Chapter 20: My son is god’s messenger
Night had fallen deep and silent.
Most of the windows in Laval Manor’s main residence had already sunk into darkness, with only a few faint moonbeams breaking through the gaps in the clouds, barely tracing the outline of the building.
The storm had long since passed, leaving behind a damp courtyard and a heavy silence.
Jean Leclerc, the butler, gently pushed open the Oak Door to Allen’s bedroom.
By the weak light filtering through the window, he saw the young master lying on his side, fast asleep.
Allen’s face was peaceful, his breathing steady and calm, with even the faintest hint of relaxation at the corner of his lips.
This was a far cry from the gaunt boy Leclerc remembered—always furrowing his brows, frequently jolted awake by nightmares.
The old butler stood quietly at the door for a moment.
A complex sense of relief and an indescribable tremor flickered in his clouded eyes.
He closed the door silently, just as he had come.
No sooner had the door’s soft click faded than Allen’s eyes snapped open.
Without a sound, he sat up and pulled from beneath his pillow the confiscated Noble Longsword.
Running his fingers along the cold hilt in the darkness, he let out a soft sigh.
“If I hadn’t known the butler was coming to check on me, I would’ve just slept under the bed.”
He muttered quietly, a hint of helplessness in his tone.
The instincts of a villain made him alert to any possible nighttime attack.
He rose and walked to the window, pushing open a crack to gaze out at the clear post-rain night sky.
“Father definitely won’t sleep tonight,” Allen murmured as he stared at the star-filled sky.
“But then again, Dad looks like a doting fool who spoils his son, but at heart, he’s a fox, just like me—good at disguising himself.”
“Our Laval family—none of us are simple folk.”
As Allen had guessed, in the study at the other end of the manor, the candlelight still flickered.
Viscount Bernard de Laval had not yet slept.
He sat alone behind the wide desk, the passionate, foolish expression of a doting father from earlier in the day vanished without a trace, replaced by the shrewdness and deep fatigue of a businessman and minor noble.
A veil of persistent anxiety shadowed his brow.
Spread before him lay a copy of the Taxation Privilege Decree issued by the Royal Family, alongside an account ledger listing staggering deficits.
The candlelight danced in his eyes, reflecting his deep worries.
The study door creaked open softly, and the old butler entered.
Seeing his master slumped in thought, he spoke with concern, “The young master is sleeping soundly, breathing evenly. It seems he is truly exhausted and has let go of many worries. My lord, it is late—you should rest as well.”
Bernard didn’t turn around.
His fingers tapped anxiously and unconsciously on the smooth mahogany desk, the dull thuds punctuating the silence.
“Jean…”
His voice was low, heavy with unmasked exhaustion.
“What do you think about Allen’s suggestion to join the Church? Do you really believe he received Divine Revelation?”
The butler did not answer directly.
He moved to the desk, poured warm water from a silver flask into Bernard’s now-cold cup, and slowly said: “My lord, do you remember what happened last month in the Upper City? Baron Montague coveted the sizable inheritance of Widow Martha, so he conspired with several thugs to slander her as a witch who caused her husband’s death by sorcery. The poor lady was dragged to the plaza and burned alive.”
Bernard’s fingers stopped abruptly, his brows knitting tightly.
“I remember. Those bastards!”
The butler continued, “Archbishop Lucien was furious at such an absurd accusation. The Inquisitors he dispatched quickly uncovered the truth. The Church immediately excommunicated Montague and pressed charges, demanding the Lorraine High Court to prosecute rigorously.”
“In the end, the court found the mastermind and the perjuring thugs guilty of ‘blasphemy’ and ‘premeditated murder’ and had them all hanged from the city gates as a warning.”
The butler paused, his tone icy, “I’ve heard that Archbishop Lucien was enraged and ordered this case to be used as a teaching example in all sermons.”
He looked at Bernard, mimicking the Archbishop’s stern voice:
“The Archbishop himself proclaimed: Whoever falsely invokes the name of God to commit trickery, extortion, murder, or sow discord among the faithful is a heretic and must be punished! They shall be thrown into the dungeons of the Inquisition to ‘feel’ God’s ‘mercy’ in endless darkness.”
Bernard abruptly raised his head.
His eyes shone sharp in the candlelight as he fixed the butler with a penetrating gaze.
The butler’s story hit him like a stone cast into a still lake, stirring turbulent waves in his heart.
The room sank into silence again, save for the occasional crackle of the candle flame.
After a long moment, Bernard sighed heavily and deeply, breaking the quiet.
He leaned back in his chair, tiredly rubbing his brow.
His voice was thick with unbearable guilt and sorrow.
“Jean…there is no father in this world who does not love his child.”
His gaze seemed to pierce through the walls, reaching into a distant past.
“Allen hates me, and I completely understand. His mother’s death is a pain that will never leave my heart, and it’s the root of his unforgiveness toward me.”
Fragments of memory unfolded slowly like faded slides, soaked in cold dampness, inside Bernard’s mind:
He saw his wife, Elena, with her gentle yet faintly melancholy smile.
She would tenderly stroke little Allen’s head, telling him stories of knights and princesses in a voice as soft as feathers brushing the heart.
She would tuck in his blankets with cool hands, watch over him all night when he was ill, humming off-key lullabies.
The scene shifted to her face growing pale day by day, the suppressed cough echoing sharply in the silent room.
She forced her weakened body to hide her suffering, unwilling to worry her young son or disturb the man who was always “busy” outside.
Little Allen lay beside his mother’s bed, his small hands clutching her cold fingers tightly, watching the light in her eyes fade bit by bit…
And what was Bernard doing then?
At banquets, he wore a sycophantic smile, mingling with the Noble Swordsmen and noblewomen, his person marked by an unfamiliar, pungent perfume.
His appearances at home were few and far between—always rushed, bearing expensive but useless gifts, then leaving just as quickly, leaving empty comforts and deeper coldness behind.
On his wife’s funeral day, a fine drizzle fell.
Little Allen, in an ill-fitting black suit, stood before the cold tombstone, rain mixing with tears filling his mouth.
Beside him stood Bernard himself, his face marked by grief, but it felt more like a performance—a mourning fitting for a nobleman’s status, intended for onlookers.
He could not feel his true sorrow, only the biting coldness.
From then on, father and son’s relationship was completely severed.
“I can’t make up for the mother he lost. I could only clumsily spoil him without limits, fulfilling all his unreasonable demands, thinking that could compensate for it. But I was wrong—terribly wrong!”
Bernard’s voice was pained.
“My indulgence might have been what pushed him toward the abyss. I watched him grow more radical, saw him retaliate against me and this world in self-destructive ways…and I was powerless, only cleaning up after him with money and this old face of mine.”
“But Jean, do you know? The more Allen becomes the laughingstock of the nobles, the safer our family is! Those damned vultures are distracted by Allen’s rebellious antics, so they can’t see how rotten our family really is…”
“I used my son! I am not a good father, never have been!”
“My lord…you mustn’t blame yourself so harshly. This isn’t your fault.” The butler sighed.
“But Jean, if I could live it all over again, stand at that crucial crossroads… I would make the same choice!”
Bernard suddenly stood up, slamming his fist onto the desk with force!
“In the eyes of those high and mighty Noble Swordsmen, what are we, the ones who earn by our hands and brains? Merely fattened sheep raised for the slaughter! Toys to be butchered for their amusement whenever they please!”
“Do you remember Pierre Lefevre? The factory owner who monopolized a third of the kingdom’s Velvet Trade? Just for refusing to ‘offer tribute’ to the newly appointed Treasury Minister, he was accused of tax evasion and hoarding, his property seized and him hanged! His daughter Shirley…”
Bernard’s voice choked with hatred, “was repeatedly violated by a bunch of despicable noble brats…and finally, unable to bear the humiliation, hanged herself in a tower!”
Bernard’s chest heaved violently, his eyes blazing with fury.
He grabbed the gilded Taxation Privilege Decree like a venomous snake and cursed in rage, “I thought, if I fought desperately, throwing everything into breaking into this noble circle, I could escape that sheepfold for slaughter! I thought wearing the noble robes meant standing as an equal! But I was wrong—terribly wrong!”
He slammed the decree onto the desk, the heavy thud causing the candlelight to flicker wildly.
“These so-called ‘Robe Nobles’ are just another dish served at the table of those Noble Swordsmen! A prettier-wrapped ‘course’ that requires some finesse to consume!”
“Our existence only serves to help them pillage the people’s wealth, to be devoured—skin, bones, and all—when they need us!”
He sank back into his chair, covering his face with his hands.
His voice slipped through his fingers, filled with desperate despair and deep fatherly love:
“Jean, I’m not afraid to die. But I fear what will happen to my innocent, pitiable Allen after I’m gone! Those wolves and tigers will devour him to the bone!”
“My original plan…was to sever ties with him before I died, create conflicts so the world would believe we were estranged. Then, with your help, quietly transfer some of the estate, hide our names, and protect him so he could flee far away—to live as a prosperous commoner in a place no one knows…”
He lifted his head, bloodshot eyes swirling, “But now! Look at him! He’s become so sensible, so responsible! He wants to bear this family’s burden! How could he ever be willing to cut ties and run away alone? He will be dragged into that murky noble circle no matter what!”
Bernard paced anxiously back and forth in the study’s confined space, heavy footsteps muffled by the carpet, his anxiety tightening like poisonous vines around his heart.
As if to soothe the restless Bernard, the butler suddenly spoke with firm certainty:
“My lord, you need not worry. Young Master Allen—he truly has received Divine Revelation.”
“What?”
Bernard rushed forward, gripping the butler’s hand tightly, his voice trembling.
“Jean, don’t lie to me…What have you discovered?”
The butler sighed, his expression complex:
“My lord, there is something I have been afraid to tell you all this time.”
Bernard spoke eagerly: “Tell me, Jean. Whatever it is, I will forgive you!”
“My lord, do you remember the Prophecy in The Scriptures?”
Both Bernard and Jean were believers, naturally well acquainted with the contents of The Scriptures.
“The part about the arrival of God’s Messenger?”
“Exactly, my lord.”
The butler met Bernard’s eyes, speaking each word deliberately, “Young Master Allen is God’s Messenger.”
“Ah!?”
Bernard felt his head buzz, darkness pressing at the edges of his vision.
His body wavered, nearly collapsing.
The butler was quick, catching him and helping him into a chair.
Bernard rubbed his temples, the world spinning, his voice faint: “Why do you think that, Jean? We are all servants of the Lord—saying such things…”
“Could mark you as a heretic!”
“My lord,” the butler took a deep breath, finally speaking the terrible truth weighing on his heart, “Young Master Allen…stopped breathing the day after he nearly drowned.”
“What!!!”
Bernard sprang up from his chair like a cat startled by a sudden noise!
His eyes widened, his mouth opened wide enough to fit an egg.
Pointing a trembling finger at Jean, he was speechless, his teeth chattering.
“…”
Blood rushed to his head; his mind blanked.
“My lord, that is why I have been reluctant to tell you.”
Jean’s voice was low.
“S-so…he’s already dead?”
Bernard’s voice shook uncontrollably.
“Yes, and no.”
The butler’s tone was grave.
After a long while, Bernard recovered from his shock, his face pale as paper.
He closed his eyes and whispered painfully: “You mean…that bastard son of mine from before is already dead…The son I see now, obedient and capable…isn’t really him? It’s…the Messenger of God inhabiting his body?”
“The Messenger is said to awaken within the ‘Blank Shell,’ as recorded in The Scriptures,” the butler explained, “At least, I cannot explain the miracle of the young master’s revival—nor can the Church. Nothing like this has ever happened in history.”
“You mean…the Messenger is disguised as my son?”
Bernard’s voice was full of sorrow but tinged with an inexplicable zeal.
He suddenly didn’t know how he would face that son—both familiar and strange—the next day.
“Perhaps, you can think of it this way,” Jean corrected gently, “Your son has not become someone else. Young Master Allen has simply been reborn as God’s Messenger.”
“…Is there a difference?”
Bernard asked, confused.
“A great one.”
The butler explained, “Since awakening, I have been observing him. My lord, do you still remember what your son was like before?”
“Of course I remember…”
Bernard’s voice choked as a clear tear slid down his cheek, “My son was kind and lovely before I hurt him…Everything he became after was my fault. All my fault!”
“My lord, at this point, there is no time for regret.”
The butler interrupted the self-reproach.
“I have watched him grow—I am even more heartbroken than you. Now, young master Allen has received Divine Revelation and returned to the passionate, kind, and intelligent child he once was. He is both God’s Messenger and your son.”
“Haven’t you realized yet? Your son becoming God’s Messenger means everything for the Laval family, for this world!”
Bernard was stunned.
As a believer, he could not fail to understand the significance of God’s Messenger’s arrival.
“Jean, are you saying…this is the Last Age of Darkness?”
Bernard’s voice trembled.
“That is why the old king has begun neglecting his duties, why disasters have plagued the kingdom these past years. The final deadline is near,” the butler said solemnly.
Bernard suddenly stood up, his eyes blazing with unprecedented clarity!
All thoughts crystallized into proof that Allen was indeed God’s Messenger!
The joy of realization and a sense of mission overwhelmed him instantly!
“I understand! I understand everything now!”
Bernard was so excited he broke out in goosebumps.
“My son must hide his identity now. He needs time to prepare for humanity’s salvation! He needs my protection…Wait—so that’s how it is?”
Bernard’s eyes brightened with understanding.
“Allen knows the disgrace of his playboy youth was actually exaggerated and spread by me. He needs this disguise!”
“…My lord, what the young master intends to do is probably more than just that,” the butler added meaningfully, “Those mercenaries were likely released on purpose. Guess what he’s planning?”
“Good Lord! Th-this… this…”
Bernard’s face flushed red as he rubbed his hands excitedly like a buzzing red-headed fly.
“Allen, as God’s Messenger, has come to this ugly world not to bring peace, but to ignite war! He must destroy this rotten world to create a new paradise for humanity, to shield mankind from destruction coming from the stars!”
“Hahaha!”
Bernard laughed wildly, hands on hips, as if returned to his bold youth.
“Now I finally understand! My son is the greatest man in this world! Those Noble Swordsmen, those crown princes—they’re nothing! Even if someone offered the emperor’s throne in exchange for my son, I wouldn’t agree!”
He grabbed the butler’s shoulders fiercely.
“Jean, does anyone else know about this?”
“I have told no one. But I believe our chief maid, Marianne Durand, has probably guessed.”
The butler answered.
“Marianne?!”
Bernard’s eyes widened.
How could even his chief maid know this, and he only just found out?
“Quick! Fetch her immediately!”