12 O'Clock Marionette-Chapter 76

I pressed my lips together tightly, holding back for a moment before finally asking Cruello.

“Am I… weird?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

What kind of vague answer was that?

Was he still holding a grudge over my "I would have gone" comment earlier?

I frowned and reprimanded him out of habit.

“‘I wouldn’t say that’? You need to give a straight answer.”

“But just now, darling said the same thi—”

Cruello’s eyes suddenly widened.

His pupils dilated like those of a nocturnal predator as he stared at me.

…What’s with him?

“…No. Hold on. Hm. I really need to stop doing this.”

He rubbed his face a few times with his large hand, then quickly returned to his usual composed expression, as if nothing had happened.

I had no idea what went through his mind just now.

I gave up trying to figure him out.

“Ah, so this is going to trial. Should I find a lawyer?”

“If it goes to trial, it’s a death sentence.”

“…Huh?”

“If a dark mage is involved, it automatically becomes an ecclesiastical trial. And in an ecclesiastical trial, the defendant’s right to speak is practically nonexistent. You only get one chance to speak.”

Cruello rose from his seat, looming over me with an air of authority.

Then, with solemn formality, he spoke.

“Siora Bonetti, do you confess to your crimes?”

So that’s all I’d be allowed to answer—Yes or No?

“Wow. That’s so narrow-minded.”

“Think back to Recanon. You were locked up and interrogated, but did you ever get a single chance to defend yourself?”

“…No helping it, then. We’ll have to hold the trial somewhere else.”

“Hm?”

“Somewhere with a lot of people. And somewhere the temple will have trouble intervening.”

I quickly outlined a rough plan in my head.

Suppressing the urge to rest, I got up from my seat.

Then, stretching my hand out to Cruello, I said:

“For now, let’s get moving.”

I needed to wrap this up quickly and sleep like the dead.

***

Julian had always been someone people admired.

As the future Marquis of Minerva, he had everything—looks, intellect, wealth, ability.

As a child, he had pretended to be humble when praised, but deep down, he had always been filled with pride.

Until he realized it was all an illusion.

"You can’t see what’s right beside you once you’re caught up in a bias."

"Did it never occur to you that the person you underestimated might actually be better than you?"

"What kind of mage are you trying to be with such a narrow mind?"

Those words had stung far worse than the wound on his neck.

It burned inside him—but he couldn’t deny it.

Julian had never once reconsidered a judgment he had made.

Except for one forced moment when his entire perspective had been turned upside down.

“Damn it.”

He sometimes wondered—

If Cruello White Desert had never entered the academy, would things have been different?

At the most sensitive stage of his youth, the talent that had once made him revered by others had turned into nothing more than a flickering firefly in the presence of the sun.

For the first time in his life, he had learned what it meant to lose.

No matter how much he struggled to win, it had been useless.

Eventually, despair had swallowed him whole.

"Cruello’s talent is beyond measure. That’s not something to envy."

"Centuries of effort went into creating that monster. You can’t beat him through normal means."

"And yet, you still want to catch up to him? Ha, you’re quite greedy. Fine, I’ll lend you a little help."

"If you use a loophole, you might have a chance."

"Though, that loophole comes at a price. A rather steep one. But surely, you can handle a simple errand or two, right?"

The scent of despair had lured in the snake.

Having never stumbled before, Julian had been far too easy to ensnare.

And so, he had wound up here, no better than a chained beast.

Julian touched his throat.

He couldn’t feel anything unusual—

But he knew what was inside.

A fragment of the chain.

He had no idea what purpose it served.

But that woman would never have just let him go.

He couldn’t even turn to the Elder Council for help.

They wouldn’t truly aid him.

The one who had summoned him here was likely waiting for the day he died.

In the end, all he could do was hole up in this hidden place, nursing his wounds and waiting for his enemy to strike first.

Julian suddenly lifted his head.

His gaze turned toward the corner of the room—

Dark, unlit, pitch-black.

But he knew there was someone buried within that shadow.

“…How did you know I was here?”

Julian staggered to his feet.

From the darkness, a pair of glowing red eyes stared at him.

“Ah, I see. The chain fragment you stuck in my neck told you, didn’t it? How useful.”

He sneered openly.

There was no point in groveling—he was already a dead man.

"Yeah, I made a huge mistake. No way the great Duke would carry a useless pawn around, huh?"

Cruello stepped out of the darkness with a quiet smile.

And in that moment, Julian felt an invisible weight crash down on his shoulders—

Forcing him onto his knees.

He tried to resist, but injured as he was, he couldn’t even pretend to hold his ground.

Step. Step.

The sound of polished shoes clicked against the floor, drawing closer.

"You judge people based on their usefulness… because you see yourself as a tool, don’t you, Julian?"

Grit.

"If that’s the case—"

Cruello’s voice dropped to a whisper.

"You’re a pretty pathetic tool."

Julian glared up at him, eyes bloodshot with rage.

But no matter how much he seethed—

His trembling hands gave him away.

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To be honest, deep down—he was afraid too.

Is this how I die? Here, like this?

He had thought he was prepared, but maybe he had fallen short.

The sudden surge of turmoil inside him was impossible to suppress.

And then—

Julian’s eyes caught something.

Something familiar.

“…That sword.”

His gaze locked onto Cruello’s waist.

Hanging there, without a doubt—was Daedire Crimson’s sword.

Why was that there?

“Don’t tell me… Daedire—”

“Can’t you consider a simpler explanation? That Sir Crimson gave it to me?”

…What?

Julian’s eyes wavered violently.

“To be precise, it was a gift to my fiancée.”

“…How—?”

“Indeed. Why would Sir Crimson part with a sword he cherished so much?”

Julian stood frozen, mouth agape.

That doubt—it had crossed his mind before.

Was Daedire Crimson truly oblivious?

Was he imagining things when those occasional glances felt off?

And just yesterday—

Was it really a coincidence that he appeared there at that moment?

All the questions he had ignored, choosing to turn away from them every time—

This was his answer.

It was as if someone had struck him across the back of the head. His mind buzzed, numbed.

“I hear he felt quite guilty,” Cruello mused. “Seems he finally realized what a nuisance you’ve been making of yourself.”

“Daedire…”

“Why did you even choose to cooperate with the Elder Council in the first place?”

Cruello’s voice was indifferent, almost bored—but with a touch of curiosity.

That snapped Julian back to his senses.

Why?

Why had he become their hunting dog?

Because of the noose around his neck.

And the one who had tightened it was standing right before him.

Mana flared around Julian as he forced off the suffocating pressure and staggered back.

His trembling hand dug into his coat—grasping something inside his pocket.

A small pouch.

Inside—

White granules.

If raw talent alone wasn’t enough, then he would have to use shortcuts.

And the shortcut that had been offered to him was Beatitudo.

Yes.

To go up against the monster before him—he needed this.

“Using it by hand has its limits. Three grams, at most. And even that’s so unstable it could make you explode.”

“…Then…”

“The best way is to consume it and build it up over time.”

Julian grabbed a fistful of Beatitudo, raising it to his lips as if to swallow it whole.

Yet—

His lips wouldn’t part.

Just like every other time since the moment he had first been tempted.

Just like every other time since he had first held this cursed substance.

Cruello watched, arms folded, before speaking—his voice measured, unhurried.

“When I first learned about Beatitudo, I found it rather odd. With such an easy way to amplify power, why wouldn’t the cultists use it?”

He casually pulled out a cigarette, clipped the tip, and placed it between his lips.

“Even Ares, who clings to survival, even Qudil, who loves underhanded tricks, even the power-hungry cultists scrambling for Elder positions—not one of them touched it.”

With a flick of his fingers, a tiny red ember flared to life, setting the cigarette alight.

The room was soon filled with a hazy white smoke.

Julian barely even noticed the acrid sting in his lungs.

“If it’s just because it’s hard to control, then why not use it in tiny doses?”

Cruello took a step closer.

“The answer was in the temple’s research logs. The side effects are unique to each person. Some explode from the energy overload, some have their personalities rewritten entirely, some suffer irreversible brain damage. Supposedly, if your mental resilience is extremely strong, you might avoid those consequences.”

Another step.

Now only a pace and a half apart, Cruello stopped.

“But one side effect was common across every test subject. Once you take it, you lose the ability to grow on your own.”

Julian swallowed dryly.

Of course. It makes sense, the Duke murmured, his voice almost idle.

“When oil is mixed with water, the oil floats to the top. If the entryway for new energy is sealed off—then for a mage, that’s the end.”

“…”

“You should never have touched it.”

Right?

The question was calm, but there was something slightly irritated in Cruello’s tone. A faint crease had formed between his brows.

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But it wasn’t directed at Julian.

“Yet you haven’t used it.”

Cruello’s voice softened, almost like a whisper.

“Because of your pride?”

The words hit dead on.

It was fear, yes.

But more than that—

To admit that he could only beat Cruello by relying on something like this…

That felt like conceding defeat before the fight even began.

And so, Julian had put it off.

Again and again.

Even now, at the brink of ruin, he couldn’t bring himself to take it.

Maybe, deep down—he never could have.

Cruello let out a quiet, mocking laugh.

“Well. At least your miserable pride is worth something.”

“…Shut up.”

“Then why keep groveling at their feet?”

“….”

“Errand boy. A pawn’s pawn. A pathetic little insect no one even notices unless they choose to stomp on it. Do you enjoy being treated like that?”

Cruello exhaled, then flicked his cigarette onto the floor.

A sharp crunch echoed through the room as he ground it under his shoe.

“Julian.”

His voice, quiet and flat, cut through the silence.

“How many people have you killed?”