Dragon's Awakening: The Duke's Son Is Changing The Plot-Chapter 190 - 189 - Fate of a traitor.

At the same time, in the Royal Palace.

Damien paced his chamber like a rat in a fire trap.

His boots thumped across the marble floor, each step filled with pent-up frustration and a growing sense of doom.

His once-pristine robe now looked like he’d slept in it—twice—and his hair stuck out in wild tufts from repeated runs of his fingers.

"I had no choice... no choice!" He muttered to the empty walls, hands flailing. "Oathworm binding, ancient damn parasite—ugh! Betray the Vaises or melt from the inside out!"

He paused, glaring at a chair as if it had personally insulted him. "And what did His Majesty say? ’Wait.’ Just that—wait. Like I’m ordering tea, not waiting for divine retribution from the strongest family in this world!"

He resumed pacing. "He said things would change in a while. What things?! His shoes? His brain? The political map of the capital after I’m turned into ash by Argon?!"

But then, he stopped again.

A cold chill ran down his back.

There was a tingle of magic.

He felt like he was being watched. It was as if someone was looking at him from behind.

Slowly, he turned toward the window.

Nothing.

The curtains swayed lazily in the breeze. The night sky loomed beyond, filled with stars and the soft hum of the capital city.

But no assassin. No intruder. No squirrel.

Still, something felt wrong.

Damien crept forward and threw the ominously swaying window open, peering down, up, left, and right—checking the walls, roof, shadows, and flowerpots—

Nothing.

He turned back, muttering, "Losing it. I’m losing my—"

His voice stopped in his throat as he turned around.

Sitting cross-legged on Damien’s bed like it belonged to him was a man in all-black clothes, mask pulled down just enough to show an annoyingly smug smirk.

Damien froze. "...You."

The man tilted his head. "Me."

"Talon Ros Vaise," Damien muttered through clenched teeth.

Talon gave a lazy salute. "Hello, traitor."

Of all the eight legendary Vaise elites who served under Argon, Talon was the most insufferable.

The man moved like a shadow, fought like a ghost, and talked like a passive-aggressive crow with a caffeine addiction.

He was one of the members of the Rapid Strike Unit, the strongest group of the Vaise family.

Damien’s hand inched toward the dagger tucked into his sash. "You think I’ll come quietly just because you showed up?"

Talon blinked slowly. "Who said we expected you to come along?"

He grinned.

Damien lunged.

Or rather—started to lunge.

Before he could finish his dramatic declaration of resistance, something slammed into the back of his neck with the grace of a polite thunderclap.

His world spun sideways.

His knees buckled, his vision swirled, and his final thoughts before collapsing were, "Not alone... Of course, he’s not alone..."

As his consciousness faded, Talon’s voice echoed mockingly near his ear.

"Sweet dreams, Damien. Daddy Argon’s waiting."

Then—darkness.

................

Damien woke with a violent gasp.

His hands shot upward, reaching for a neck that felt too tight, too choked—but there were no bindings.

He was sitting on a wooden chair in the middle of a wide, dark room. No windows. No light, save for the flickering torches on the surrounding stone pillars.

His breath came out ragged, cold sweat clinging to his forehead.

Then, his eyes adjusted.

Before him stood a man.

Tall. Shadow-draped. Raven-black hair tied back with perfect precision. Crimson eyes glowing faintly in the torchlight—haunting, intense, but... different.

Not dead.

Not lifeless.

This wasn’t the usual Argon Von Vaise.

This Argon’s eyes burned.

Around him, eight figures stood like silent wraiths—Talon among them, leaning against the wall with a lollipop in his mouth like this was a casual picnic.

"Argon," Damien rasped, trying to stand.

He couldn’t.

He looked down—his legs were strapped to the chair.

Scratch that, everything was strapped. He was tied up like a well-seasoned roast.

Argon took a step forward. No expression. No words.

There was just a long, slow slice.

"AAAAAAGH!" Damien screamed as one of his fingers fell to the floor with a wet slap. "W-What are you—?!"

Another slice. Another scream. Another finger was gone.

"You betrayed me," Argon said, voice low, trembling—not with weakness, but barely restrained rage.

"I—I was oathbound—"

"You knew the weight of our family," Argon said, stepping closer, his eyes like a storm on the edge of breaking. "You knew what we were. You knew what it meant to betray a Vaise."

Another slice. This time, his forearm. Blood sprayed.

"But you didn’t just betray me." Argon’s voice cracked—just once. "You dragged ’him’ into this. Raven. My only son, who didn’t treat me like a statue or a demon."

Damien’s mouth quivered. "I—I didn’t mean to—"

A boot to the chest. A rib cracked.

"Why did you let the King look at him? Why didn’t you shield him?"

Argon’s hand trembled as he raised his sword again. "He smiles at me despite how I treated him. He makes stupid jokes and laughs before me. Do you have any idea what that means to me?"

Damien sobbed, shaking violently.

Then came the whisper.

"Was it you who got Ramiel killed?"

Damien’s eyes widened. "N-No—Argon—wait—"

"Did you tell the royals where Ramiel would be that day?" Argon asked, voice breaking into something raw, cracked with grief.

"Of course not—!"

"You were the only one who knew. You were the one I trusted."

Another deep stab into Damien’s thigh.

"Was it you?!"

Damien screamed, tears mixing with blood. "It wasn’t me! I didn’t—I didn’t—"

"Then who?" Argon leaned close, his breath burning the air between them. "Who in the family helped you?"

Damien’s mouth opened.

His chest heaved.

But before he could speak, he stiffened.

His eyes rolled back.

With a sickening pop, his chest twitched—then collapsed inward.

Blood bubbled from his lips. His heart had exploded.

He was dead.

But Argon didn’t stop.

He roared and slammed his massive sword into the corpse again and again and again.

"HOW DARE YOU!"

Slash.

"HOW DARE YOU TOUCH MY SON!"

Crunch.

"HE CALLED ME FATHER! EVEN THOUGH THE OTHER GAVE UP, HE DIDN’T!"

Stab. Stab. Stab.

The other eight stood in place, silent, tense, eyes averted, but Argon continued.

Then—

"Which Argon is that?"

The voice was soft. Drawled. Familiar.

From the shadows near the arched entrance came an old man with wild white hair and eyes like a magician’s fever dream.

It was Crisaius.

The room went still.

Even Talon stopped sucking his lollipop.

Argon turned, chest heaving, blood dripping from his arms.

He looked at Crisaius, waving a hand at others who left without a word.

As soon as they did, Argon smiled.

"Master."

For what seemed to be the first time, Argon called Crisaius ’Master.’

Crisaius then stepped forward, his eyes narrowing.

"I see," he said, nodding slowly. "It’s the young Argon."

The sword clattered to the ground.

Argon closed his eyes.

"I feel like my head is clear for the first time, master," he muttered.

Crisaius sighed. "We don’t know when you will return to how you used to be. So, let’s talk... quickly."

Well, he did say that, but his attention was on Damien.

He paced in a slow, deliberate circle, hands behind his back, inspecting the still-blooded corpse as if examining a slightly overcooked steak. Argon, now calm but stiff with emotion, stood silently beside him.

"Damien’s heart exploding mid-confession?" Crisaius muttered, poking the corpse with the tip of his boot. "Classic demonic insurance spell. Self-implosion trigger in case of interrogation—very nasty. A bit overkill, if you ask me. Hearts are hard to regrow, after all."

Argon didn’t respond. He simply stared ahead, eyes distant.

Crisaius clicked his tongue. "Still with me, lad?"

"I’m listening, Master," Argon said, voice deep and composed, but... gentler.

Crisaius finally turned, those bright, chaos-laced eyes gleaming beneath his tangled mane. "Good. Because we’ve got a royal dungstorm brewing faster than a squirrel raid on a nut cellar."

Argon blinked. "...What?"

Crisaius waved dismissively. "Never mind squirrel stuff. Listen—Raven gave me coordinates to a demon base near the capital. A hidden one. He said a good demon gave it to him."

Argon’s eyebrows twitched. "A good demon?"

"He said it’s a leap of faith," Crisaius shrugged. "Could be a trap. That’s why he wants my old bones to go and see if it is. All while he does something unbelievably stupid."

Argon narrowed his eyes. "What?"

Crisaius leaned in. "He’s going into the royal castle. Tonight. With the kids. To rescue Selena, his princess girlfriend."

Argon froze.

"Apparently," Crisaius continued, "she’s still under royal watch. The problem is that the king turns out to be demonic, and Selena is someone the king wants to harm. So naturally, being my dumb, noble, self-sacrificing disciple-slash-great-grandson... he’s breaking in."

A heavy silence followed.

Then—

Clink.

Argon turned, grabbed his enormous obsidian-forged sword—bigger than most grown men—and strapped it to his back with one swift motion.

The air shifted, the temperature rising with his magic flaring softly.

Crisaius raised a brow. "...And where are you going?"

"To get my daughter-in-law," Argon said firmly. "I need to make up for the years Raven saw me as nothing more than a wall with a pulse. I want him to look at me now, while I’m still me."

Crisaius paused, his expression unreadable. "And the demon base?"

Argon looked over his shoulder. "That can wait a few hours."

Crisaius grinned. "So dramatic. But it was not like I didn’t think you would say that. All you Vaise boys are emotional bastards."

Argon gave a rare smile—barely a twitch at the corner of his lips. "We inherited that from you."

"Oh ho!" Crisaius laughed, spinning once on his heel and producing a muffin from seemingly nowhere. "You’re right, Raven did inherit it from me! I’m practically his real father, as I taught him things you should’ve."

Argon’s hand slowly reached for his sword again.

"Joking, joking," Crisaius coughed, stuffing the entire muffin into his mouth. "Mmfp—besides, you do know this could go wrong, right? You’re not exactly low profile, and if the wrong calculative and cold version of you wakes up in the middle of this mission..."

"I know," Argon said. "But if I don’t do it now, I might never get the chance again. Just once, I want him to know I’m proud of him."

He turned, crimson eyes burning.

"I’ll meet him there. Then we’ll bring her out. Together."

Crisaius, for once, didn’t smile.

He just gave a soft nod. "Then go, boy. Be a father."

Argon vanished from the room like a silent flame snuffed out by resolve.

Crisaius stared after him, chewing slowly.

"...Since I’ve got nothing to do, I’ll keep an eye on things from afar."

He turned to the corpse.

"And you, Damien... you really picked the wrong damn family to betray."

Then, with a yawn and a lazy stretch, the most dangerous old man in the empire wandered off—humming a lullaby that hadn’t been heard in a hundred years.