The Villain's PoV - Chapter 247

Chapter 247: Orphans of Ruin (1)
“What a grim sight.”

“Mergo…”

With one hand resting on the hilt of his hidden blade .. Aether, Gavid Lindman glanced sideways at the staggering old drunk who arrived late.

The old man greeted his peer with a faint smile, barely visible through the wild hair covering most of his face.

“Lord Lindman, as diligent as ever… I take it you were part of the battle?”

“I only delivered the final blow. Barely made it in time.”

“That’s still impressive.”

Mergo praised him, though Gavid’s scowl only deepened.

“A shame, really. I would’ve been here sooner if I had your spatial manipulation skills.”

“You’re right. It’s a pity you don’t—ha ha!!.”

Mergo laughed, ignoring the deliberate jab.

He could’ve joined the battle from the start with his teleportation, and had he done so, they might have subdued the Pontiff much faster … without the cost.

But he chose not to.

“Astaroth won’t be pleased with this outcome.”

“He can think what he likes. Just as you do.”

Standing on the desolate plains, on earth that had drunk its fill of blood and corpses, death had become routine.

“How many dead this time? Hundreds? Maybe thousands… The Pontiff was particularly spirited today. Such a shame what that man has become.”

“You pity the beast that caused all this?”

“Beast? That’s a flattering description.”

Mergo chuckled.

“You and I—we’re monsters too, Lindman.”

“I won’t argue with that.” Lindman said with a frown…

“The heavens and the earth…”

Without warning, Mergo began speaking softly, savoring each word as if unaffected by the carnage around him.

“Seasons shift endlessly across this sky and soil, and so too do men follow cycles beyond their control.”

“Change is inevitable. To survive, we must adapt.”

“In the end, we all get what we deserve. Perhaps for destroyers like us, our fate will be to lie among these corpses one day.”

Reclining amid the bloodied dead, Mergo smiled and closed his eyes, drifting into a nap.

“You damned old fool…”

Gavid Lindman turned away, leaving the old man alone … unwilling to deal with him further.

“My fate… is the work of my own hands.”

Though he said it only to himself, Mergo heard it loud and clear, and his smile widened.

Opening his eyes, he watched Gavid walk off, the hem of his fine coat billowing behind him.

“Poor soul…”

Gavid had no idea he was walking a path inked in fate … one that would lead him precisely where destiny willed.

Later, the old man rose again, the stench of death still clinging to the air around him.

“There you are.”

He patted the head of a barefoot young man dressed in nothing but a black robe.

“Hey… old man.”

“What is it, Lawrence?”

“There are so many bodies.”

“I know. It’s a shame, isn’t it?”

“Why?”

“Why is it a shame? Because the dead no longer have stories to tell, Lawrence.”

“Each one had a tale waiting to unfold … but its threads were severed too soon, whether they lived a life of grace or of hardship.”

“In the end, they all perished.”

Mergo’s voice dipped into solemn depth without warning, prompting Lawrence to scratch his messy white hair.

“Grace? Didn’t they just die because they were weak?”

Lawrence asked like a child, and Mergo answered with the calm patience of a father.

“You could see it that way. Had they been stronger, maybe they would’ve survived.”

“So power decides life and death?”

“Not necessarily.”

The two walked away from the battlefield and its noise.

“Why not? You just said they would’ve lived if they were stronger.”

In a world ruled by the law of the jungle, Lawrence had instinctively grasped a cruel truth.

“Remember, Lawrence—no matter how strong you become, there’s always someone stronger.”

“Stronger than Mergo?”

“Yes. Far stronger than me.”

By now, the two were far from the battlefield with the Pontiff. Their journey had shifted toward a new goal: recruiting more of the Hollows … without warning or permission.

Lawrence was a strange one, more like a lost child who had latched onto the only man able to handle him … Mergo.

“So if strength isn’t the answer… then what is? What decides life and death?”

“A good question.”

Mergo tampered with the space around them, instantly warping the two far away.

“Let’s use the Ultras as an example.”

“How?”

“Demons are beings of terrifying power. Astaroth is only the nineteenth seat, and yet he’s a monster by this world’s standards. And the Ultras? Just humans. But they survived by selling themselves to the strongest side. That’s how we’ve made it this far.”

“But the humans in that place… The Empire, they’re still alive too.”

“They are. They’ve survived as well. But the Empire is fractured by nature … between the clergy, the noble houses, and countless rogue factions. Each fights in their own way.”

“Still, when war comes, they rally together in a single force despite their differences. That makes them far more dangerous than they appear.”

“I don’t get it anymore.”

Lawrence groaned, annoyed and confused. He no longer knew what answer Mergo wanted from him.

The old man patted his precious empyrean on the head and looked forward.

“It’s adaptation, Lawrence.”

“Adaptation?”

“Yes. Whether it’s a righteous warrior who survives by holding onto his beliefs, or a wretched traitor who sells out everyone around him … what matters is adapting to the trials of life and death.”

“In the end, only the best players survive. The ones who learn how to play the game of life.”

Lawrence sighed in defeat, giving up on trying to understand the deeper meaning.

“This is way too complicated… I’ll just stick with my first answer.”

“Ha ha. Then focusing on getting stronger must be your way, huh, Lawrence?”

The two continued chatting without pause or fatigue.

Eventually, their feet reached a strange place.

In the middle of a barren wasteland, an unnatural patch of green burst forth … lush plants and gentle winds, like a mirage more than a reality.

In that vibrant patch of earth stood a large building… an old monastery built from black brick, fenced in by tall iron gates. Above its entrance hung a simple sign with just a few words:

“Yhsefka Orphanage.”

An orphanage bearing the symbol of a dove … a sign of freedom.

An orphanage in the heart of a dead desert.

Hope buried in a pit of despair… even if that was the furthest thing from the truth.

“What is this place?”

“It’s a home for children who’ve lost their parents.”

“Parents…”

Lawrence winced at the thought, his mind straining to remember a mother or father he could no longer recall.

Mergo gently patted his head as they reached the orphanage gates.

There stood a hulking guard who looked down at them, his glowing eyes visible beneath his iron helm.