisions have always had a sound reason and basis that we could not see. Perhaps the gods themselves will grant their blessing. If that were to happen, the kingdom would meet a new destiny," Wizzle finally said with a shrug, and smiled at Martin.

"They say you read books often. Your eloquence seems to improve by the day." After meeting his eyes for a moment, a faint smile touched Martin’s lips.

"With so few fingers, my tongue must be long, must it not?" Wizzle chuckled, then stopped laughing. He looked back and whispered, his eyes tinged with a faint tension, "His Highness is coming."

Martin also looked back. By now, the alleys and the main road were filled with residents.

Ding…

The two-horse carriage, escorted by Sir Patton and other knights, appeared from the end of the road. Even though the windows were closed, the residents bowed their heads one by one as the carriage passed.

"Heavens above, grant us mercy," Martin whispered under his breath, eyes fixed on the black carriage. The die had been cast; all that was left was to pray. Praying that the goddesses would smile upon their king.

Clip-clop— clip-clop—

Between the slow, regular tolling of the bell, the sound of hoofbeats grew closer. The carriage, having entered the square, made a graceful turn and stopped at the end of the red carpet. A moment later, Patton, who had dismounted, approached its side.

As the nobles, standing opposite each other with the carpet between them, bowed their heads with tense eyes, Patton opened the closed carriage door.

Ding…

The Bastard King, Declan, dressed in a blue formal uniform, stepped out. He stood on the carpet and straightened his posture with a solemn expression.

As the bell finally fell silent, he said, "A lowly mortal, summoned by the heavens, stands here today."

As a tense silence fell over the area, the great doors of the church opened.

Thump— Thump—

The sound of several footsteps echoed. The first thing Martin saw as he turned his head was a gray-skinned monster that rose above the dais.

So that is the orc.

He had only heard stories; this was the first time he had seen one in person. Despite his braided, half-white hair and neat ceremonial robe, he inspired a primal fear. In the silence, he stepped onto the dais, turned to the right, and walked.

The nobles drew in low gasps as a silver-haired fairy, until now hidden behind the orc, was revealed. Clad in a pure white ceremonial robe, her lofty, graceful figure radiated a presence no less commanding than the orc’s.

She moved to stand opposite him. Moments later, a dark-skinned boy and a blond-haired young man ascended the dais in turn.

That must be the Imperial noble.

Martin’s gaze flicked between the two as they moved to either side, but only for a moment. The others must have been the same, for a red-haired woman had now appeared on the dais. She looked young, yet she wore the robes of a priest.

Martin’s brow twitched.

She held a red cloth in both hands, upon which rested a golden crown and a tray of anointing oil. Though she wore the robes of a priest, she was only the bearer of the crown, not the one presiding over the ceremony.

Just as Martin wondered at the sight, thinking that the priestess looked strangely familiar, gasps erupted from all around.

"Aah?"

"W-What?"

Martin’s gaze finally moved to the black-haired man ascending beside the priestess. His face was impassive and cold, and unlike the others, he wore a black formal uniform of Imperial design. Martin had never seen him before, but it was clear there were those in the crowd who had.

"By Lu Solar… my goodness…" Wizzle, his eyes wide, was one of them.

Martin’s brow furrowed slightly as he looked at him, then tilted his head. Wizzle, as if not even feeling his gaze, was staring up at the dais, his eyes wide. On his gaunt face, emotions, including shock, swirled.

"Hear, people of Orendel."

The woman’s chill voice cut through the square. Though not loud, it seemed to resonate with a strange warmth, piercing their ears.

"Paladin of the Stern Goddess. The one blessed by the Goddess of Prosperity and the Blazing Goddess. Also, the chosen one who refused the revelation."

The priestess bearing the crown was the one speaking. Her face betrayed no emotion, yet in her eyes flickered the orange flame of divine radiance. Only a few noticed it, not because of distance, but because the words themselves struck with far greater force.

"The final punisher of the Giant Kingdom and the Dragon Slayer who pierced the evil dragon’s heart. The Executor of the West, who purified corruption and plague. The ruler of the snowfields, who governs ten thousand barbarians—"

Martin, his mouth hanging open just like Wizzle’s, felt his gaze being pulled toward the black-haired man who stood in the center of the dais. He couldn't help it.

"The true Great Warrior of the North and the jungles of the South. The God-Slayer who executed the descended Avatar of Chaos. The returnee of the Black Land demonic realm, and—"

The red-haired priestess was declaring before all that this man was the Superhuman of the North.

Martin felt every hair on his body stand on end. Wizzle, too, no doubt, was seized by the same sensation. He was said to be among the few who had met the Northern superhuman face-to-face, just as the king himself had.

"The guardian of civilization who subjugated the archdemons of the jungle, desert, and deep sea. Also, the one and only official Agent of the Great Platinum Dragon and the heir of the Sacred Blood. The Superhuman, Sir Ian Hope, stands here in place of the heavens’ will."

Martin finally let out the breath he had been holding. Worry and doubt had long since vanished from his mind, replaced by a flood of shock, awe, and elation.

"Kneel upon one knee, and render the honor that is due!" the priestess finished.

And at once, nobles collapsed to their knees as if their legs had given way.

"E-Eternal glory to the radiant heavens!"

Most of them, like Wizzle, were of mercenary origin. They were, of course, also those who were known to have met the Superhuman of the North.

As if that were a signal, the strength left Martin’s legs.

"Glory everlasting!" He bowed his head, his voice trembling.

The voices of the kneeling nobles followed from all around. The wave spread beyond the square, spilling into the boulevards and alleys.

The gathered residents, and even the soldiers who had been keeping them in order, kneeled on one knee and raised praises to the heavens.

It took only minutes for the entire city to fall silent. The only ones still standing were the witnesses on the dais and the Bastard King, Declan Burchard.

"Let all the people rise and lift their heads."

A flat voice rang out. Like the priestess’s, it carried far, resonating through the air. It was laced with magic, though Martin never noticed, and the others likely did not either. After all, it was the voice of the Agent of the Great Platinum Dragon and the Northern Superhuman, Ian Hope.

Martin, catching his breath, stood up. He certainly wasn't the only one whose legs had given out. The other nobles who were rising were also stumbling.

"And now bear witness, as your king follows destiny," Ian Hope continued.

A moment later, Declan started down the red path. The face that sometimes wore a foolish smile and at other times burned with passion was now more solemn and reverent than ever. Under the nobles’ watchful eyes, he halted at the foot of the dais and kneeled on one knee.

"I, Declan Burchard, by the guidance of the Seven Goddesses, have come to this place."

As he bowed his head, Ian Hope slowly descended the stairs, the bearer of the crown at his side. He stopped in front of Declan.

After looking down at the king for a moment with an expressionless face, Ian Hope said, "Do you swear to serve the heavens and to obey their will?"

"I swear," Declan said firmly.

"Do you swear to protect the teachings of the Seven Goddesses, to be wary of their other names, and to lead the people on the right path?"

"I swear."

"Raise your head."

Ian Hope poured the oil onto Declan’s head. He then returned the dish to the red cloth and picked up the crown with both hands.

"O heavens, guide this new king." With those words, Ian Hope placed the crown on Declan’s head.

A shaft of radiance fell upon them at that very moment. As the crown on his head glittered, the light slowly spread across the entire square. The dark clouds that had covered the sky parted.

But none noticed Ian narrow his brow faintly as he cast a glance upward.

"Oh, oh…"

"Radiant light…"

Everyone, including the witnesses on the dais, had their hands clasped over their chests. However, that was not the end of the miracle.

Whoosh—

The anointing oil that had flowed down Declan’s head was now turning to steam. Shimmering like a rainbow, it slowly seeped into his body. The blessing of the heavens was settling upon him.

Watching with eyes full of emotion and passion, Martin finally let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

"Our king… eternal be his reign!"