Reincarnated as the third son of the Duke

201 Ashes of Krefeld

This war wouldn't end here.

Not after everything.

Erich saw the answer in his silence.

"At least you don't lie," he muttered. "Even a lion has some honor."

He took a slow breath.

"…I sent the women and children west," he said quietly.

"…"

"Leave them out of this."

Sigmund watched him carefully.

Finally, he nodded once.

"I will try."

Erich let out a bitter laugh.

"That's the best you can do?"

Sigmund said nothing.

"Fine," Erich muttered. He raised his sword and pointed it at Sigmund.

"Come, then. Let's finish it."

Sigmund lifted his own blade.

They moved at the same time.

Steel flashed.

A clean, single strike.

It should have ended in an instant.

But it didn't.

Pain exploded through Sigmund's throat.

His sword never fell.

Something was holding him back.

Shadows.

Dark, writhing tendrils had risen from the floor, coiling around his body.

Restraining him.

Holding him in place.

And Erich's blade—weak, clumsy, a strike that never should have landed—cut deep into his neck.

A lethal blow.

Not by skill.

Not by fate.

By something else.

Sigmund gasped, body trembling violently.

A spell.

A trap.

His armor's runes—

They had not reacted.

Not until after the shadows disappeared.

Not until it was too late.

"Father—!"

Tristan reached for him.

Snap—!

A pulse of magic threw him back.

The same armor that had done nothing to stop the attack now activated against him.

Tristan stared.

It let him die.

But not protect him.

His breath shook.

His rage coiled, twisting.

"You bastards."

Erich stumbled back, eyes wide with horror.

"I—it wasn't me!"

"We trusted you."

"Listen to me! It wasn't me!"

No one listened.

No one cared.

Sigmund Hern was dead.

And the only thing left was vengeance.

Tristan rose to his feet, eyes dark with fury.

"No one leaves this city alive."

He lifted his sword.

"Die knowing what you've done."

And Erich's screams were swallowed by the bloodshed.

William closed his eyes in silence as the Emperor finished his explanation.

A storm of emotions churned within him, too tangled to easily unravel. If his father had died in the heat of battle, cut down in the chaos of war or struck by a stray arrow, it would not have unsettled him this much. Such a death, though tragic, was at least befitting of a knight who had taken to the battlefield.

But this?

To fall not in battle, but to perish in an unseen scheme woven by a nameless sorcerer?

Death was often unexpected, but this—this was unacceptable.

Duke Siegmund had earned the right to die as a general, as a knight. He should not have been reduced to a mere pawn sacrificed on someone else's game board.

"…What is my brother doing now?" William asked, shifting the subject away from the tragedy.

The death of their esteemed father would have shaken Tristan just as much—if not more—than himself.

The Emperor hesitated for a brief moment before answering.

"He is still wielding his sword."

William frowned. "You mean the war is still ongoing?"

"No, the war is over. There are no soldiers left."

A dreadful possibility took shape in his mind. "Then…"

"He has been consumed by his rage," the Emperor said. "I could not stop him. And to be honest, I did not want to."

That was all he said, and from the way he shook his head, he clearly had no desire to elaborate further. But William did not need further details. The vague, reluctant response told him everything he needed to know.

A massacre.

The rebellion had been crushed. All that remained were powerless civilians and imperial soldiers brimming with fury.

Krefeld's underhanded tactics had pushed the imperial army to its limits. The men had barely held themselves together, their frustration teetering on the edge of eruption. And now, with Duke Siegmund—one of the most revered figures in the empire—slain, Tristan had pointed them toward a new outlet for their wrath.

William could already imagine the carnage that was unfolding.

He exhaled a long, weary breath, trying to sort through the chaos in his mind.

The war's end. The duke's death. Tristan's vengeance. The massacre. Hern. The Emperor.

Each of them carried weight. Each had the power to shift the course of history. There was no time to grieve, no time to dwell on the pain of loss.

"Your Majesty," William finally said. "I have one question."

"Speak."

"The black tendrils that bound my father—what were they? Are you certain Krefeld was behind it?"

The Emperor's response was slow. "…Who else would it be?"

William did not believe him.

Not even the Emperor himself seemed convinced by his own words.

The rebellion had already been crushed. Krefeld was on the brink of surrender, scrambling to find a way to survive. Would they, in such a desperate situation, waste their final efforts not on the Emperor, but on taking Duke Siegmund down with them?

No.

No ruler, no strategist in their right mind would make such a move.

Someone else had interfered. Not Krefeld. Not the Emperor. Someone else.

But who?

William had no answer, and that was what troubled him the most.

As he fell silent in thought, the Emperor misread his expression. His voice took on a solemn, regretful tone.

"I did not expect them to have magic capable of bypassing rune-based defenses. That's why I gave him the strongest armor in the royal treasury, just in case…"

William nearly scoffed.

So this was the message—he had done his best, and there was no use blaming him.

How absurd.

The Emperor and the royal family were as much to blame as anyone.

The imperial court had spent generations purging sorcerers, hunting them down like vermin. As a result, few remained who truly understood magic. Even the royal family, despite hoarding more arcane knowledge than most, had only scraps of what had once been a vast and deep reservoir of wisdom.

Three centuries had passed since the Empire cast magic aside. Did the Emperor truly expect to understand what had been lost?

Without knowledge, they could not defend against sorcery. Without knowledge, they could not even begin to uncover the one responsible.

And now, Hern had been ensnared in the consequences of the Empire's own ignorance.

Yet William was no reckless fool. He was not about to hurl accusations in blind anger.

"Fate is cruel," he said instead. "Even when a man does everything in his power, the masters may yet decide otherwise."