After a moment, the old man finally responded. He slowly lifted the quilt, moved to the edge of the bed, and stared directly at the big Bishop.
"If you're stuck in this cursed place, can you even eat?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse as if choked by something. "Six months—six months trapped here, with no word... What happened to my son? Where's my daughter?" Meen noticed the walls were riddled with indentations, clearly clawed by nails. Was this how they counted the days?
He moved a stool and sat facing the King. "Do you insist on asking these unpleasant questions?" "..." The man fell silent for a moment. "I'm of no use now. Are you here to see me off?" "Yes." "Then why should a dying man care about pleasure or displeasure? Before I die, I only want to know their fate!" By the time he finished, Wemberton's voice had grown almost a growl.
In the end, he could not resist, thought Mayn. After all, as the King, his dignity and bearing were already impeccable. During the transfer from the Pious to Hermes, he repeatedly tried to escape. Even in captivity, he did not succumb to madness but sought to negotiate for freedom. No curses, no hysterical screams—such behavior was rare in the prison's mechanisms. If the plan couldn't be altered, he truly didn't want to waste such a person on internal intrigues.
Perhaps he came in person to inform him of recent developments, Bishop thought. Otherwise, a single order would have the Inquisition Army take his life.
"Your eldest son, Goron Wimberton has died," Meen spoke slowly. "Your second son Tefiko Wimberton was sentenced to death for treason and regicide. Your third daughter Jasia Wimberton declared independence in the South, styling herself 'Queen of the Emerald Waters,' making war with Tefiko inevitable. As for your fourth son and fifth daughter, we've heard little. Perhaps... they're still alive." "What do you mean by treason? Independence? What exactly did you do?" "The Royal Decree," he said in measured tones, "divided your children across territories, declaring whoever governed best would become the next King." Wimberton closed his eyes in agony. After a long pause, he whispered, "Why? You attacked during the Day of Prayer, dragged me into a cell, stripped me naked... and cast God's Stone. You replaced me with a witch, when you could have slowly taken control of this land, letting churches rise in every town. Why issue such a decree? I... I couldn't possibly... cough." As he spoke, Wimberton hunched over, coughing violently.
"I could never issue such a decree that would incite children to slaughter each other," said Men, mentally completing the King's sentence. "Perhaps you wouldn't, but your children may not act as you wish. They grow up with their own thoughts. Take your third daughter, Giasia—for instance. She obtained Port of Clearwater five years ago. Would she remain passive while Goron ascended the throne without a royal decree, or even after your natural demise? Most importantly, we don't have time to deliberate. You must realize that witches' power is not eternal." "Damn it! What good would it do to the Church if they fought among themselves? The Church would be engulfed in flames, believers would perish in war, and the kingdom would descend into chaos..." At this point, Wimbledton suddenly froze, his head raised in disbelief. "Do you... want to—?" A violent cough interrupted the King's words. After recovering, his voice became as thin as a thread, as if the cough had drained all his strength. "You... want to destroy the royal house." "Exactly, but more precisely, the monarchy itself." Men couldn't help but admire the King's sharp judgment. Having spent nearly six months in this dark dungeon, those who hadn't lost their faith could be counted on one hand. "Monarchy would hinder the Church's development. No matter how weak it is, it will always grow like a sapling." Only by uprooting it completely can the Church truly attain this kingdom. '...' God at Wimbledon looked much older all at once. Perhaps he had only appeared aged before, but now even his divine essence had faded, and the light in his eyes had dimmed.
Graycastle, the largest territory in the continental realm, boasts a vast military force. A direct confrontation would prove disastrous for the Church. We've been preparing for this for years. Your kingdom will inevitably lose countless warriors and mercenaries in the civil war. If this conflict drags on for two to three years, our Inquisition Army could easily conquer the entire Graycastle. Don't be too disheartened—the fallen monarchs aren't just yours; the other three kingdoms face the same fate. The continent will no longer be divided into four major kingdoms: Dawn, Wolfheart, Eternal Winter, and Graycastle. This fertile land will belong to only one regime: the Church." Wemberton fell silent. The man who seized the throne from his brother through force now seemed lifeless. Even Main felt a pang of sympathy, though he harbored no regrets. The Church had also paid a heavy price—numerous devoted followers willingly became pawns, throwing themselves into this grand scheme without hesitation.
The protagonist of King Wimbledon III is a devout judge from the Inquisition Army, a man of unshakable faith and unwavering loyalty to the Church. He was destined to undergo the divine transformation ritual of God's punishment. Yet, for the sake of his mission, he was replaced by a witch in the guise of the King and met a death devoid of honor in the royal palace of Graycastle. Though he could have had his name inscribed on the monument of Hermes Church, the Church now can only bury his name eternally.
Just as he thought Wemberton would be silent, Maine pulled out a small porcelain bottle from his robe. When he was about to offer it, the man suddenly spoke: "Curses..." "What?" "I curse you... I'll wait for you in the depths of hell." His voice faded into silence, and Maine had to strain his hearing to catch every word.
"Sadly, this world has no hell. Even if it exists, it does not belong to us. All we do is to preserve continuity. Only by unifying the four nations can the Church rally its greatest strength to defeat the true enemy. Otherwise..." The Bishop paused here, noticing Wimberton's hand slipping weakly, his head tilting sideways, and the rhythm of his chest completely still.
This is the end of a king, but a fresh beginning for us, he thought.
Mein tucked the porcelain vase into his robe and rose to leave. Pushing open the wooden door, he found the corridor eerily silent, as if the wails and groans had never occurred. He gave a few orders to the Inquisition Army warriors stationed at the doorway before walking out of the compound without a backward glance.