The Tyrant's Happy Ending - Chapter 12.2

Realizing this, Lyle sensed for the first time that something was deeply amiss. Everything felt suspicious. His instincts screamed at him not to leave the capital, warning that if he did, he would never see Yernen again.

But Lyle pushed that nagging feeling aside.

He knew his instincts were often right, but at that moment, he couldn’t let them guide him.

He had no choice but to return to the Grand Duchy. As the heir, he had to claim the title of Grand Duke and oversee the burial rites for his parents, whose bodies still awaited their final rest. So Lyle chose to leave Yernen’s side and return north.

It was a choice he never would have made if he had been thinking clearly. He should have trusted his instincts and dug deeper into what was happening. But he didn’t, and as soon as he arrived in the north, he paid the price for his hasty decision.

‘… It was hell.’

Lyle’s lips curled into a bitter smile as he recalled that time.

From that moment, everything fell apart.

The day he arrived at the Grand Duchy, before the funeral or the succession ceremony could take place, an imperial army stormed in.

The charge against him was treason.

Lyle and his loyal retainers, caught off guard by the sudden assault, were overwhelmed without a chance to resist.

He was fitted with mana-restraining cuffs and thrown into a dungeon, forced to watch helplessly as his parents’ bodies were desecrated, his home trampled, and the duchy laid to waste by the invading soldiers.

The residents of his domain were stripped of their property, reduced to serfs, and enslaved in the mines, forbidden from leaving. The sounds of whips cracking and screams of pain echoed through the thick walls of the prison into the dark confines where Lyle was held.

But there was nothing Lyle could do for them. All he could do was escape, aided by the few loyal retainers who risked everything to save him.

As he fled, the cries of the townsfolk begging for their lives haunted him, their voices clinging to him like chains and inflaming the guilt in his heart.

Still, Lyle did not turn back.

He kept repeating to himself that returning would only mean dying a senseless death alongside them. The only way to save everyone was to prove the innocence of the Grand Duchy.

If only he could reach Yernen, if only Yernen could vouch for his parents’ innocence…! Then everything could be set right.
And so, Lyle buried the heavy guilt deep in his heart and pressed on.

But during the long journey to the capital, through countless life-or-death encounters as they eluded pursuers and struggled through adversity, Yernen never responded to any of the messages Lyle sent.

The only answer he received was from Yernen’s chief attendant, Dave, who said, “His Highness does not wish to respond at this time.”

‘…….’

Doubt began to take root in Lyle’s mind. What if this had all been Yernen’s plan from the start?

“This is all by the emperor’s order, at the prince’s behest.”
“Did you really think the prince wanted to marry you?”

“Don’t you know that His Majesty already has someone else lined up as the prince’s fiancé?”

Those were the taunts Lyle had heard repeatedly from the nobles who tortured him in the Grand Duchy’s dungeons. He hadn’t believed them then, but now, with the situation as it was, he started to wonder if there was truth in their words.

This suspicion intertwined with the growing distance he had felt with Yernen, leading him to a single conclusion.

Perhaps, from the start, Yernen had already abandoned him.
Months of torture and the grueling journey had weakened Lyle’s body and mind. His fraying resolve gave weight to his doubts, and by the time he reached the capital, his mind was consumed with suspicion and anger toward Yernen.

The old retainers of the Grand Duchy, who had raised him, tried to reassure him, saying it wasn’t true, that Yernen would make everything right once they met.

These retainers had taught Lyle almost everything—how to hunt beasts, survive in the wilderness, wield a sword. He rarely trusted anyone, but these men were different. Their wisdom, forged through years of experience, was rarely wrong.

But… this time, they were mistaken, and Lyle was right.

There were countless sacrifices made on the way to the capital. When they first rescued him from the dungeon, Lyle had ten loyal retainers by his side. By the time they reached the capital, only one remained.

The elderly knight, hair as white as snow, was the commander of the Beltimore Duchy’s knights and the man who had taught Lyle how to wield a sword.

“Your Highness.”

The old knight, lips stained with bl00d, managed a bright smile.
“Live. Live to meet Yernen, and clear all our injustices.”
And with his last act, the knight succeeded in getting Lyle inside the palace.

Only Lyle made it in.

It was easy to guess what happened to the knight after that.
Was he worth it? Lyle kept asking himself as he dodged those who sought to catch him, racing toward Yernen’s quarters.

The retainers of the Grand Duchy were extraordinary men. If they had fled and sought refuge with another noble, any one of them would have been taken in without hesitation.

But they sacrificed themselves for Lyle, for the people of the duchy. Only he would carry the memory of the depth of their loyalty.

So, Lyle reached Yernen at the cost of countless, irreplaceable lives. But what awaited him was a cold rejection.

“Ainz.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Remove him.”

With those words, Yernen turned and left. The disbelief and fury inside Lyle exploded in a scream.

Had there ever been a moment more bitter than this?

He had sacrificed so much, and only after paying that steep price did he finally reach Yernen. Yet Yernen wouldn’t even look at him. Not even a glance…!

To Lyle, who had lost his parents, retainers, and everything dear to him, only Yernen remained.

Yernen was the only one he had left to protect and the only one who could protect him. And Yernen had turned him away, as if all the doubts festering in his mind had been true.

Lyle was captured by the emperor’s knights and dragged before the emperor. The nobles standing in the grand hall sneered at the sight of him, battered and collapsed on the floor.

The emperor, smirking just like the other nobles, looked down at him from the throne and spoke.

“Yernen has ordered that you be branded as a war slave and sent to the northern front.”

“W-what…?”

Lyle, stunned by the emperor’s words, could barely comprehend.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

He glared at the emperor, grinding his teeth.

“Yernen wouldn’t do that. Let me see him…!”

“Yernen said he doesn’t wish to see you, so I can’t grant that request. If that’s all you have to say…”

The emperor gestured to the knights restraining Lyle.

“Strip him.”

The knights tore at Lyle’s clothes, and a brazier was brought into the hall, as if it had been prepared in advance.

Descending from the throne, the emperor personally heated the branding iron and pressed it onto Lyle’s left shoulder blade.

“Ahhh!”

The sickening smell of burning flesh filled the air. Lyle struggled wildly, but the knights holding him only gripped him harder, their iron-clad hands unyielding. All Lyle could do was scream in pain.

Laughter rang out from the gathered nobles, their mocking laughter resonating like a sick victory as they watched him writhe.

“Take him away.”

The emperor’s cold voice cut through the air, and the knights dragged Lyle away like an animal, chains rattling as they pulled him out in front of everyone.

Lyle resisted, but his body, weakened by days without proper food or water, had no strength left. The slave brand sealing his mana weighed on him like lead.

Eventually, Lyle was thrown into a decrepit iron cage and loaded onto a carriage bound for the northern warfront.

The weather grew colder as they traveled north. Many of the slaves died from the biting cold before they even reached their destination. The stench of rotting corpses inside the carriage was suffocating. Lyle wished desperately to die with them.

He had nothing left. No home, no family, no status, not even the one he loved. There was no reason for him to go on living.
But still, Lyle survived. His stubborn will to live wouldn’t let him die.

Thrown into a foreign battlefield, unarmed, he fought his way through the front lines by stealing the weapons of his enemies, cutting down countless foes to survive.

In the end, he survived.

Even as the aristocratic commanders from the eastern provinces, who had tortured and beaten him relentlessly, perished in the flames of war. Even when a large-scale spell exploded right before him.

Everyone around him died, yet Lyle alone survived.

One ear deafened and half his body scarred beyond recognition, he was no longer the man he once was.

He didn’t keep track of the days. He had no attachment to life that would make him care about the passage of time. He simply continued to exist as long as he could draw breath.

But he wasn’t just an emotionless tool surviving on the battlefield.

When people from the Grand Duchy, now reduced to slaves, recognized him and begged for their lives, pleaded to return to their families, he could do nothing but close their eyes when they died, bodies left to rot in unmarked fields, prey to scavengers.

Those moments darkened the fire in his eyes.

Years passed on the battlefield. And one night, someone came for him.

“Is it really you, Your Highness?”

It was Stephan, Valen, and Austern—friends from his once-bright youth.

They told him how the emperor’s sword had never left the north, even after Lyle’s disappearance, dooming many noble families. They had fled to escape the emperor’s reach and spent years searching for him to help rebuild the north.

“We can’t stay here. We must escape and plan for the future.”
That was their plea. But Lyle had no intention of leaving. He had no will to rebuild his family, nor any desire to live.

The war slave brand sealed his mana, and years had passed since it was placed. Even if it were removed, the chance of him regaining his power was slim.

So, Lyle ignored their desperate pleas.

“This isn’t like you, Your Highness.”

Valen struck him in frustration.

“…Hah.”

Lyle looked at the trembling fist.

“Then what can I do? I can’t clear my name, nor can I escape this battlefield.”

As a high-risk prisoner, Lyle was under constant watch. There was no way he could leave the battlefield.

Stephan, voice trembling with urgency, called to his retreating figure.

“Your Highness, you are the Duke of Beltimore! You have a duty, a duty to protect everyone in the north…!”

“……”

“Don’t you know how many northerners are on this battlefield? That they are dying day after day…! You must find them, protect them, save them. Just as Yernen always…!”

“Enough.”

Lyle glared at Stephan, eyes brimming with hatred. Stephan, realizing his mistake, fell silent.

“Get out.”

And so, Lyle turned away from the friends who had come all the way to the battlefield to find him and headed back to the fray.
‘Lyle Beltimore.’

But even as he pushed them away, a voice echoed in his mind.
‘Do you know when a noble is most noble?’

An all-too-familiar, hate-filled voice.

‘A noble is most noble when they reach out to the weakest, when they save those who need a savior. That is when a noble becomes a true noble.’

That damned voice.

It was the most detestable person he had ever known. The one who had dragged him down to this inescapable, wretched abyss.