Chapter 127. It’s Not Too Late

2024.02.04.

Eddie Rev believed that Marquis Rev would not consider rebellion merely because Clade Euphris had become a Sword Master.

Yet after witnessing events falling into place as if fated, he experienced a sudden clarity, where everything previously vague now became sharply defined.

Believe. Follow.

Pushing aside even the faintest lingering doubt or fear in his heart, he resolved to stand by Clade, carefully observing how Clade would repay the kindness once bestowed upon him.

And during that process, a ninth wife reduced to Bollonico’s mere ornament—

a helpless little girl whose debt of gratitude had become nearly impossible to repay—must never be allowed to become any kind of hindrance to Clade.

Lancelot, who under normal circumstances would have erupted in protest over having to hide anything, remained silent.

Eddie noticed even Lancelot’s once love-obsessed heart was slowly changing, and tightly gripped Lancelot’s arm.

In response, Lancelot’s lips parted.

“That’s right.”

Lancelot’s eyes wavered fiercely, then quickly hardened.

“No need to pay attention to her now.”

“She could simply refrain from attending the welcoming ceremony altogether.”

Eddie released Lancelot’s arm, his expression finally easing.

Leaving Eddie behind as he clutched his head and retreated into his study to process the new revelations, Lancelot stared only at the empty, barren marble steps before him.

The spark of rebellion had already been lit.

Perhaps from the very moment Clade survived Igor’s blade, an unquenchable flame had begun burning steadily within Clade’s chest.

‘Bring me a woman.’

‘Just not one with black hair.’

‘If she’s there, I’ll have nightmares.’

The insistence on excluding black-haired women as a condition for summoning a woman he didn’t even care to know.

The fact that he was now downing entire bottles of liquor—something he rarely touched unless in pain.

That Clade, who should be escaping nightmares and moving toward a new path, was instead suffering unknown horrors in the Black Mansion, as Lancelot could not even imagine.

And Clade’s broad, lonely back, fleeing the Black Mansion as if running for his life.

Lancelot desperately tried to erase them all from his mind.

Rebellion.

The warning that such a dangerous act could not succeed without absolute focus did not apply only to Clade.

It concerned not just Clade’s life, but the very fate of the entire House of Rev.

No matter how unsettling Clade’s odd behavior appeared.

No matter if Yuan Pelliese’s demeanor seemed different from before—there was no turning back now.

Clade must not be shaken any further.

Lancelot Rev, eyes bloodshot, firmly resolved and headed toward the study where Eddie had disappeared.

***

Federico Companni stood gazing silently at his daughter boarding the merchant ship.

His daughter, whose golden hair—once radiant like the southern sun—was now painted a plain brown, had become a noble of the Torca Islands.

She opened her lips repeatedly, then gave up, stepped back down from the ship, and tightly grasped her father’s hand.

“Father. I am no longer a member of the Euphris family, nor of the House of Marquis Companni, but I cannot stay silent after hearing the words of His Highness the Deposed Crown Prince.”

“…….”

“You heard it too, Father—the suspicious circumstances that had troubled us all finally fit together perfectly when he spoke.”

“…….”

“If what he says is true—that the mad Emperor used my grandfather’s loyalty to drag our family into this abyss—then we cannot remain as we are. Do you understand?”

The ship finished preparations and sounded its horn.

“I’ll be waiting for you to make the right decision.”

Lily Companni embraced her father tightly, then left him without hesitation, stepping back onto the vessel.

Federico Companni stared blankly until the merchant ship, following distant lights, vanished completely from sight.

Even after seeing his daughter off, and pushing past the bustling servants preparing for Empress Marilyn’s welcoming ceremony, he remained in a daze upon entering his office.

“It wasn’t rebellion. It wasn’t… rebellion.”

Sitting in the dark corner of his dim office, he steadied his ragged breath and reached into his coat.

From within his weathered hands, marked by every wrinkle of southern suffering, emerged a pocket watch.

A relic handed to him by the Deposed Crown Prince—belonging to the late Marquis Companni.

He unlocked the tightly sealed case and opened it like a book. On one side lay the shattered remains of the clock face, broken at the moment of its owner’s death.

On the opposite side was a solemn portrait.

Indeed, the face of his father—Ansel Companni.

For over ten years, this portrait, once a symbol of pride, had lain hidden inside a broken pocket watch, unable to be displayed anywhere in the Companni estate.

The moment his eyes met the proud golden gaze in the painting, the Deposed Crown Prince’s testimony flashed through his mind like lightning.

“The rebel forces that stormed the mansion were utterly crushed by Igor’s men. Inside the burning estate, where corpses lay scattered like sand on the southern Nella beach—your father was there.”

Deposed Crown Prince Clade Euphris, writhing under an unnamed curse, had wandered the mansion searching for his dead sister’s body.

Amid convulsions that swept through his entire body and the flames consuming the mansion,

he ran and sometimes crawled like a man possessed, screaming Apolline’s name.

Finally, before his monstrous, transformed self, familiar golden hair lay sprawled on the floor.

The mutilated corpse of Apolline—and beside her, Ansel Companni, dying.

From Ansel’s mouth, pierced multiple times, came a voice thick with regret.

“I was… too late.”

There had never been rebels to begin with.

The rumor that a faction aiming to usurp the throne was approaching the palace and targeting Clade wasn’t spread only to the east and north.

Igor had already prepared thoroughly, labeling whichever side arrived first as ‘rebels,’ and when the eastern forces arrived in good faith to assist, he slaughtered the southern reinforcements.

Those who would have drawn their swords first to protect the young prince and princess in the event of a rebellion—

those very people were the ones Grand Duke Igor needed to eliminate first to seize the throne.

Had the eastern forces arrived first, they would have become the sacrificial victims instead.

The rough wave pattern.

Ansel Companni, wearing his family crest stained with blood, had rushed forth first to suppress the rebellion—only to be trampled under the boots of northern and eastern soldiers, victims of Igor’s scheme.

Even if the Emperor was not aligned with his ideals, he was a man who willingly led his private troops to Roxenhardt to rescue the young prince and princess, believing it his duty to punish those who rebelled without cause.

“Grand Duke Igor…”

Even with wounds that should have killed him instantly, Ansel reached out—again and again—toward the monstrous Clade.

No further explanation was needed from that desperate gaze and outstretched hand.

Just knowing that Grand Duke Igor stood at the forefront—both of the sudden rebel surge and their swift suppression—was enough for Clade to understand everything.

Clade closed the eyes of the man who had died with them wide open, and writhed in agony before the bodies of Apolline and Ansel until Lord Mosan Rev arrived.

His voice recounting that horrific scene was so flat, so dry, it drained the very life from the Companni father and daughter present.

Federico, turning over that despair again and again in his mind, let out a groan-like whisper.

“Father…”

At last, the Deposed Crown Prince revealed the truth he had kept locked in his heart for ten years—to his son, Federico.

The late Marquis Companni, reported only to have been executed swiftly for rebellion, had in fact died unjustly, pierced through by Igor’s blade.

Those words were enough—enough to transform the long-suppressed resentment toward his father into guilt, and his fear of Igor into fury.

“Father…”

Perhaps he had secretly longed for someone to tell him this.

That the will and pride of past generations—those who protected the south, who rushed to the Empire’s aid without hesitation whether in harmony or conflict with the throne—were not lies.

That his father was not a traitor who plotted rebellion, but a proud warrior of the south who died honorably.

The rough face of a man who had aged from youth to middle age over the past decade was now soaked with tears.

“If you think I’m too late, you don’t have to help me. Even if you don’t, I intend to take Igor’s life with my own hands. But if you and the other wronged souls remaining in the south join me, it will happen faster.”

In the eyes of the man who even appeared lethargic, a blade-like gleam shone—one forged over who knows how many years.

Though he knew the killing intent was not directed at him, Federico Companni could not breathe in that room.

“The choice is yours.”

At last, the memories from the townhouse reached their conclusion.

Federico Companni stared for a long while at the broken watch, his eyes bloodshot.

He spent the entire night awake at his office desk, waiting for dawn.

The next day.

Handing the pocket watch he had been holding to his aide who entered to prepare for a meeting, Federico Companni said,

“Have it repaired as quickly as possible.”

This might be the final chance to reverse the time that had stopped that day.

No—even if it could not be undone, he could no longer remain idle.

He might still be inadequate to persuade the retainers and others conditioned by fear and power.

Yet he now had the premonition—this moment might never come again.

The aide carefully took the pocket watch and disappeared through the door.

Federico Companni sat gripping the armrest of his chair like a lifeline, staring at the closed door.

His bloodshot eyes trembled violently with rage and hope—for lost time, and for time yet to come.

“What did you answer to my father’s dying words—‘I was too late’?”

“I answered, ‘It’s not too late.’ Whether he heard me or not, I don’t know.”

Perhaps it was not too late after all.

Unable to hold back his face crumpling in sorrow, he finally stepped down from his chair, fell to the floor, and wept bitterly.

It was the morning when his sister, Empress Marilyn, completely unaware of everything, was about to hold her welcoming ceremony.