The next day...
The door to Allesio's cell creaked open, the echo bouncing off the stone walls. Several guards stepped in cautiously, their eyes wary.
"Keep your guard up—this one's dangerous," one of them warned, tightening his grip on his spear.
They unfastened the heavy chains binding Allesio's wrists, his bruised skin showing beneath the rusted links.
"Get up," one of them barked.
Allesio didn't respond. His body sagged, drained of all strength. With a frustrated grunt, two guards roughly hauled him to his feet and dragged him along.
He was taken to a carriage, a heavy, iron-bound prisoner transport, surrounded by a formation of a hundred guards. Four additional carriages flanked Allesio's, each filled with armed men.
Night had fallen, and the world was drenched in sheets of unrelenting rain. Thunder cracked above them, a menacing soundtrack to the grim procession. The wheels of the carriages churned through the mud, the lanterns casting ghostly shadows.
They reached a dense, forested area when suddenly—ten masked man's clones materialized from the shadows. Their appearance was silent but deadly. The guards tensed, weapons raised.
From the distance, an arrow whistled through the rain and struck a guard in the throat. Panic erupted.
"Ambush!" the commander roared. "Retreat to the palace! Do not let the traitor prince escape!"
The clones surged forward like a tide, engaging the guards in swift, brutal combat. Blood mixed with rainwater as bodies fell on either side.
"Sword Art: Thunder Channeling!" Aamon's voice roared from within the chaos. He raised his sword to the sky, catching a bolt of lightning. The blade glowed with crackling power as he directed the lightning toward the guards. The resulting explosion of fire and smoke created a ring of blazing flames around the battlefield.
Three more figures joined the assault—the same three from the cave—moving with deadly precision.
Within minutes, the battlefield was littered with fallen guards. Amid the burning wreckage of carriages and bodies unrecognizable from the flames, the masked man and Aamon seized Allesio and vanished into the stormy night.
Allesio's last view was of the burning carriage, reduced to ashes, and the scent of charred wood and iron mixing with the heavy rain.
They reached a forest, far from the chaos of the ambush. Rain still fell, but the trees shielded them from the worst of it. Allesio, drenched and shivering, finally spoke.
"Why did you do this?" he asked, his voice cracking with anger and confusion.
Aamon looked at him, his face shadowed, eyes unreadable.
"Why are you making my life more miserable?" Allesio shouted. "First you made me the murderer of my own father, then you made me look like I escaped, branding me as the traitor! How could you?"
There was something… off about Aamon. His usual composed demeanor was replaced by something colder, more deliberate.
"To get your sorry face out of sight," Aamon said, his tone ice-cold, a look on his face that Allesio had never seen before.
"I was the traitor all along," Aamon continued, his voice steady, but his eyes… they told a different story. "I told the masked man about the scroll's location. I ordered the king's killers. It was my plan from the beginning. That soft-hearted king was never meant to rule…"
Every word was like a knife twisting deeper into Allesio's heart. And all of the words were like Tharil's.
"And do you know why your father was killed that day?" Aamon said, his voice tightening. "Because he told me to protect the northern side from an enemy attack. But the truth? There was no attack. I just wanted the palace less guarded. Less obstacles. Less work."
Allesio's fists trembled with rage. Without thinking, he lunged at Aamon, but Aamon countered, punching him hard in the face. Allesio collapsed to the muddy ground. Aamon kicked him, hard.
"Let's move. It's getting late," the masked man said, his tone flat.
Aamon turned his back. "I want you out of this kingdom. I won't let you die here and stain this land with your blood," he said, voice low.
Allesio struggled to his feet, blood trickling from his split lip. His voice cracked as he shouted, "Tell me the truth! Is this all a lie, just to get me out of here?"
Aamon's shoulders tensed. He turned slightly, his voice barely audible. "I'm just repaying the kindness you showed me when we were kids. Get away from here and live a miserable life"
As he turned and walked away beside the masked man and his men, his steps heavy, his shoulders sagged as if he was carrying a mountain of regret.
"This is the only way I can protect you. You'll live, far from this royal mess. I know you'll never stop trying to kill Tharil. But now I'm your enemy. I'll stop you from getting caught in his trap. I'll protect you. And when the time comes, I'll kill that bastard and his accomplices myself." Aamon thought to himself
His hand trembled, and though his face was set in stone, tears shimmered in his eyes—tears he refused to let fall.
In the meantime, Allesio lay on the ground—beaten, broken, weak, and unconscious.
After a while, four people approached him and quietly lifted him away.
He woke up later, lying in a rough bed inside an old hut. The ceiling was low, the walls worn by time. A voice broke the silence.
"Hey, look! He's awake," one of them said.
They were young—just boys, maybe fifteen or sixteen.
"Where am I?" Allesio murmured, his voice hoarse.
"We found you hurt and brought you here. Why were you beaten so badly? Did you get into a fight with someone?" one of them asked, concern evident in his voice.
As Allesio's mind cleared, memories of everything that had happened crashed back. A sharp, stabbing pain shot through his head, and he instinctively grabbed his forehead.
"Are you okay?" the boy asked, stepping closer.
"Yes… I'm fine," Allesio said, though his head still ached.
"Should we inform someone for you?" the boy asked hesitantly.
"Someone?" Allesio gave a bitter smile. "In this cruel world, I'm all alone. I have no one."
The boy's expression softened. "You're like us then," he said quietly.
Allesio looked at him.
"We were abandoned by our parents," the boy continued. "So we live together, as a family."
A flicker of something—a mix of understanding and sadness—passed across Allesio's face.
"I need some more rest," he said quietly, lying back down.
Those four turned out to be exceptional magic users, skilled in stealth and survival. Over time, they learned assassination techniques from Allesio, while Allesio, in turn, picked up new skills from them.
Years passed, and Allesio made countless attempts to kill Tharil, while Aamon tirelessly intervened to protect him. From that point on, a new, twisted relationship was born between them.
Present time…
"Telling you all this now won't change anything," Aamon said, his voice weak, almost breaking. "But I wanted to tell you… before I die."
"What about the masked man?" Allesio asked
"I can't tell you about that" Aamon replied
Allesio stood there, silent. His eyes flickered with unreadable emotions. Was he reflecting on everything? Regretting what he'd done? Or maybe he was trying to figure out a way to save Aamon?
But Aamon, ever perceptive, could read Allesio like an open book.
"Can I ask you a favor?" he whispered.
Allesio's gaze finally met his.
"Before I die… can I see for myself if Aeron is truly worthy to protect you?" Aamon asked, his voice trembling with emotion.
The moment Aeron killed Aamon…
Allesio watched, his heart twisting. Aamon's face seemed to say, "You've found the best friend. Don't lose him."
But what Allesio didn't see in that fleeting expression was the silent plea Aamon carried in his final moments:
"Now I can die in peace, knowing you'll be surrounded by those who care for you. My king, I'm sorry I couldn't fulfill my duty. Please forgive me. And Aeron… I know he's impulsive, arrogant, and closed-off, but his heart is pure. Please take care of him."
Aamon looked one last time at Allesio, his eyes shining with a mix of sorrow and relief, before closing them forever.