I Became a Ruined Character in a Dark Fantasy-Chapter 735

Ding... Ding...

The church bells echoed through the hall in steady intervals. It was the signal to the city’s residents that the ceremony would soon begin.

"Polish the mask once more. Be careful not to touch the gold."

"Your Highness. Has Her Imperial Highness not arrived yet? Sir Phaden?"

In the great chamber of the church, its chairs cleared to the sides, priests and attendants hurried about.

"Her Highness requests a few more moments! She is making final preparations!"

This was not merely the appointment of the North’s new ruler. It was an event tied directly to the authority of the royal house, the heavens, and the Great Church itself. Not even the smallest detail could be overlooked.

"P-Please don’t be nervous, High Priestess. Everything will proceed without issue."

"I believe that is something I ought to be saying, Priest Miguel."

Among the bustling figures stood Cherwyn, the Saintess of the Brazier, alongside Miguel, both repeatedly double-checking every detail. Cherwyn was not merely an observer—she would be the one to pour the holy oil upon the new ruler.

"I-It will be fine. I will not spill even a single drop, so please don’t worry, High Priestess." Miguel, tasked with carrying the sacred oil, looked stiff, as though his face had been dipped in wax.

Beside them, adjusting the fall of her ceremonial robes, stood the silver-haired elder.

Thesaya glanced at Miguel with a faintly amused gaze. "If you’re that tense, would you like a drink first? It might at least steady your hands."

"I would, if I’m being honest—... A joke, Elder." Miguel flustered instantly, sneaking a look at Cherwyn before straightening.

Thesaya’s lips curved faintly as she brushed a hand over the braids cascading from her silver hair.

The only one truly at ease was Ian, seated casually on one of the chairs pushed to the side.

His unusually sour expression wasn’t just because of the waiting. With one leg crossed over the other, he scanned the busy hall before slowly lifting his gaze to the ceiling.

Not that I didn’t expect this...

The domed ceiling of the hall rose overhead, covered in sweeping murals. Even to his modern eyes, the artistry was undeniably impressive.

But it’s still ridiculous.

Nearly every element was exaggerated beyond reason.

The two dragons were a prime example. The Platinum Dragon had been painted smaller and weaker than it truly was, while the Corrupted Dragon loomed grotesquely large and ferocious.

Of course, the worst offender wasn’t the dragons.

If you’re going to give me a divine radiance or a halo, at least pick one, not both...

In the painting, he didn’t look human at all—more like a divine envoy.

They had even painted him in full golden plate armor, which he had never once worn. To Ian, it looked as though they had literally mixed gold dust into the pigment.

Was it Gelud’s testimony? Or the chroniclers? The artist? Perhaps all of them.

His eyes followed the sequence of paintings stretching from the antechamber, down the hallway, and into the main hall—a continuous narrative of the battle.

There was no need to elaborate on how thoroughly dramatized each scene was.

"Are you recalling old memories, Agent of the Saint?"

A soft voice drifted from the front.

Ian’s brow twitched as he lowered his gaze. Thesaya, now fully prepared, was walking toward him with measured, dignified steps.

"Well?" Meeting his eyes, she spread her arms slightly in a subtle display.

Ian stared at her for a long moment before finally parting his lips. "You look every bit the elder fairy."

"I was hoping for ‘beautiful,’ but... I’ll take it." She smiled smoothly, then let her gaze sweep over him from head to toe. "You look quite splendid today as well, Agent of the Saint."

"Splendid..."

More like suffocating.

Ian let out a snort.

He was dressed in a pristine white ceremonial robe prepared by the priests. Across its surface, gold thread embroidered rows of symbols representing the Seven Heavenly Goddesses.

Of course, it was stiff and unbearably uncomfortable. Every movement produced a faint rustling sound from the fabric.

"Why? It suits the title ‘Acting Saint.’ You look positively holy," Thesaya stopped beside him and turned slightly, whispering.

Then she tilted her chin upward toward the ceiling again, her lips curling further. "Just like you do in that painting."

"So you came here to mock me." Ian clicked his tongue softly. He had expected this the moment he looked up at the fresco.

"Still, isn’t it remarkable? It looks like it might move at any moment. They weren’t exaggerating when they said they brought in renowned painters from the capital." Thesaya said, still gazing at the ceiling.

This time, there was no teasing in her voice—only genuine admiration.

As Ian answered with a snort, she continued, "They also said it was eerily faithful to what actually happened. Worth people traveling across the Empire to see."

"I can’t believe you’d say that after looking at it," Ian finally said, staring at one recessed section of the domed ceiling.

It depicted the climax of the series—the final scene.

There he stood, foot planted on Tahumrit’s fallen body, driving a blade of light into its heart in heroic triumph.

"You already know I fell and nearly died. General Gelud didn’t even witness that part."

"I know," Thesaya replied easily. "But this version is more impressive, isn’t it?"

She glanced at him sidelong. "Besides, people already believe that’s the truth. That’s what matters, Ian."

"Like the history of your people." He turned his gaze away as he said it.

Diana would have bristled at that remark. Thesaya, however, merely shrugged and lifted her gaze to the ceiling again.

"Soon I’ll be part of this legend as well. Once the civil war ends, they’ll begin another mural."

The anticipation in her voice made Ian exhale sharply.

He hadn’t even seen Mev or Mukapa in days. According to Nasser, the two were locked in fierce debates with the priests over which moments deserved immortalization—so invested they were practically living at the church.

It wasn’t hard to guess that the ceiling fresco had inspired them.

"Maybe I should burn this place down before I leave," he muttered, only to trail off mid-sentence as his gaze shifted.

The door opened, and Seras stepped out from the adjacent hallway.

She wore a violet ceremonial gown embroidered in gold with imperial crests.

"My apologies for the delay. It’s my first time presiding over such a ceremony. I wished to ensure everything was in order," said Seras.

Behind her came Asme and Sir Phaden, equally immaculate in their attire. Asme held up the train of Seras’s gown as they advanced.

Thesaya leaned closer to Ian. "I should go. See you up there."

Ian gave a small nod.

She moved away with dignified steps.

As the most noble of elves present, she would carry the steel circlet beside Seras—a role she had originally been asked to request of Ian.

He had refused, wanting no part in anything beyond observation. Simply breathing in this place seemed to accumulate meaning he never asked for.

I’ll never understand why people enjoy this sort of trouble.

Clicking his tongue inwardly, Ian rose from his seat. He halfheartedly adjusted his sleeves out of courtesy, aware that several priests were stealing glances in his direction.

"Please assemble." The bishop’s voice rang out.

Ian did not recognize the man. The bishop wore a ceremonial metal mask that covered his face up to his lips, with a large golden circle engraved over the front.

It was clearly ritual attire. Whatever it symbolized, Ian had no interest in finding out.

"Priests, this way."

"Mind the spacing, please."

As the attendants hurried through their final checks, the priests formed two orderly lines. Miguel, breathing a little too quickly, took his place beside Cherwyn.

Behind them stood Phaden and Thesaya, composed and ready.

With Asme assisting her steps, Seras turned her head slightly. "Agent of the Saint?"

"I’m coming," Ian answered in a flat tone as he walked.

He clicked his tongue inwardly. Though merely an observer, he had been positioned at the very rear of the procession, standing side by side with Seras.

It meant his visible support of Utrid carried nearly as much weight as the princess presiding over the rite.

"We will proceed."

Between the steady tolling of the bells, the bishop’s voice rang out.

Attendants, including Asme, hurriedly withdrew to the sides. The procession began to advance.

Rumble—

At the far end of the long hallway, the heavy church doors swung open.

The noise of the gathered crowd in the plaza surged in, suddenly sharp and overwhelming. Beyond the gates stood a tall, extended platform erected for the ceremony.

"You’ll need to stand just behind my left, Agent of the Saint," Seras whispered as they walked.

Ian nodded without looking at her. "I know. Don’t worry."

As he stepped forward, memories from the past several days passed through his mind.

He had deliberately avoided staging anything resembling a grand speech before the citizens.

Instead, he had simply visited tavern after tavern each day, drinking heavily and mingling with everyone. He had not hesitated to spout crude remarks—declaring openly that he supported the next archduke, and that anyone who dared raise rebellion would have their skull crushed by his hand.

Every word had been intentional.

At this point, their sense of distance or fantasy about me should’ve faded a bit.

He wanted the people of Travelga to see him less as a sovereign of the North and more as a chieftain of the snowfield barbarians.

The fact that those who once couldn’t even meet his eyes now laughed and spoke to him freely suggested it had worked.

However, that wasn’t the only reason he felt at ease.

Harald’s been too busy with the coronation, and Olaf's family has been too busy blaming each other...

His gaze flicked past Cherwyn walking ahead of Thesaya, then briefly toward Seras at his side.

And these two have been focused solely on securing their own means of influence over the North.

Torvien had faithfully carried out his secret orders even amid all this. Thanks to that, Ian had learned nearly everything happening within the castle.

Since not even the smallest trace had surfaced, it was unlikely that the faction he was wary of had attempted any backroom maneuvering.

They had given up on making him king, and instead, they had chosen to gain control of the North indirectly.

In that sense, all his prior efforts had borne fruit. He had managed to eliminate every foreseeable variable.

Step, step...

By then, those who had ascended the stairs behind the platform were dispersing neatly to either side.

Ian climbed the steps alongside Seras and soon stepped onto the platform.

A roar erupted.

"They’ve come!"

"The demigod!"

The cries were not for Seras.

Without blinking, Ian let his gaze sweep across the sea of people filling the plaza and spilling into the streets beyond.

This is on a different scale.

Whether due to the city guard and barbarians standing together or nobles and citizens from other cities coming to witness the event, the sheer number was staggering.

The only space in the plaza was the path carved out by two long lines of armed soldiers.

That path began at the foot of the platform’s central staircase and extended far into the distance—ending at two massive Brazier carriages standing side by side.

Fwoosh—

Beneath the blazing sacred flames of the braziers stood the ember priests, forming a circle with torches of sacred fire raised in their hands.

At the center of that ring stood Utrid, draped in a fur cloak. His stiff expression was no doubt from tension.

Ding... ding...

Ian took in the sight as he walked, then came to a stop at the center of the platform—just as mentioned earlier, slightly behind and to the left of Seras.

To her right stood Thesaya, holding the steel circlet atop a folded crimson cloth with both hands. Beside her were Cherwyn and Miguel.

Ian, of course, didn’t spare them a glance. His gaze swept the area directly below the platform.

In front, encircled by soldiers, stood the ducal family with hardened expressions, along with the city’s gathered nobility.

His eyes passed over Harald, Gelud, Torvien, and the other commanders, then stopped.

Harder to see their faces in the city than on the battlefield.

Mev stood there in full plate armor. Beside her kneeled Mukapa and Nasser, along with several centurions.

Mev met his eyes and gave a small nod. The faint smile on her lips was likely because she’d caught the slight twitch of his eyebrow.

Ding!

The bell rang out once more, louder than before—enough to silence the restless murmuring across the plaza in an instant.

"All present, be silent and stand in proper decorum!"

A resonant voice carried from the left side of the platform.

The bishop stood several steps forward, his right arm raised. "Under the authority of Her Imperial Highness Seras Astrea, second daughter of His Most Noble and Exalted Majesty and the brightest star of the Imperial Capital—"

His arm swept outward. "In her presence, a new ruler of the North shall be born on this day."

No sooner had he finished than the bells resounded again, grand and solemn. When the bishop lowered his hand and the tolling faded, silence fell over the plaza.

Seras, who had been gazing into the distance, opened her mouth. "The chosen shall walk the path of oath and receive the destiny bestowed by the Heavens."

The eyes of the crowd, along with Ian’s, shifted to where she looked.

Moments later, the ember priests who had stood in a circle between the two brazier carriages began walking forward in two orderly lines, lifting their torches reverently above their heads.

The Saintess truly went all out.

It was enough to make one corner of Ian’s mouth curl faintly.

Perhaps, as in Hope City, they intended to erect a permanent brazier somewhere in Travelga as well.

Utrid stepped out last from between the carriages. He followed slowly behind the priests who seemed to guide his path.

However, his steps did not continue for long. He came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the path—barely halfway forward.

Ian’s eyes twitched.

In front of him, Seras’s shoulders stiffened.

A sharp intake of breath rippled among the observers—Thesaya included.

"What?"

"Why did he—"

Whispers and stifled gasps began spreading through the plaza as people sensed something amiss.

The ember priests who had moved ahead also turned back toward Utrid, who now stood some distance behind them.

Despite every gaze fixed upon him, Utrid did not move.

Head slightly lowered, he stood rooted in place, as though nailed to the ground.

The bishop, glancing nervously at Seras, called out in a strained voice. "W-Walk the path!"

"No!" Utrid’s reply came at once.

His cloaked shoulders rose and fell once as if steadying his breath.

Then he lifted his head and looked up at the platform.

"I will not walk this path."