Chapter 27
When was the last time they met?
It seemed to be the day he broke into the Divine Temple.
Jiang Jitang still remembered Parsons’ stunned expression when he saw his unmasked face, and the look of anguish when Jiang Jitang unleashed a forbidden curse that obliterated the entire temple and every cleric inside.
He would never forget the blood on his own hands as the proud legendary knight fell like a star tearing from the sky.
A sour ache bubbled up in Jiang Jitang’s chest like champagne, every popping bubble bitter.
He was the heart of the God of Death, the embodiment of curses.
How could someone like him deserve a friend?
So… did you come to kill me?
Jiang Jitang thought that if their positions were reversed—if he were Parsons—he would.
The world was too beautiful for him to willingly leave. His long-dreamed, unconditional family affection; the peace he wished everyone could enjoy; the miraculous cuisine—he couldn’t bear to part with any of it.
But if Parsons insisted… He was willing to die once.
He owed that much.
On the busy street corner, the man in black stopped walking. Only one meter separated them—close enough to see the color in each other’s eyes.
Just as Jiang Jitang recognized him instantly across the crowd, Parsons also knew at once he had found the one he sought. No matter how different the appearance, the recognition was immediate.
A gentle expression. Calm, rational eyes. Unshakable resolve.
All of it like a welded-on mask—impossible to break.
He hated this cruel composure.
“Our meeting at the inn that day… wasn’t coincidence.”
“No.”
“Traveling together after that, exchanging letters—those were fake too.”
“Correct.”
“Did you ever hesitate? Ever regret?”
“Never.”
Parsons remembered the last time they met—those three questions asked and answered before the temple.
The rebel leader had walked into the Divine Temple alone, yet alone he was an army. The entire Holy Legion surrounded him, not daring to approach.
As the legion commander, Parsons had asked those three questions.
He probably shouldn’t have. As a Holy Knight, how could he be connected to a rebel leader? But at that moment, he couldn’t care.
Three questions, three answers—each one a stone crushing his heart.
The admired, brilliant, under-recognized friend he cherished… was it all an illusion?
Were their shared experiences, their mutual understanding, all fake?
Memories flashed vividly, and a cold flame burned in Parsons’ chest—painful yet icy. Everything about this man had become his obsession and his wound. Unless he tore it open, it would never heal.
“Last question.”
His voice was hoarse, eyes faintly red, his heart aching from restraint.
“Are you sure you want to ask it here?”
The crowd had already dispersed, finding nothing entertaining left to watch, but this was still a busy street. Jiang Jitang turned away.
“The wind is strong. Let’s go somewhere else.”
“I want the answer now.”
Jiang Jitang stopped walking but didn’t turn back.
“Ask, then.”
“Last question… Illman. Was there ever a moment—just a moment—when you saw Parsons as a friend?”
“You already know the answer.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
His voice wasn’t loud; anyone standing farther away wouldn’t hear it. Yet Parsons spoke as if using all his strength.
How will he answer?
He feared hearing it— yet feared not hearing it even more.
“…I don’t have friends.”
Jiang Jitang tilted his head slightly. The hazy streetlights softened his features, yet his eyes were cold and rational. Everything was in them—except deception.
Parsons didn’t move. His body went rigid. The cool moss-green eyes seemed to lose all light.
“You approached me to kill me? You had plenty of chances. Why didn’t you do it?”
Jiang Jitang didn’t answer. Parsons didn’t know if he didn’t have an answer or couldn’t say it.
He asked the next question, “Did Bishop Samir die because of you?”
Jiang Jitang looked at him. Every word clear, “Yes.”
“Why?” Bishop Samir was not only an elder but his guide, a respected man. Parsons couldn’t understand why it would be him, nor did he believe Jiang Jitang acted out of selfishness. He wasn’t that kind of person.
Friend or foe—he wasn’t that kind of man.
“Ever consider,” Jiang Jitang said, “that while he was a kind elder to you, a warm friend… he wasn’t that to the victims living in hell and their families.”
“He wasn’t that kind of man. I’m certain of it.”
“He wasn’t. But the one he protected was.”
Jiang Jitang couldn’t help but laugh.
“His only son enjoyed torturing and killing maids. After discovering it, the bishop covered it up and restricted his son’s freedom. Because that was his only child. What else could he do? He suffered too, right? His garden was beautiful—lush flowers everywhere. Because thirty corpses were buried beneath.”
Parsons trembled.
“I admit, there were worse people. Compared to them, the bishop was clean. But he was the one I chose first because I needed someone to pay the price—to break the Church’s sacred façade. And no one fit better.”
His tone was cold as he explained the plan. A guilty man alive was far more useful than a dead one.
“But the bishop preferred being ‘a martyr persecuted by evil forces.’ A saint wronged to death. So I fulfilled his wish. I killed him. That’s all. So—will you avenge him?”
“Liar.”
Silver hair sliced through the air as Parsons stepped forward. He grabbed Jiang Jitang’s arm, grip tightening. Jiang Jitang turned pale—but under the lamplight it wasn’t obvious.
“I went to that estate.”
The burned estate had been peaceful—no signs of a struggle. All evidence suggested Bishop Samir had calmly drunk poisoned wine and died seated, dignified.
Perhaps Jiang Jitang had shown him undeniable proof, forcing him to choose death to preserve what little honor remained. In the end, it had been the bishop’s choice.
The executioner was hateful— but Parsons wasn’t irrational.
“Why provoke me?”
He stared at the rebel leader who always manipulated people with calm ease. The mix of enemy and confidant made him more complex, more unreadable.
So eager to sever ties? Or another mind game?
Parsons held the last bit of restraint. He didn’t use full strength—but he didn’t know Jiang Jitang’s body was weaker than a normal human’s. This grip was enough to crack a slender arm.
Jiang Jitang pressed his lips tight, giving nothing away.
Both were too proud to show a hint of pain.
Time-paused magic became torture. The arm snapped, healed, snapped again.
Jiang Jitang almost grew accustomed to it. He even laughed. “So this is your true thought? Are you… trying to find excuses for me?”
Parsons released him, trying to regain control. “I just want to know the truth.”
Jiang Jitang’s arm fell limp. He breathed lightly, then smiled faintly. “The truth is I approached you deliberately. The truth is we are enemies, not friends. The truth is I’ve turned to ashes—along with everything in the past. It’s over. Why must you know what happened in between?”
“Because I was involved.” Parsons refused to believe their past was a lie.
“You don’t want to say… because you already ‘forgot’? Or because you never trusted me?”
“Human nature can’t be gambled on. I can afford to lose. My followers cannot.” Jiang Jitang said.
If not for the faint tremble in the hand holding the sunflower, he would seem perfectly calm.
“Illman… you never trusted me.”
“Teachers, friends, subordinates—none of them clean. My early life was a joke. Admitting this means admitting all of it. And I never test hearts.” Don’t be foolish.
“You decided everything for me. Everything. In the end, you didn’t even leave me the chance to demand answers. You just vanished.”
With perfectly steady expressions, they fired grievances at each other relentlessly— just like when they were friends and once wrote three-page letters arguing over which wine tasted better. Except those debates never hid knives.
“Digging through the past isn’t good. Adults should learn to play dumb. If I was the only failure in your perfect life, then I apologize.” But I won’t change.
“No… not a failure.” Parsons suddenly stopped the pointless clashing.
“And it wasn’t perfect.”
“Parsons.” Jiang Jitang stepped closer. Another step and they would touch.
He had to tilt his head upward, yet his gaze carried dominance. “I give you permission to kill me. Then everything ends. But if you kill me, it must be because you were deceived and wronged. I accept no other crime. Because…”
Parsons froze under those nearly black eyes. Every cell trembled—not knowing if from pain or exhilaration.
This world stripped Jiang Jitang of magic, made him only human. He was half a head shorter.
Yet when he looked like this, none of that mattered.
“Because… I was right.”
And with that, the silent battle ended. The winner was obvious.
Jiang Jitang fully exploited Parsons’ upright nature. He would never kill someone in a lawful society—and he lacked a valid reason.
He would have to admit being deceived. Betrayed.
But Parsons wouldn’t admit it. He only allowed himself to be an unbreakable sword—never weak.
They shared enough similarities to finish each other’s sentences—that was why they once got along so well. So Parsons understood Jiang Jitang’s calculation, yet…
As Jiang Jitang predicted, he wouldn’t strike—not for a reason even he couldn’t accept.
Parsons thought back to the “Grand Duke Illman of Neo,” who had exchanged letters with him for years.
A frail young duke who rarely left home.
He inherited the title early yet built his duchy into the richest, strongest in the kingdom.
Beloved by citizens, envied by kings.
Talented in music, author of a famous ballet, well-known scholar, adept in draconic runes and elven wood-patterns, fluent in ancient magical languages.
Such brilliance—yet chronically ill and magic-less. Everyone pitied him.
Who would have thought that the reclusive scholar was the rebel leader? He wasn’t talentless—he was terrifyingly powerful.
So from the start… the Illman he knew was never the real Illman.
Not even close.
A sudden clarity struck Parsons. He looked down at Jiang Jitang—like a sword singing when finding its equal.
That long-lost rush of boiling blood…
He had found his next goal.
“A clean slate? There will never be a clean slate between us. Illman… you won’t always be right. I’ll watch you. I’ll see your true face.”
He would see this cunning fox clearly—everything he knew and everything he didn’t.
He didn’t know what would happen once he saw through him. But it wouldn’t be like this— not passive.
Jiang Jitang watched him for a long time. Then he suddenly smiled.
“Why chase me all the way here? You walked straight into the spider’s web, my dear.”
And spiders never let prey escape.
“Don’t try to leave. I won’t let you disappear without a word again.” Parsons said seriously.
Do you know what you’re saying, Parsons? I already chose to let you go.
Jiang Jitang’s eyes darkened, but his smile hid everything.
“You’re right. We can’t wipe the slate clean. Then let me see whether you can truly see me.”
—
Parsons left, giving only a number.
Jiang Jitang returned home humming. He placed the sunflower into a tall clear bottle, tied a yellow bow around the neck, and flicked it lightly with a finger.
His face remained calm, as though nothing had affected him.
“Master… aren’t you worried?” the Golden Eye whispered.
Jiang Jitang didn’t answer. His lips curled faintly.
Come to think of it—Parsons had never shown any musical skill before. Was it that he couldn’t play, or never had the chance?
Probably couldn’t.
So he practiced the melody from their first meeting— just to draw him out?
“This time, you’ll lose again, my dear child of light.”
Soon, violin music drifted through the neighborhood. Neighbors opened their windows to listen.
“Today’s tune sounds so joyful. Did little Jiang Jitang encounter something good?”
In the sky, the moon winked quietly.
Shh. Good night.
Such a complex relationship…
Though I believe that Jiang did actually consider Parsons a friend. Wasnt he alluding to him with the horse in a previous chapter?