(Chapter 42 Fortress of Meropide)
Across every city and corner of Fontaine, citizens eagerly consumed the latest edition of the Steambird. The headline title, "The End of House Proudmoore?" The report detailed the shocking events surrounding Tempest Proudmoore, from his uprising to the brutal slaying of his Father. As the people of Fontaine read through the grim account, there was little shock or disbelief. Instead, a sense of morbid acceptance pervaded the nation, after all, what else could be expected from the traitorous clan? To them, the idea of the Proudmoores turning on one another was far from surprising, it merely confirmed the terrible reputation that had long shadowed the house.
But little did they know, none knew the dark schemes Tempest's Father had been planning in the shadows. No one knew the truth, that Tempest once wielded the divine power of Ra. And without any proof to back his actions, the very rebellion he had sparked could lead to his execution. The weight of this reality filled him with deep regret, especially knowing that even Lady Furina, whom he had hoped might understand, did not believe him. The burden of being both misunderstood and distrusted was almost too much to bear.
"Dad!"
Navia, having just heard the news, burst into her father's office with a sense of urgency. Callas sat behind his desk, reading the latest edition of the Steambird, his brow furrowed with worry and concern.
"What's going on?! Tempest! He's been arrested!"
Navia shouted, her voice trembling with worry.
"It's alright, Navia. He will get out soon, I promise you."
He tried to reassure his daughter, though the weight of the situation was evident in his own eyes.
"Those weren't true, right? Tempest, would never do those things right?"
Navia asked, her voice trembling with disbelief and a glimmer of hope.
Callas looked at his daughter, his expression a mixture of sorrow and hesitation. He paused, weighing the decision to reveal the truth or agree with her.
"Mm... You're right, Tempest would never do those things."
Callas replied Navia's face beamed with a large smile.
"He's innocent! He'll be free in no time!"
Navia shouted.
'I knew this day would come, but I never anticipated how deeply his actions would affect my daughter, more than they have impacted me...'
Callas thought to himself.
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"You killed your Father?"
Tempest asked Wriothesley.
"I did. I killed both of my foster parents, and I got sentenced here. To be quite honest, you can't beat the court without solid evidence. It's quite unfair. But I can't say I regret anything though, at least I'm out of that hellhole."
Wriothesley replied, with no regrets in his voice, his eyes then darted to Constantine.
"'And you must be Constantine, the one they call, the Blademaster, hm. I'm a big fan."
Wriothesley said with a smirk, crossing his arms and leaning casually against the wall.
"Why, thank you! It's a pleasure to meet a fellow convict as well, mind telling us how we get these coupons?"
Constantine asked Wriothesley.
"The easiest way to get them is to work at the Production Zone. Though you can also earn a lot by beating other inmates in the Pankration Ring."
Wriothesley replied to Constantine.
"We can earn by beating others, ey? Hmph, I do love a good brawl. Mind leading us there? Wrio?"
Constantine said, cracking his knuckles with a mischievous smile. Wriothesley raised an eyebrow, taken aback as Constantine casually called him 'Wrio.'
"Why not."
Wriothesley replied, gesturing for Tempest and Constantine to follow him.
"You alright? Young Master? You've been quiet the whole conversation."
Constantine asked Tempest, Tempest's hand was on his forehead.
"I'm feeling a slight headache... Let's just get this over with."
Constantine nodded in acknowledgment. The two then followed Wriothesley to an elevator, which began its slow descent.
"So. What's the rules?"
Constantine asked Wriothesley.
"It's simple, you sign up first with Roussimof, then just beat the other contestants. Do note, that your opponents will be stronger every next round. Heck, they might even send a Gardemek at you if you manage to beat everyone."
Wriothesley replied to Constantine, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. Quite eager to see how the 'Blademaster' fights without his swords.
"Hm, simple enough."
Constantine responded with a nod of agreement. As the elevator slid open, it revealed a large, ring at the center of the room. Surrounding it, a crowd of spectators cheered and roared, their excitement filling the air. The atmosphere was charged with anticipation.
"And once again! Gallagher, The Iron Fist! Emerge victorious!"
The host of the Pankration Ring's announcement echoed through the arena, capturing the attention of the crowd. Cheers erupted from some sections as their bets paid off. Others, however, wore disappointed expressions, their hopes dashed as the fighter they had wagered on fell to the Iron Fist.
"Anyone next!? I bet all my coupons to whoever beat me!"
his voice carrying across the arena. He gestured boldly toward the crowd, his fingers outstretched in a taunting invitation.
"You hear that folks?! Is there anyone willing to challenge, the Iron Fist?!"
The host's voice echoed through the arena as he shouted to the crowd, but a palpable silence fell over the spectators. Not a single soul dared to make a move, their apprehension evident as they exchanged nervous glances. The fear of risking their bones in a fight against the formidable Iron Fist kept everyone rooted to their seats.
"I will."
Constantine raised his hand, shattering the tense silence and stepping forward to accept the challenge. His bold gesture drew the eyes of the entire arena, a mix of shock and curiosity rippling through the crowd. With a confident smirk on his face, Constantine's readiness to face the formidable Iron Fist was clear.
"Watch me you two."
Constantine said to Tempest and Wriothesley, with a smirk, he then climbed up the stairs to the ring.
"What's this?! An old man dares to challenge me?! Hahahaha! The Iron Fist?! I'll give you ten seconds to step off the ring old man!"
The Iron Fist burst into laughter, his booming voice echoing through the arena as he mocked Constantine's boldness. The spectators joined in, their jeers and taunts filling the air, dismissing Constantine as just another fool daring to challenge the undefeated champion.
"Hmph, save your words, for when you win."
Constantine smirked as he calmly removed his shirt, revealing a muscular, battle-hardened physique covered in scars, each one a testament to countless battles fought. The crowd's laughter quickly died down, replaced by a stunned silence as they took in the sight. He tossed his shirt to the side and assumed a fighting stance, his eyes locked onto the Iron Fist with a look of unshakable confidence.
"Oh! Who would've expected this?! Just who is this old man?!"
The host shouted to the crowd, trying to reignite the excitement that had briefly faltered. Iron Fist, momentarily thrown off by Constantine's imposing physique, flinched before quickly shaking off his hesitation and assuming his fighting stance. From the sidelines, Tempest and Wriothesley observed intently. Wriothesley let out an impressed whistle as he took in Constantine's scarred and chiseled form.
"Didn't know your old man was that chiseled."
Wriothesley said to Tempest, his head turning to him.
"He's not my Father, well... He's the closest one that acts like one to me."
Tempest replied.
"Mhm, well, you've got a good one."
Wriothesley smiled as he replied.
"How long have you been here?"
"Two years. Told you earlier, I got sentenced when I was sixteen. I killed my foster parents to save the other kids. Those guys treated us like livestock..."
Wriothesley replied, his tone shifting from lighthearted to somber as his expression darkened, recalling memories that he had tried to bury.
"You from the House of Hearth?"
"House of what? No, never heard of that. In the place I grew up, the elders treated us like tools, forcing the kids to marry old nobles..."
Wriothesley replied.
"I see, my apologies, for asking."
Tempest apologized quietly, and Wriothesley gave a brief nod, acknowledging the sentiment without a word. Both turned their attention back to the ring, only to be taken aback by what they saw unfolding before them.
"Ladies and Gentlemen! We have a new champion!"
The host shouted, his voice echoing through the arena. In the ring, Constantine stood tall, towering over the fallen Iron Fist. His expression was a mix of fury and disappointment as he gazed down at his defeated opponent.
"Get up! That was it?! And you call yourself, Iron Fist?! Your punches feel like I'm being tickled!"
Constantine roared in anger and charged at the unconscious Iron Fist, his fury driving him to the brink of losing control. Just as he was about to strike, the Fortress Gardes intervened, rushing in to hold him back before he could land another blow. They struggled to restrain him, preventing him from delivering what could have been a fatal attack.
"Well, he can be short-tempered, when his fighting, especially people that don't take him seriously."
Tempest said to Wriothesley.
"I can see that..."
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At the Coupon Cafeteria, three figures sat around a table, enjoying a feast fit for kings, courtesy of Constantine's recent victory. The bounty of coupons he earned from the fight was more than enough to sustain them all for an entire year within the Fortress of Meropide.
"Thanks for the food you two."
Wriothesley drank his final drink and spoke.
"Leaving already?"
Constantine said, his mouth full of food.
"Unfortunately, I promised I'd help Sigewinne, the head nurse here in the Fortress. Well, thanks again."
Wriothesley said as he got up from the table.
"I'll see you two around."
Wriothesley said Tempest and Constantine nodded, they both watched Wriothesley walk away.
"Didn't know they had wine down here."
Constantine said as he gulped down an entire wine bottle.
"You're eating light, Young Master."
Constantine glanced over at Tempest, noticing that his plate was still mostly untouched. Tempest sat with his hand resting on his forehead, lost in thought, seemingly oblivious to the feast before him.
"My head hurts... And it's burning..."
Tempest replied.
"Shall we go to the infirmary?"
Constantine suggested.
"It's fine... I'm going to our room, I want to lay my head down..."
Tempest spoke with a weary tone, then pushed himself away from the table and made his way toward their cell. His steps were heavy, his vision slightly blurred as he struggled to keep his focus.
"I'll come with you."
Constantine rose from the table, leaving behind a wealth of untouched food. Despite the feast, his attention was now solely on Tempest, who had retreated to their cell.
After a brief walk, they arrived at their cell. Tempest immediately collapsed onto the bed, his exhaustion palpable.
"Mmpf!"
Tempest groaned in discomfort as he lay on the bed, which was uncomfortably hard. The contrast to his bed back at the mansion, which felt like a cloud, was jarring and reminded him he had to sleep in this same bed for three days.
"Careful... I'll go get a wet towel, in the infirmary, stay here."
Constantine said, and Tempest nodded in response, Constantine then shortly exited the cell.
'What in seven hells is happening to me? I was fine just a while ago...'
Tempest thought to himself as the fever intensified with each passing moment. He placed his hand over his eyes in an attempt to shield himself from the growing discomfort and hoped that sleep would bring him some relief.
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"According to the judgment of the Oratrice Mecanique D'analyse Cardinale, Tempest Proudmoore is-"
Tempest found himself in a dream, standing on the grand stage of the Opera Epiclese. On the middle of the stage, was another Tempest, the real Tempest's eyes darted around the opulent theater. The audience, adorned with smiling theater masks, watched intently. Even his Uncle Gardon, high on the balcony, wore one of those masks, his expression hidden behind its cheerful facade.
"-Guilty, and shall be sentenced to execution."
Neuvillette delivered the verdict with a solemn tone, and the real Tempest's eyes widened in shock. Was this a vision of the future, unfolding before him? The weight of the moment felt palpable as if the dream were revealing a glimpse of what was to come.
The real Tempest's gaze shifted upwards, and he saw Neuvillette, who was also donning the same smiling mask. The scene then abruptly shifted. In this new vision, Tempest found himself on a guillotine, his head resting in the cold, unforgiving stocks while the blade loomed ominously above. The crowd surrounding him buzzed with an unsettling energy, their faces hidden behind identical masks. At the heart of the crowd stood Furina, her expression obscured but unmistakable as she, too, wore the same haunting mask.
Suddenly, the blade descended with a swift, merciless motion, severing the dream Tempest's head from his body in a single, brutal strike. The severed head rolled and came to a stop at the real Tempest's feet, rolling to rest directly at his boots. As he stared in horrified disbelief, the masked crowd around him began to turn in unison, their movements slow and deliberate, their eyes fixed on him with an eerie, collective gaze. The unsettling silence of their masked faces was almost as chilling as the gruesome spectacle that had just unfolded before him.
"You. Are. Guilty."