Re: In My Bloody Hit Novel - Chapter 729
Capítulo 729: The Sly’s Bet
A low murmur spread through the gathered elders.
One by one, these old heads nodded.
Then the citizens followed—quiet at first, hesitant… then firmer.
Agreement settled like falling leaves.
The Regent watched it all with heavy eyes. He could feel the will of the people crystallizing, hard and unavoidable. Slowly, he raised his staff and spoke, his voice carrying through the roots and branches of the Mother Tree.
“If this is what the Elven people desire,” he said, “then so it shall be.”
Silence fell.
“The one who captures the intruder,” the Regent declared, “shall inherit the crown and become king.”
Aetherion let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
“Of all things you could have chosen,” he said mockingly, “you picked the one contest you are guaranteed to lose. You truly are foolish, Silmarien.”
But Silmarien stepped forward instead of retreating.
“You do not understand,” he said calmly.
“Right now, I have been touched by the heavens.”
That alone drew attention.
“In revelation,” he continued, “the Mother Tree spoke to me—through the will of the previous king himself. He declared that I am to be the next ruler of the elves.”
At the mention of the former king, whispers erupted like wildfire.
The previous king… talked to the lazy one?
The Mother Tree spoke?
Is that even possible?
Silmarien allowed the murmurs to grow. His eyes were sharp, calculating, patient—he knew exactly what he was doing.
“When I ascend,” he said at last, “I will bring justice to our people.”
Then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
Behind him, the crowd reacted in fractured waves—some bowed instinctively, others stared in stunned disbelief. A few elders exchanged troubled glances. Among the citizens, hope and unease tangled together, but one thing was clear:
Silmarien’s words had taken root.
The following week was a nightmare.
The deaths did not stop.
They multiplied.
Nearly fifty elves were slaughtered—far worse than before.
These were not clean killings.
The bodies were mutilated, carved into with deliberate cruelty. Words of hatred were etched into flesh, deep and savage, as though the killer despised elves down to their very existence.
It felt personal.
Intimate.
Vengeful.
And again and again—it almost looked like Prince Aetherion had caught the culprit.
Once, near a river known as the silver river at dusk, Aetherion and tge guards arrived just in time to see a shadow vanish into the water. His blade struck, splitting the current in two—but the intruder was already gone, leaving behind three corpses still warm.
Another time, deep within the canopy district, the wards screamed in alarm. Aetherion burst through branches and light, his spear tearing through illusion after illusion. He felt resistance—real resistance—his weapon grazing something solid.
A drop of blood fell.
But the intruder escaped.
Each failure carved deeper into him.
Aetherion stopped sleeping.
Stopped eating.
His eyes grew sunken, his temper volatile.
The crown was no longer a duty to him—it was an obsession.
One decisive capture.
One moment of victory.
And the throne would be his.
Even if it broke him to claim it.
A month later, the elders gathered once more beneath the vast boughs of the Mother Tree.
The topic had not changed.
The intruder.
Debate circled endlessly—patterns, motives, hatred, the growing fear that something far worse lurked behind the killings.
Then the murmurs broke.
Silmarien entered the gathering hall.
He was limping.
His robes were torn, darkened with dried blood. Fresh bruises bloomed along his ribs and shoulders, and thin cuts—too jagged, too crude—marked him in ways no elven blade ever would. Most alarming of all was the faint discoloration along his side: a sickly stain of demonic blood poison, still gnawing at his flesh.
Gasps rippled through the elders.
“Treat him—now!” several cried at once.
Healers rushed forward immediately, guiding Silmarien to a seat despite his attempts to remain standing. Aetherion stared, openly stunned, his fatigue-dulled eyes widening for the first time in days.
The Regent rose.
“Prince Silmarien,” he said gravely, “what happened?”
Silmarien drew a slow breath, steadying himself before answering.
“I tracked the intruder,” he said. “And I confronted him.”
The hall went still.
This was good. This way, whatever would fall out of his mouth would be completely swallowed by this lot.
“We fought,” Silmarien continued, his voice calm despite his injuries. “A battle to the death. I would not be standing here now if not for the grace of the Mother Tree… and the wisdom of the previous king.”
That did it.
Whispers erupted.
Silmarien lowered his gaze slightly. “In the midst of battle, something awakened within me. Knowledge, instinct, memory. It guided my movements. It saved my life.”
The elders exchanged looks of disbelief and awe.
They all knew the truth of it.
The two princes were reflections. Although imperfect echoes of the First King. Not full reincarnations, but close enough that fragments of his legacy slept within their blood.
To awaken even a portion of that ancient wisdom was no small thing.
And until now…
Only one of them had done so.
Silmarien watched carefully from the corner of his eye as the elders’ shock transformed into excitement—then into something dangerously close to celebration. Voices rose, speaking of signs, of destiny, of the Mother Tree’s will.
Rumors took shape even as the meeting continued.
Perhaps Silmarien was truly chosen.
Perhaps the old king had favored him all along.
Aetherion’s hands clenched.
Dark circles hung beneath his eyes, his face hollow from weeks without rest. He said nothing. He simply turned and walked out of the hall.
The doors slammed behind him, shaking the chamber.
No one stopped him.
All attention was on Silmarien now.
The healers finished their work, and Silmarien straightened, ignoring the lingering pain. A faint smirk curved his lips as he spoke once more.
“The intruder was gravely wounded,” he said. “I do not expect him to surface again for a long while.”
The elders nodded as they asked for details of the event.
Of course, Silmarien was as detailed as possible…