Chương 6: [Prologue]: Ivan Zakharovic Kozlow [5]

"It would be a shame to kill such a beauty."

"...."

An uneasy silence filled the room, stretching thin and brittle. Gwenyra's eyes fluttered open, her confusion deepening as she met Ivan's gaze. The smile he wore was dazzling, a rare sight on his handsome, pale face.

She had never seen a gentle yet charming smile like this before, and even Ivan's presence felt eerily altered, as if he were someone entirely different.

Mikhail's mouth hung open in utter shock. This wasn't the stoic Ivan they knew. Ludmila, too, stared in stunned disbelief. She had seen Ivan smile before, but those were fleeting, subtle gestures reserved only for them, never this bold, flirtatious smirk that now twisted his lips.

Inwardly, Ivan knew what was happening. Siver King, one of the Antagonists he had 'assimilated' within him, had seized control, and for once, Ivan allowed it. Siver's thoughts, although tainted with a certain selfishness, were laced with a logic that Ivan couldn't wholly dismiss.

"Don't kill her? Legitimacy? Is that it?"

Ivan muttered to himself, his voice shifting unpredictably between his own cold tone and Siver's smooth, persuasive one. He twisted his head unnaturally, as though battling an unseen force.

"No. I am not. Kill her. No, think about the future. The Throne? I see."

The royals, already terrified of Ivan now looked on in abject horror. This was something beyond their comprehension—a man seemingly torn in two, arguing with himself as if possessed.

"Ivan…?" Mikhail called out hesitantly and warily.

There was an uneasy fear that Ivan had finally lost control, a prospect that could be catastrophic for everyone present. But thankfully, Mikhail's fears proved unfounded.

In an instant, Ivan's expression shifted, the strange, almost human demeanor vanishing like a mirage. His face hardened back into its familiar, stoic mask— devoid of emotion.

Ivan's gaze lowered to Gwenyra once more, and she instinctively looked away, her shoulders trembling. She didn't understand what had just transpired, but the Ivan before her now was unmistakably the one who wanted her dead. Yet, something felt slightly off. Though his face showed nothing, there was a strange undercurrent in his eyes, a subtle shift she couldn't quite place.

In the novel, I killed Gwenyra without hesitation.

Ivan recalled.

I killed her to break them, to force them into despair so deep they'd abandon all hope and turn to Seraphiel for salvation.

It was a brutal, straightforward strategy—one Ivan often employed to crush those who dared defy their faith. But Siver's approach was different. Sparing Gwenyra could avoid turning the entire kingdom of Britannia against him, potentially preventing future thoughts of revenge and consolidating his power.

At least he isn't driven solely by his desires.

To Ivan, Siver's desires were simple and self-serving.

Siver wasn't a good man by any measure, and Ivan knew this intimately. Siver was one the Major Antagonist of another novel Yvan had read where Siver was described as charming, manipulative, and cunning.

Siver was a philanderer, a seducer who wielded charm like a weapon, ensnaring women to fulfill tasks. He was an assassin.

"Ivan, what's wrong?" Ludmilla asked, her brows slightly furrowed with concern. She could sense something was off, but Ivan's demeanor remained as unreadable as ever.

"Nothing," Ivan replied curtly, his gaze shifting back to the cowering royals. "She will be useful alive." His eyes then locked onto the Empress. "Now, proclaim your Faith to Seraphiel. All of you." Though his final words were barely above a whisper, the underlying threat was there. The implication was clear: defiance would mean death, regardless of who they were.

"R–Right now?" Guinevere's voice trembled.

"..." Ivan's silent stare was enough of words. Guinevere felt her courage falter, and the weight of Ivan's silence bore down on her like a crushing force. But the real threat came from Kamila, whose dark, steely eyes narrowed with contempt.

"The next time you address Ivan informally and without permission. I will cut out your tongue."

Guinevere flinched and she quickly lowered her head, retreating into silence.

Ivan, unmoved by the exchange, turned his attention back to the matter at hand. "Where is Ludomir?"

"Here, My Lord." A figure emerged from the entrance, his presence immediately darkening the room. Ludomir, dressed in a somber black priest suit and coat, with black-rimmed glasses perched on his sharp nose arrived.

The sight of him drained what little color remained from Guinevere's face, as if another monster had joined their ranks.

Ludomir approached Ivan with a respectful distance, kneeling on one knee before him. "Your Eminence," he spoke in a voice full of reverence. "I convey my gratitude and the gratitude of all our faithful for your triumphant conquest of the Heretic Capital of Camelot." He bowed his head.

"Oi, Ludomir, stop wasting time already and get on with it," Mikhail interrupted bored.

Ludomir nodded, acknowledging Mikhail and the others before turning toward the royals.

"Crawl back," Dimitri said, as he looked down at Gwenyra, who hurriedly rejoined her family, clinging protectively to her shivering younger sister.

Ludomir stepped forward, his expression twisted with a pious contempt. "Sinners, I will now cleanse the stains of your sins, sins wrought from praying to the foulest of beings, the Savior." His words were laced with disgust. "But fear not, for Seraphiel will accept you as the lost lambs you are, wandering in the darkness."

He began to circle the royal family, reciting a prayer in a low, fervent tone as he sprinkled dark water from a small glass bottle, the liquid splashing onto the stone floor in an eerie ritual. In his other hand, he clutched a black cross. The entire process dragged on for what felt like an eternity, every second a torment for the royals who had no choice but to endure the grim conversion to a faith they had long despised.

At last, Ludomir concluded the ritual, his face curling into a small, twisted smile of satisfaction. "From this day forth, you are children of Seraphiel. Be grateful and embrace her grace with all your hearts. May Chaos bring forth Order."

"May Chaos bring forth Order," Mikhail, Ludmilla, Kamila, and Dimitri intoned in unison, patting their black crosses with their right hands and bowing their heads in fervent prayer.

Ludomir's gaze fell upon the royals, a cold, unblinking stare that sent shivers through them.

"M–May Chaos bring forth Order," they stammered. All repeated the chant, except for the Emperor, who had already collapsed, unconscious from his external and internal injuries.

"May Seraphiel bless us with her Eternal Grace," Ludomir added.

This time, the words were repeated with more conviction, though Ivan stood apart, silently watching. His hand rested over his black cross, the metal cool against his skin as it hung just above the collar of his black shirt. He stared blankly into the distance.

"May our souls find solace in her divine embrace."

For a long moment, silence enveloped the room. Everyone, except the royals, instinctively closed their eyes, although even they eventually followed suit, bewildered but compliant.

When the silence ended, Ludomir nodded at Ivan and stepped back.

"From here on, Britannia will worship Seraphiel."

Ivan then stepped forward, passing by the royals as he approached the throne. Taking his seat, he met their eyes as they turned to face him.

"This is my first Royal Decree, as the First Emperor of the New Britannia Empire."