Chapter 503: Kron, the Disillusioned II

CH503 Kron, the Disillusioned II

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"Child, do you want to go into the temple?"

The voice came from behind him.

Kron stiffened.

He turned and saw an old priest approaching—genial-looking, smiling softly, his steps calm and measured.

Yet the moment the man drew close, Kron’s pupils tightened.

A crushing presence of divine energy washed over him like a tide, a bit overwhelming.

His heart skipped a beat.

’A Bishop...!’

A bishop’s divine energy could rival—sometimes even surpass—that of a Combat Master.

Kron immediately lowered his head and shook it.

"I am not worthy."

The old priest chuckled warmly.

"Indeed. We are all unworthy," he said gently, "and yet our Lord sends forth His grace to all who embrace the light and justice."

He stepped closer, smile widening.

"Come, child. Let the light of our Lord Juror bask through you."

Before Kron could properly refuse, the old man reached out and took his arm—firmly, almost forcefully.

He wasn’t asking... he was guiding.

No- dragging.

And just like that, Kron was pulled into the Grand Cathedral.

At first, Kron’s mind raced.

He thought he’d been found out.

That the bishop had sensed the crack.

That he was about to be exposed as a heretic and cleansed on the spot.

But as the minutes passed, he realised something else.

That wasn’t it.

The bishop hadn’t noticed anything.

Kron was led into a worship session and made to join the congregation.

He stood amongst kneeling bodies and bowed heads, surrounded by voices chanting prayers with desperate devotion.

And to his own surprise, he didn’t feel fear.

He felt... disdain.

A cold, simmering contempt as he watched them throw themselves into belief...

Belief in a false deity.

A deity who couldn’t even realise a heretic had entered its house of worship.

Crack~~! Shatter~~!

In that instant of... clarity, Kron heard it.

A sharp fracture inside his mind.

His already cracked link to Juror finally shattered completely.

Kron’s face drained of colour.

Cold horror seized his chest as some harrowing thoughts slammed into his head.

’I’ve been exposed. They’ll know.’

’Inquisition!’

But nothing happened.

No holy light descended. Not even a clergy turned to stare.

No divine wrath surged through his veins.

Instead, Eleanore’s enchantment continued to function flawlessly.

It wrapped around the absence where Juror’s link used to be, imitating it so perfectly that it gave the illusion that everything was still intact.

That Kron Belloc was still a believer.

A weak one, perhaps... But a believer nonetheless.

And that truth only deepened the rot inside Kron.

It cemented Juror’s inequity into his heart, and strangely... it also sparked something else.

A grim determination.

A desire to rid his family of this false worship, no matter the cost.

The old clergyman had dragged Kron into the cathedral hoping to save a lost soul.

But what walked out was a soul that wanted to be as far from the temple—and its deity—as possible.

Kron left the cathedral behind and made his way towards Belloc Castle, built into the forest at the rear of Ostmont City.

As he entered the treeline and the road bent into the familiar curve of his childhood, his steps slowed.

The castle emerged from the greenery like a memory given form.

A relic of his family’s heyday.

And the moment he saw it, Kron couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed.

A gentle familiarity washed over him as he followed the path that curved exactly as he remembered.

But as the castle drew closer, so did the silent weight it carried.

Not just history... But its current reality.

From a distance, it looked pristine— Immaculate, even.

Clean stone walls, bright banners... A fortress kept polished and proud, as though its owners had never fallen.

Yet, much like the cathedral—much like Juror’s illusion of godhood—the illusion of grandeur began to fade the closer Kron came.

The outer gates stood wide open.

Of course they did.

No one dared attack, not with the troops stationed there.

’Those troops...’ Kron’s eyes narrowed. ’They aren’t wearing House Belloc’s colours.

No— Dressed in fine-quality armour and disciplined formations, the guards at the gates bore the colours of the Holy Lumeria Empire’s Imperial Guard.

Even here...

Even at the gates of what should have been his family’s home...

The Imperial Guards looked at him with practised indifference, even after he introduced himself as a scion of House Belloc.

There was no glad welcome in their eyes.

No recognition nor warmth.

Only quiet professionalism... and a cold, practised assessment of threat.

Only after Kron was judged as ’not a threat’ did the guards finally allow him entry.

As he stepped through the gates after that hollow welcome—after his boot met the carved stone ground—Kron’s eyes couldn’t help turning misty.

Not because he was happy... But because he noticed the details he hadn’t seen from afar.

The path beneath him was wide enough for grand carriages and marching columns of knights.

A road built for a House that once received powerful guests as equals from far and wide.

Now, though...

Now, It felt too wide... Too grand.

Like the stone itself had been built for footsteps that no longer walked here.

Kron’s gaze shifted from the carved path to the greenery beside it.

The lawns were trimmed and the hedges were cut into neat lines.

Even the fountain still ran, steadily spilling clean, clear water—whispering the same soothing song it once had in his childhood.

Yet beneath that beauty, Kron saw another truth.

The flowers and greens were fresh and vibrant, yes... But their arrangement didn’t evoke warmth.

It didn’t carry the pride of a noble House’s garden.

Instead, it felt... staged.

Maintained not out of love, but out of obligation.

A performance... A façade.

Kron’s mood sank further as his eyes turned to the statues of past Heads of House Belloc—especially the ones who had led the family into its golden age.

They still watched over the courtyard with the same stern gazes as before.

But those gazes, once filled with pride... now seemed to weep.

Even though the statues themselves were well-kept, the plaques beneath them—the names, the deeds, the history of House Belloc—had been left to dull beneath a thin layer of dust.

Neglected, they slowly faded, as though the family’s own legacy was being erased one grain at a time.

Kron swallowed.

His eyes burned as they rose to the castle itself... and to its banners.

House Belloc’s crest still hung there.

But it wasn’t at the centre.

Not where it belonged.

The Imperial banner claimed the highest, central pole. Bright, spotless and seemingly untouched by time.

While his family’s banners looked shabbier in comparison—forced to flank the Imperial colours like attendants in their own home.

He finally reached the grand doors of the castle mansion itself, and his footsteps came to an abrupt halt.

The doors were freshly polished.

The stonework beside them was maintained with delicate care.

It didn’t look like the residence of a House that had fallen... but like a legacy preserved at its peak.

Yet all Kron felt as he stared at it... was a heavy, quiet sadness.

’Back then, I was grateful to the Imperial family for supporting our House,’ he thought.

’I believed Father made all the right decisions.’

His jaw tightened.

’But now I can see it clearly... that couldn’t be further from the truth.’

’Yes, House Belloc hasn’t fallen into complete ruin.’

’It has been preserved.’

His eyes darkened.

’But preserved for who?’

’Certainly not for itself...’

Kron’s hand clenched so tightly his nails threatened to cut into his palm.

’Indeed... our castle... our House... has not been preserved for House Belloc.’

’It has been preserved for what it represents to those in power.’

’This is nothing more than a performance. A stage play.’

’A convenient pawn kept standing.’

’And the moment our usefulness expires, all of this...

’All of this will vanish, just like the illusion it is.’

BANG!

The grand doors suddenly swung open.

Kron flinched slightly, his thoughts snapping apart.

Behind them stood a familiar face.

The castle’s butler.

Older now, his hair greyed with time, yet his posture remained straight as a blade.

"Young Master Kron... you are finally back." The man bowed deeply.

Then he stepped aside and gestured inward with one hand.

"Please come inside, Young Master. I instructed the maids to keep your room attended to."

His voice softened.

"Welcome home."

’Home...?’

The word echoed faintly in Kron’s mind.

Beyond the doors, the atrium-styled hall looked exactly as he remembered.

The décor, its symmetry, the scent of polished wood and old stone.

It indeed looked like home.

But after everything he had seen on his way here... Kron Belloc could no longer bring himself to believe it.

Still...

Whatever awaited him inside, he couldn’t face it standing outside these doors.

So he stepped forward...

And crossed the threshold.

Kron Belloc had left home a naïve youth, blinded to the true face of the world...

But he returned, now older... wiser...

And far more disillusioned by its ugly realities.

***