The festival continued.

After the parade of the Red Crown, which made the whole stronghold quiver in excitement as if an earthquake was twisting through the ground itself, it was the turn of the Silver Crowns.

Kaden and his siblings didn't watch their parade, going on their way and continuing their duty. As offsprings of Warborn, their responsibilities were not meager.

The folks, meanwhile, were shouting. So much that one could see slithering veins around their necks and foreheads, bulging as if about to burst.

Each one of them was participating in earnest, doing their absolute best to keep the festival smooth and enjoyable for all.

Children could be seen running freely, a contagious smile plastered on their faces, giggling merrily while playing with other children they never even knew.

They didn't care. They just played with whoever was willing. And on that day, many were willing.

Even beggars.

At first, they were awkward, consciously wondering if they would be accepted. But as time passed, they managed to get out of their lack of confidence and play freely.

At midday — when the sun above was furiously shining on them, sweat dripping on their eyebrows, pattering the ground like rain falling — the food was ready to be served.

None ate at their house. None of them. Even the nobles with luxurious crimson clothes and shining jewelry on their bodies.

All began to eat the Tamtam outside their walls, mingling with others, while at the same time giving to those who couldn't afford to buy the ingredients and cook for themselves.

It was a joyous moment. And the leaders of Waverith watched the scene with pride and contentment glowing in their eyes.

They were standing atop the tallest building, which was the Red House — Warborn's Dwelling — staring down at the festival unfolding peacefully.

"So," Serena said, smiling, crimson battle dress clinging to her sinful body, "this is worth protecting, isn't it?"

Heavens, Ouroboros, Duty, and King Progeny listened with smiles on their faces.

"Yes," Duty said, "it is."

They were surrounded by tensions and eventual conflicts from all sides. It was becoming harder and harder to stay positive about a possible peace with the beasts and Kaleith.

It was barely now only a matter of interest. It had become a matter of view of life, of religion, of faith.

Kaleith found them uneducated, seeking in subtle ways to force their philosophy upon them.

Waverith would not buckle in front of such a thing. And with that came the only possible outcome of this kind of situation.

It was something King Progeny and Serena wouldn't have minded. After all, they were Warborn. They were made to wage wars and swim in rivers of their enemies' blood.

But they were no longer a single house of madmen.

Right at that instant, they were the leaders of a whole stronghold, bearing on their backs the lives of thousands pressing down upon them.

It was not easy, they fully realized it only now, to be a leader.

King Progeny wanted none of it. It was not in his nature.

Yet he had taken this opportunity to make his bloodline greater. To make it deeper. So that he could pass down something worthy to his son.

He didn't regret it. Garros never regretted anything he had done in his life.

He would only laugh at it. For laughing was far better than lamenting over a situation while doing nothing.

So at that instant, looking at the joyful faces of their people — those who worshiped them like gods descended from the heavens — the Crowns balled their fists until white-knuckled, doing their best to let the tide of unease inside their hearts settle into peaceful currents.

If the folks believed them to be gods, then they would be their gods.

Even if they wept like them. Even if they bled like them. Even if they feared the future like them. Even if they died like them.

But it didn't matter. It never did.

They would honor them. And just like how the people of Waverith always said,

"Be honorable like a Warborn. And you would not fight your battles alone."

"Be strong as a Red Crown would. And you would die with your back unsullied."

"Be courageous like a lone crimson star in a dark, swallowing sky. And you would not join the dead alone."

Just as these thoughts flickered inside their minds, below, the people began to whisper, to sing, to laugh.

Be honorable, they bellowed, for Honor is the first and highest virtue of the Red Crown.

And whoever bore that distinction…

Death would always taste sweet.

Always.

…

Time blurred, the sun went back to sleep. The Wheel turned, and the moon now hung in the night sky of Waverith, bathing the whole stronghold in a silvery luster.

The tension had dropped by now. The people had settled down, watching — either sitting or standing — the beautiful moon overhead.

The air was soft and slightly moist, embracing them like a blanket. Sighs of relief and contentment whispered through the streets.

Soon, lovers began to stride toward each other, faces unconsciously smiling.

There were, also, those who held a fancy for someone, deciding to let the fear flow inside them like water through dry rock and still step forward.

That day, they decided to be courageous. Not cowardly.

It was not easy, as one might expect.

Some of them went back with disappointment, heads ducked low, the people they wished to be with already having someone else they wished to be with.

This created a loop of unsatisfied beings who loved someone who loved another.

They ended by remaining alone, admiring the other happy lovers under the moonlight.

The world had denied them love. But not to others. And while they were feeling sadness, time didn't halt to let them recover from this event.

The world continued as if nothing had happened.

Still, there was a beauty in this scene. In these small heartbreaks and unsatisfying emotions.

A kind of beauty that hurt. Yet one that made you feel that everything was not over.

After a while, poets, Gryo, and all began to flood the streets. They recited their composed poems, praising the Crowns. They began to explain the deep lineages of each bloodline as if they had been there when the first ancestor walked the earth.

"They have such sharp tongues," a small, old, withered voice said, "don't they?"

Kaden, standing in a side alley of the streets, hidden by shadows, turned his head to look at the man who had spoken.

His sword-shaped crimson eyes rested on an old man — a beggar, clearly — sitting on the floor, his back leaning lazily against the wall.

His red clothes were tattered and torn apart. His body was dirty, filled with dust, reeking of piss and shit.

Kaden briefly wondered how he hadn't noticed such a scent before continuing to examine the beggar.

His head barely had any hair, and with his clothes torn apart, one could glimpse his legs.

Kaden suppressed a frown.

His legs were ballooned unnaturally, pulsing as if they had minds of their own, looking like they would burst at any moment.

At first glance alone, Kaden knew this old man could not walk with those legs. And that was when he noticed the beggar's hands.

They were withered to the point it hurt to look at. His flesh dangled like chicken skin in soup.

His nails were red and broken, surely from scraping them against rocky ground in order to walk. If one could even call it walking.

The old man was in a dire state. Yet he was smiling.

And Kaden recognized him.

"It's you," Kaden said, surprise filling his voice. "You're not dead yet, old man?"

The man cackled, shadowing his toothless upper mouth with a lower mouth filled with half-yellow teeth bent inward, as if he had been punched hard long ago.

"You didn't forget about me, suicidal boy?" he said between laughs.

"I have a great memory," Kaden retorted, the song of Fire and Blood slowly beginning to echo around Waverith.

His eyes remained fixed on the old man.

This was the same man he had found being beaten by a young noble girl.

The same man who had told him straight to the face that he didn't hold life dear, just before Kaden went to find a death-type beast and got stuck in the ruined dungeon with Asael.

That same old man.

But then Kaden frowned.

"I gave you many gold coins before going that day," he cocked his head. "I thought you would live well with that."

"You gave a beggar such a sum of gold, boy," the old man chuckled. "What do you think would happen?"

"Changing your situation?" Kaden shrugged. "You were quite unwilling to die back then. So I gave you a way out of the piss-soaked alley you were living in. But now…"

Kaden looked at the old man's legs, unable to suppress a bad feeling.

"Death is coming for you, old beggar. Fast, yet slow."

His voice sounded like a decree.

"Death is coming for all of us," the old man retorted, waving his weathered hand lazily. "He's simply closer to me than he is to you. But he's coming. He's always coming."

"Are we going to talk about death once again?" Kaden smiled.

"I only talk with someone about the things they inspire in me," the beggar grinned. "You, suicidal boy, only inspire me with death. So death I will talk about with you. Only death. Until the day death is no more for you. Until the day death comes for your soul."

"Oh?" Kaden exclaimed.

"Do you know what the worst death a being could ever have is?" the old beggar continued.

Kaden tilted his head softly, looking at the moon above. He had been waiting for Inara to come, but it seemed she wouldn't.

She was supposed to be here half an hour ago. No news came.

Another refusal.

Kaden sighed wistfully, closing his eyes to calm the heart filled with regret and gnawing pain.

To think he had told Meris to wait until late night just so he could have time with Inara.

He exhaled through his nose, Reditha and Blanche comforting him, then shook his head and answered the beggar.

"The worst death?" Kaden echoed, arms crossing on his chest as he leaned against the wall, facing the old man. "It's death with regret inside your heart."

He offered his answer.

The old man smiled.

"Emotional, aren't you, boy?" he said. "But it's not that complicated. It's never that complicated. Never."

Kaden raised his left eyebrow. "Enlighten me, old beggar."

The old man pointed at his legs, then at his whole body.

"Do you understand how it feels to see yourself dying?" he laughed, as if amused. "The kind where it looks like the gods are mocking you by letting you see how slowly your body crumbles, then your mind, before finally taking your soul."

Kaden listened attentively.

"You see yourself losing the ability to walk. You'll need help to move, but if you don't…" he raised his bloodied hands, "…you'll have to crawl by yourself."

Kaden frowned.

"That's only the beginning. Next, breathing feels like a battle you'd rather not fight. Yet you know not fighting means death. So you fight, gasping, as if the world denied you the one thing it never denied you."

The beggar paused, letting Kaden absorb his words.

At that instant, the youngest Warborn felt as if he were facing a teacher.

A master.

Unconsciously, he focused even more.

The old man grinned and continued.

"Then your muscles feel like water. Raising your arms above your chest becomes impossible. I told you, didn't I? It's your body that dies first. A slow, painful process where you die a thousand times."

"It's the kind of end that gives you time to ponder how life is fleeing. Yet amidst all this, there is still something worse than all of it. Something I fear the most."

"Do you wish to know, boy?"

"I'm listening," Kaden said.

"It's simple," the old man laughed, pointing at his ass. "One day, you'll feel so weak, so useless, so dependent that you'll need someone to wipe your ass."

Kaden gasped in surprise.

The beggar's eyes twinkled strangely.

"Is there any death worse than that? At that instant, you're no longer human."

He looked at the sky overhead.

"You're dead. Dead without being dead."

"Is there anything worse than that, Kaden Warborn, suicidal boy?"

—End of Chapter 385—

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