Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!-Chapter 104. Lucian Lancaster

Kane’s voice shattered the strained silence.

"Why is my son there?" he demanded, his tone rising with raw disbelief. "He was supposed to be dead!"

The words rang through the chamber, silencing even the murmurs.

Kane Everhart, once the composed and poised monarch of Everhart, now stood disoriented, eyes locked on the glowing image of a white-haired boy being tortured—his son, Rufus. Alive. Broken.

From the Opalcrest side, Heinau’s lips twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer. His eyes glinted with amusement—cruel and calculating.

"Well, well," he said, almost mockingly. "See, Lord Lancaster. My friend here seems quite shocked. Could it be... that he himself had a hand in his own child’s fate? What reason could a father possibly have... to erase his own blood?"

The provocation was thinly veiled.

Then, as if on cue, a man dressed in the navy blue and gold uniform of Opalcrest’s internal council stood up.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing slightly to Lucian. "If I may be permitted, I would like to present a hypothesis."

Heinau gave him a small nod. "Go ahead."

With confidence laced in every syllable, the man turned toward the gathering. "Perhaps... Young Master Rufus opposed the brutal doctrines of his father. Perhaps he saw through the inhumane acts committed in the name of order, and attempted to rebel. In doing so, he became a liability—a voice that threatened the illusion of Everhart’s nobility. And thus, he was silenced."

Gasps spread like ripples across water.

Heinau clasped his hands, his voice dripping with theatrical concern. "Of course, I don’t wish to accuse Lord Kane of such a vile act without definitive proof. But perhaps... at most, he intended to adopt this child, someone who was a spitting image of his dead child—strip him from his real family, mold him into a perfect heir. Maybe when the boy resisted, he was punished. Tortured. To instill obedience."

He looked toward Lucian, shrugging as if helpless. "A father only wishes his son to listen, no?"

The Opalcrest side began murmuring in unison, heads nodding in quiet affirmation. Some wore smug expressions; others faked solemnity.

But none of them looked shocked. As if they’d rehearsed this scene dozens of times before ever stepping into this room.

And Kane Everhart—who had remained composed for decades, who had endured betrayal, loss, and false diplomacy—finally broke.

The sharp crack of wood rang out as his palm slammed the round table.

The entire table groaned, splintered, then split down the center.

"You filthy mongrel," Kane growled, pointing a shaking finger at Heinau. "Do you not have a son? A daughter? Would you parade their corpses in front of strangers for your twisted ambitions? You accuse me of cruelty, yet your entire existence is a blight upon humanity—an insult to the very idea of decency!"

His voice echoed across the golden pillars and carved walls, silencing even the rustle of robes.

But Heinau only laughed. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

"Cry, scream, curse all you like," he said softly, almost indulgently. "But your theatrics won’t change the truth. You’re unfit, Kane. Unfit to lead. And certainly unfit to stand among us as an equal. A man who can’t even protect his own flesh and blood... how can he claim to protect a kingdom?"

Before Kane could speak again, a female diplomat from Everhart rose, her fury palpable.

"And what do you know of rulership?" she snapped. "Does your kingdom know anything beyond brute force and conquest? Do you understand what it means to be compassionate? To serve with humility, not hunger?"

But before her words could resonate, an Opalcrest envoy cut in with a scoff.

"How rich, coming from you people," he spat. "You’ve seen the evidence with your own eyes—testimonies, records, memories etched in truth—and yet you deny it. Is your delusion truly so complete? Or do you believe repeating lies enough times makes them truth?"

The diplomat stiffened, biting back another retort.

But in that moment, all sound faded into static for Kane.

His mind spiraled.

His heart was racing, but not from anger anymore.

It was grief.

Deep, abyssal grief.

His son was alive. Alive—but barely. A living corpse. A breathing ghost. The light that once made Rufus glow—the hope that once shone in those crimson eyes—was gone.

This wasn’t just political sabotage. This was a statement. Opalcrest had planned this. They had planted seeds years ago, and now, one by one, they were blooming into choking vines.

They’d been moving in shadows, orchestrating public perception, faking testimonies, and now, dragging the corpse of a child—his child—into the light to damn him before the world.

Kane’s legs almost gave way.

He had been blind.

He had relied too heavily on bonds that were forged in desperation and cemented with blood—bonds sealed by sacrificing his own daughter in a political marriage to maintain peace.

He had believed in diplomacy.

He had believed in reason.

But this... this was war in disguise.

And as the image of Rufus flickered in the air again—bleeding, silent, eyes empty—Kane knew one thing for certain:

This was personal.

Opalcrest didn’t want peace.

They wanted eradication.

And they’d play every dirty trick in the book to ensure the world painted Everhart as the villain.

He was losing everything—not just his son, not just his kingdom—but his very grip on truth.

...

At once, Lucian Lancaster rose from his seat.

The shift was subtle, but its impact was immediate.

All voices, all movement, all sound—ceased.

Like puppets with their strings cut, the nobles from both factions fell silent.

Heads turned in perfect unison, eyes wide and unblinking as they locked onto the man who now leisurely stepped forward.

His steps echoed against the marble of the grand hall, each one deliberate, smooth, and unhurried—like a lion taking a stroll through a den of jackals.

He walked past the Everharts. Past the diplomats of Opalcrest. He did not look at Kane, nor at Heinau. Not yet.

Instead, he stopped beside Heinau’s seat.

The man stiffened, every fiber of his body going taut like a bowstring.

Lucian leaned in. His hand, gloved in dark velvet, casually brushed away a nonexistent speck of dust from Heinau’s shoulder.

The gesture was polite. The message behind it—anything but.

Then Lucian whispered, his voice low, smooth, and terrifyingly calm.

"The war," he said, "won’t happen."

Heinau’s expression crumpled into visible disbelief.

"What?" he breathed, barely managing to compose his tone. "Lord Lancaster, I beg you to reconsider that statement. Haven’t you seen the atrocities committed by the Everharts? This kingdom is rotting from the inside. The people of Mythria do not deserve such injustice."

Lucian raised a finger and gently pressed it to Heinau’s lips.

"Shush," he said. "You talk too much."

The words were light—almost playful.

But the weight behind them was a mountain.

Heinau’s jaw clenched. Every sharp retort died in his throat. The room felt colder.

His fury was visible—boiling in his veins, trembling behind his eyes—but he dared not speak.

Everyone present was baffled. The Everhart diplomats exchanged uncertain glances. Even Kane looked stunned, brows furrowed, as he tried to understand what had just happened.

By every logical measure, Everhart should be annihilated. The proof of their crimes was laid bare.

Heinous acts had been revealed, and Lucian himself had verified the testimonies and seen the suffering.

The Grand Duke of Alaris—the bastion of order and justice—should have declared war without hesitation.

But he didn’t.

And suddenly, the reason became clear to all.

Amelia Everhart.

A single bond. A fragile thread spun between two houses.

Everhart had played their most powerful card not on the battlefield, but at the altar.

Amelia—daughter of Kane. Fiancée of Cassius Lancaster.

Lucian turned, finally facing the center of the hall, his gaze sweeping across both factions. His expression was serene. His voice was calm.

But his presence was thunder.

"Listen well, all of you," he said. "If any nation here dares to raise a hand against the other—if even a single soldier crosses a border—then I, Lucian Lancaster, will erase that Opalcrest from the face of Cronica."

A silence fell again, heavier than before.

No one moved. No one breathed.

Because it was clear whom he meant.

And he had only named one.

Heinau’s mouth went dry. "Lord Lancaster..." he said carefully, "why only Opalcrest? Why would we be the ones decimated?"

Lucian’s lips curved into a small, amused smile.

"Because," he said, turning his amber eyes directly on Heinau, "Everhart is my family. My daughter-in-law hails from there. How could I possibly hurt the land that raised her?"

A beat.

Then he added, "But you, Heinau... your people have hounded them for decades. You’ve ignored their calls for peace. You’ve made it your mission to provoke them, drag them down, slander their name. You are not family. You are... an inconvenience."

He tilted his head.

"And I don’t tolerate inconveniences."

Gasps echoed in the chamber. Nobles leaned back in their chairs. Some looked toward Heinau with wide eyes.

Others began whispering furiously, trying to determine whether this was truly happening—whether the most powerful man in Cronica had just drawn a line in the sand in favor of a nation accused of monstrous crimes.

Lucian glanced around at the stunned faces. "Clear?"

There was no response. Only trembling nods and quiet assent.

The Everhart diplomats looked as though they’d been handed a divine miracle. One of them nearly wept in relief. Kane himself sat frozen, unable to fully comprehend what just occurred.

Heinau, however, was livid.

"This—this is absurd," he snapped. "What kind of justice is this?!"

Lucian turned his head slowly.

The smile never left his face.

"I am justice," he replied. "That’s the kind of justice this is."

And with that, he walked back to his seat.

Then, without raising his voice, without waiting for permission, Lucian spoke once more:

"Court dismissed."

No one dared to argue.

And thus, what had been considered inevitable—a war prophesied, whispered, and prepared for—was dismantled with a single sentence.

Not by diplomacy.

Not by evidence.

But by the will of one man.

Lucian Lancaster.

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