Being a knight is not easy

Chapter 362 High View
The gatekeeper fell silent.

That seemingly unchanging, indifferent rock finally seemed to be pried open by this extreme, self-destructive question, leaving a slight crack.

The air was no longer just heavy, but carried an eerie, static-like feeling, like the eve of an approaching storm.

"Heh..." A short, indistinct sound, whether a sneer or some strange exclamation, escaped from the shadows.

"Destruction? The choice is yours." The gatekeeper's voice changed, no longer filled with sarcasm and distance, but carrying a hint of... strange interest, an appreciation as if examining a dangerous work of art?
“Desire drives people mad!” The gatekeeper’s voice deepened, carrying a chilling allure. “Desire is not only a source of power… it is also the bond of ‘evil,’ especially for those who have already fallen into madness.”

"What do you want to do? How should I cooperate with you?" The gatekeeper's words were like the whispers of a demon, calmly outlining a blueprint for destruction. His withered fingers tapped silently on the edge of the stone platform. "To personally turn this country into history is exhilarating."

The ancient being in the shadows seemed to see for the first time the human emperor on the verge of extinction, no longer merely as a footnote to the impending collapse of a short-lived dynasty.

In the empty eye sockets of the goalkeeper, something seemed to refocus from behind the shadows.

"I will force those traitors into a decisive battle. When that time comes, please take action, destroy the entire battlefield, let everyone die on the battlefield, and let everything start anew," Rebaton said slowly, raising his head.

The gatekeeper's sneer shattered like ice shards in the silent stone hall, carrying an overwhelming sense of mockery and disappointment.

"Madness? A glimmer of hope?" The gatekeeper whispered, repeating the core of Rebaton's words, each syllable like a poisoned blade. "Rebaton... so you're still hoping to rebuild that rotten house?"

His shadow swayed slightly in the dim light of the chandelier, as if the last trace of "curiosity" he had for the emperor before him had vanished completely, leaving only pure, undisguised contempt.

"You drive your prey together, let the gatekeepers slaughter them all for you... and then you, the 'gardener' who stands aside, thinking you can remain unscathed, come back to sow your so-called 'new seeds,' nurturing your royal seedlings that are destined to decay again?" The gatekeeper's voice was devoid of warmth. "Is this your awareness of 'destruction'? Is this your so-called 'starting over'?"

He paused for a moment, and the air in the stone hall suddenly became heavier and more suffocating, as if an invisible hand was gripping everyone's throat.

"You never truly wanted destruction, Rebaton. All you wanted was... a cleanup. To get rid of those 'traitors' who weren't behaving themselves for the time being." The gatekeeper's voice was as cold as polar ice. "You think the bloodshed on the battlefield can replace the decay deep within your veins? You think using external force to remove the surface weeds can mask the poison deep within the soil? Foolish!"

“Aren’t those so-called traitors just the malignant tumors that inevitably sprout from this rotten soil? They are the outward manifestations of the disease, not the root of it!” The gatekeeper’s knuckles tapped on the stone platform, producing a chilling crack. “Kill them, and the royal family will be clean? Will you be innocent? Will the greed, arrogance, shortsightedness, and parasitic instincts that flow in your blood and permeate your throne disappear? Ha!”

That final, sarcastic "Ha!" was the last straw that broke Rebaton's imperial dignity. His face turned deathly pale, and his body trembled uncontrollably.

The gatekeeper completely tore away the carefully crafted veil of "sacrifice" and "rebirth," revealing his core of "selfishness"!

He's gambling!
The goalkeeper, this "tool," is sharp enough to eliminate any disloyalty on his behalf;
He gambled that after the bloodshed of the battlefield, his family could crawl out from the pile of corpses and reclaim the crown; he gambled that "sliver of hope" belonged to his bloodline, Rebaton Augustus, rather than the rebirth of the kingdom!
This is not a hope rekindled after devastation; it is merely the last struggle of a decaying dynasty on its deathbed and... a desperate gamble to save its life!
The shadow of the goalkeeper's hood seemed to deepen, a kind of indifference born from complete "seeing through".

“So be it.” His cold voice rang out, carrying a sense of weariness that came with the dust settling. “You are, in the end… only this much. I overestimated you, Rebaton Augustus.”

That sigh-like "I think too highly of you" was more jarring and made one feel more ashamed than any insult.

It signaled the complete end of the gatekeeper's initial, albeit slight, interest in his "pure destruction." "As you wish."

The gatekeeper spoke those four words without a ripple, as if stating a given fact, without any weight of promise, more like a cold prophecy.

It doesn't represent helping, but rather "harvesting".

"You should go do your thing," the gatekeeper said calmly.

The cold palace was deathly silent.

One moment they were immersed in the suffocating apocalyptic atmosphere of the stone hall, and the next, their bodies were already feeling the familiar velvet bed curtains and the cold scent of gold and silver.

The instantaneous shift in space felt like a knife being plunged into the heart, leaving behind a vast, dizzying void.

Rebaton stood in the center of the magnificent yet terrifyingly empty palace, like a stone statue without foundation.

The cold metallic touch of the scepter lingered on his fingertips, and the gatekeeper's words "As you wish" still echoed in his ears. A sense of absurdity—being brutally pulled back from the apocalyptic vision by an invisible giant hand—and a sense of shame at being completely stripped of control, mixed with a chilling fear, coursed through his veins.

He looked at his luxurious yet cold bedroom.

A jewel-encrusted scepter leans against a wall adorned with golden dragon motifs, while a griffin relief, a symbol of power, casts a menacing shadow in the candlelight.

These symbols, which once represented supreme power, now appear so cheap and ridiculous in the face of the gatekeeper's cold whispers, in which even destruction is deemed a mere tool of his "as you wish" pronouncements.

He raised his hand, clenching his fingers tightly so that his nails dug deep into his palm, causing a sharp pain.

This pain was like a steel needle, briefly piercing the immense, suffocating feeling that had almost silenced him.

"Hoo..." A long, slightly trembling breath was squeezed out from deep within his chest.

Cheer up?

These two words are like a brand, imprinted on the surface of consciousness.

Where is there any room for recovery?
The gatekeeper sent him back, not to give him a chance to catch his breath, but as a cold command:
Go and set up the battlefield.

Send him and his enemies to the final "slaughterhouse" designated by the gatekeeper.

He only has one chance!
(End of this chapter)