The Grand Duke's Son Is A Heretic - Chapter 390

389: 389 389: 389 A woman stepped through the entrance.

Her hair was purple, bright and smooth, swaying softly behind her back like silk in the wind.

She wore a purple floral dress, simple yet elegant, each fold flowing gently as she walked.

A thin band of flowers rested on her head, tucked neatly into her hair.

The colors matched so perfectly that she looked as though she had walked out of a painting.

Every step carried grace, every movement drew the eye.

For a moment the entire place fell silent.

“Wh… who is she?” someone in the crowd whispered, their eyes wide.

“Yes, who is she?” another muttered, leaning forward as if afraid to miss the sight.

“From her attire, she looks like a noble.

But… I have never seen such a fine lady before.” The arena was filled with people, most of them commoners.

But these were no ordinary poor folk.

Living in the capital city meant they had wealth, connections, and some even held ties with nobles.

They had seen many faces of high society, yet this woman felt different.

It was then a voice trembled from the stands.

“No… I remember…” “Yes, she looks a bit familiar,” another spoke, clutching his chest as if his heart was being pulled.

“My heart is beating faster,” one man admitted in awe.

And then the name slipped out.

“Wait… she looks like the Flower of Heizen?” Gasps rippled through the crowd.

“But the Flower of Heizen… hasn’t she already wilted?” “No… no, look.

Look at her face… her smile… it’s her!” “Look behind her!” someone screamed suddenly.

The eyes of the crowd shifted.

Walking behind the woman were two towering figures, men of great renown whose presence could never be hidden.

“That’s Duke Veydrin… and Duke Salvatore…” The realization struck like thunder.

“Then…” A heartbeat of silence lingered.

And then came huge roar.

“IT’S HERRRRRRR!” The entire arena erupted.

Voices thundered like a storm as the name spread.

Men leapt from their seats, unable to contain their excitement.

Women stared with wide eyes, whispering among themselves.

“Wooooaaaahhhh!” “She’s alive!” “It’s her!” The air shook with the cries of thousands.

To many, Emilia had been their first love.

The Flower of Heizen was the dream of their youth, the noble lady they admired from afar.

When her health failed and she disappeared from public life, countless hearts had sunk into despair.

Some even carried her absence as a wound that never healed.

But now she was here.

She looked alive,glorious and radiant.

Her presence alone seemed to bring warmth to the cold arena.

Even one of the great screens, meant to show the battles, turned toward her.

Emilia paused, startled when she saw herself displayed above the entire stadium.

For a moment she froze, with the shock evident on her face.

But habit and memory soon returned.

Once, she had been the queen of the social scene, the jewel of every gathering.

With that same grace, she lifted her hand and gave a gentle wave, her smile radiant and full of warmth.

The smile was infectious, almost too much to bear.

A few men in the stands even fainted on the spot.

“DAMN!” someone shouted.

“Don’t grab me.

I’ll kill these people…” Luke snarled, his hand tightening on his sword.

But a cold voice cut across the noise.

“Who stopped you?

You can do what you want.” Luke looked down, seeing Ruth standing a little away.

Her calm eyes silenced him.

He gritted his teeth and sheathed his blade.

…

At the high seat, Ramos slammed his hand against the armrest.

His voice echoed with anger.

“Was there a need to cause this ruckus?” Emilia, hearing his words, sat quietly in her seat.

A soft expression of hurt crossed her face, like a child being scolded unfairly.

The sight made Ramos choke on his own words.

“I only meant you could have entered through the hidden passage,” he said more gently.

Emilia shook her head.

“That would not have had the same effect.

Everyone should know where those children inherited their looks and their brilliance.” Her words made Ramos falter.

He stared at her, and memories stirred.

He remembered how Emilia used to be before her life was poisoned, how she had been playful, lively, and sometimes even childish.

The woman before him was the same, but more.

She carried the grace of maturity and the strength of someone who had suffered yet endured.

Sighing, Ramos asked softly, “Are you well enough to be here?

What if your symptoms return?” Emilia’s lips curved into a smile, her eyes shining with quiet pride.

“I am perfectly fine.

In fact, I feel better than ever.

The medicine is wonderful.

And as for coming here…” She looked at the great screen, where the battles still raged.

Her voice softened but carried strength.

“As a mother, how could I miss such an important moment in my children’s lives?” The words fell into the silence, and for a brief moment even the chaos of the arena seemed to pause.

…….

“She is as graceful as ever, isn’t she?” A faint smile touched Edward’s lips as his eyes rested on Emilia’s figure.

“Despite all those years of despair, her beauty was never destroyed,” Pleiard whispered, his voice holding quiet respect.

“Instead, it grew stronger, as if suffering shaped her even more.” His mind drifted back to the past.

He remembered the day he and the Emperor were young, uncertain of their path.

Nothing seemed to go right.

Then, a little girl climbed out from the bushes with dirt on her knees.

She offered them a small flower and spoke words that struck their hearts.

“If you cannot believe in yourself, then how can you expect others to believe in you?” That moment had stayed with him.

Pleard’s eyes softened at the memory.

“Haaa… childhood,” Edward said, his voice quiet, heavy with thought.

“For some, it is the best memory.

For others, it is the worst.” He sighed, then turned his gaze back to the large screen in front of them.

Another battle raged there, filled with chaos and blood.

It was the screen showing Roosevelt’s side.

The sound of steel and death echoed through the arena.

FUWWN!

CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

Swords clashed with deafening force.

Each strike shook the ground and tore through the air like thunder.

A figure dashed through the battlefield, moving like a storm, cutting demons apart without pause.

But the true sight belonged to the elves.

Their magic filled the air like a storm of colors.

Bolts of fire rushed from their hands, burning demons until their bodies crumbled into ash.

Blades of wind spun across the ground, slicing legs and arms clean away.

From above, spears of light fell like rain, piercing through the demons with deadly force.

Ice bloomed across the battlefield, freezing whole groups into statues before they shattered into pieces.

The air was filled with the roar of demons and the hum of magic.

The ground shook under the weight of the spells.

Smoke, fire, and blood mixed together until it felt like the whole world was burning.

Yet even with all that power, the demons did not break easily.

Some pushed forward, their bodies smoking, torn, yet refusing to fall.

They pushed through fire and wind, forcing their way toward the elves.

The formation of the elves trembled.

Fear flickered in their eyes as claws and fangs came close enough to taste blood.

Then, in the midst of despair, a single flash of steel tore through the darkness.

SHIIING!

His blade cut in a clean arc, drawing a glowing line across the earth.

That line carried death itself.

Demons fell apart before they even realized they had been struck.

Torsos slid from legs, heads rolled on the ground, and blood burst into the air like fountains.

The earth split open beneath his strike, leaving a deep scar across the battlefield.

The demons howled, but their voices were short-lived.

Roosevelt moved like a shadow, each swing tearing apart another horde.

His strikes were brutal, merciless, and absolute.

The upper halves of bodies fell, crashing into the dirt, their faces twisted in disbelief as life slipped away.

Moments later, the chaos subsided.

The elves and Roosevelt’s team stood among piles of corpses.

They had overpowered the demons and left none standing.

Roosevelt took one slow breath and swung his sword to the side.

Blood sprayed off the blade before he slid it back into its sheath with a sharp swish.

As he steadied himself, a figure landed beside him.

She moved with grace, her green hair flowing like leaves in the wind.

An elf of ancient nobility stood next to him.

“Human,” she said softly, her voice calm yet strong.

“You fight well.” Roosevelt smiled faintly and gave her a respectful nod.

“Hearing praise from an ancient elf feels greater than any victory.

But I still have a long way to go.” The elf studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes seeming to look past his body and into his heart.

“Yes, you do,” she said.

“But I can see it.

Your heart is calm and steady.

It does not waver.

That is the mark of a true warrior.” Her voice grew heavier, carrying a warning.

“Do not lose yourself when the path grows hard.

Life will put you in moments where greed and despair cloud your mind.

You may stumble.

You may fall.

But if you can shake it off and stand again, you will always reach the place you are meant to stand.” Roosevelt’s eyes widened as he listened.

Then he lowered his head, bowing deeply.

“Thank you for your guidance, Ma’am.” The elf gave one last nod.

Her body shimmered before turning into glowing stardust that floated away into the sky.

Roosevelt watched, surprised, then let out a long breath.

His expression grew somber as the silence of the battlefield pressed around him.

“I wonder what my siblings are doing right now,” he muttered to himself.

His hand rested on the hilt of his sword.

“I wonder how I would feel if one day I had to face them across the battlefield.” A bitter smile touched his lips as he looked out toward the distant horizon.

“That would be… interesting.”