Enough with Dying as an Extra chapter 27

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Upon returning from the Principality of Merien Principality to the Eris Empire, Herel did not head straight for the castle.

Instead, he went to the information guild, preparing to clear Vivisian’s name.

Throughout the debriefing from Julie, who had managed the guild in his absence, his expression remained cold and unreadable.

Vivisian’s body refused to burn.

Heretics were emerging across the territory.

Talks of Vivisian’s innocence were spreading.

Upon hearing that last part, Herel—usually so skilled at concealing emotions—showed an unmistakable look of despair.

If he had known public sentiment could shift so easily, he would have tried harder to persuade Vivisian.

But then again, knowing Vivisian, he would have stubbornly refused to change his mind, even to the end.

That thought left Herel feeling even more despondent.

He lifted a hand to his face, covering his grief.

Julie, as the vice guild master and a keeper of much information, did not question his emotions.

She simply waited, allowing him the time he needed to compose himself.

Once she judged that he had calmed down enough, she resumed her report.

“And we’ve also captured the one you mentioned, Master. He tried his best to hide, but after hearing of the former duke’s death, he walked right out of hiding, making it easy to catch him.”

For the first time, Herel’s grim expression shifted—but not in a good way.

It wasn’t relief, but a cruel amusement that loosened his face.

He laughed soundlessly, mocking the fool who had fled thinking he was safe, only to be caught so easily.

Then, he stopped laughing and asked in a low voice,

“What is the current duke’s reputation?”

“It’s terrible. Regardless of his skills or character, the former duke’s influence was simply too great. People see him as the one who drove the previous duke out. They’re not loud about it since they know their own hands aren’t clean either, but there’s a strong undercurrent of sympathy for Lord Vivisian.”

It was the perfect situation to execute his plans.

And yet, Herel didn’t look pleased in the slightest.

Gazing out the window with sunken eyes, he slowly closed them.

The once-gentle-faced “Asis” was long gone, leaving only a man steeped in shadows.

The young, beautiful duke—who once said he’d rather die than be pitied—was still lodged deep in Herel’s mind.

In his thoughts, Vivisian still lived.

He moved, breathed, spoke.

Tracing his memory of that lively figure, Herel murmured,

“It’s so easy. To hate someone. To pity someone you killed.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Pity was never meant for Vivisian.

The only thing people should feel for him—was regret.

“And the only thing left for me to do… is regret.”

In a voice eerily light, he delivered his own sentence.

If Vivisian were alive, he would have told Herel there was no reason for him to regret anything.

That he had done his best, and Vivisian had chosen to let the truth remain buried.

That he had no reason to feel guilt.

But the dead do not speak.

And for those left behind, there was nothing to do but regret.

Julie watched as Herel’s expression darkened further, then silently excused herself.

Left alone in the vast room, he stood motionless in a patch of sunlight.

Once, in life, Vivisian had never received a single glance of kindness.

And now, in death, he was pitied by many.

In his final moments…

Had Vivisian thought of him?

“…No.”

With great difficulty, Herel forced out an answer, swallowing back a groan.

Vivisian was not the kind of person people called a demon.

But he was never a gentle man, nor was he someone so weak that he would think of anything else in the moment of his death—one he had clearly anticipated for a long time.

Even Sia, whom he cherished so dearly, likely hadn’t occupied even the smallest corner of his mind at that moment.

That thought alone brought Herel some solace, and he let out a hollow laugh.

To think such things about a child who had cried as if he had lost the entire world over Vivisian’s death—it was hardly a mature reaction.

“Thank you for everything, Herel.”

If he was truly grateful, he should have asked for help.

He should have fought to justify himself, clung to life, struggled to survive.

He shouldn’t have… he shouldn’t have died like that.

“You should have lived, even if you had to say over and over that you thought you were dying, like everyone else! Instead of dying without ever once saying it was hard, you should have at least said it was hard!”

Herel screamed as if tearing his throat apart and collapsed where he stood.

They said he had lost control due to overuse of his abilities.

That he had coughed up blood without a trace of regret on his face.

That he had taken his own life before his rampage could claim anyone else.

But Herel, who had seen Vivisian without prejudice for months, knew the truth.

He hadn’t been caught up in an accident—he had planned this.

And the more Herel thought about it, the more rage consumed him.

They called it suicide, but Herel knew there were countless reasons that had driven him to that point.

As long as those reasons remained unresolved, he could never fully mourn Vivisian’s death.

Like a man in prayer, Herel lowered himself to the ground.

“You… and my sister… Why did you have to die so easily, only to leave behind scars?”

The ones who truly deserved to die lived shamelessly.

So why was it you who had to die…?

Resting his forehead against the cold floor, he murmured bitterly—and at last, the tears came.

✽ ✽ ✽

A few days later, after making all the necessary preparations, Herel stormed into the castle, gripping the former butler by the collar.

All for the sake of Vivisian’s honor.

God had remained silent in the face of such an unjust death.

And so, a man who no longer believed in divine justice chose to clear his beloved’s name with his own hands.

The former butler, clinging to life, confessed his crimes with ease.

That day, everyone learned the truth: the one truly guilty had lived in comfort, enjoying everything life had to offer, only to die peacefully, while an innocent man had suffered.

Yet the fools, who always believed their own sins to be light and others’ sins to be heavy, were no different this time either.

Weary of their refusal to accept the truth, Herel turned away from them and walked toward the prison where Vivisian’s body had been laid to rest.

“Please… Just kill me already….”

That voice, which had often whispered in restless sleep, brushed past his ears.

Raising a trembling hand, Herel touched his ear, where the voice had lingered.

The words of a dead man rang far too clearly.

“If you were going to leave such a deep mark, you shouldn’t have died.”

Muttering to himself in bitter resentment, he stepped into the prison.

His lone footsteps echoed in the dark space.

The air inside was even damper and more suffocating than outside, and his expression twisted in discomfort.

The moss-covered stone floor kept threatening to slip beneath his feet.

Bracing himself against the cold walls, he continued forward.

Vivisian’s solitary cell was at the very end.

Herel stopped in front of the iron bars, unable to step inside.

A single, small window let in a sliver of sunlight, casting a pale glow over the space—an image of deprivation itself.

It was suffocating, leaving him at a loss for words.

Vivisian lay on the crude excuse of a bed, still and quiet, as if merely sleeping.

Herel hesitated, then finally pushed open the door.

It creaked open with a chilling sound, having not been locked.

The cell was so small that he barely took a few steps before his legs bumped against the bed.

He let out a hollow chuckle at the cramped space.

The only sound in the oppressive silence was the occasional murmur from outside.

Yet the man who had always looked at him with concern whenever he seemed the slightest bit troubled gave no reaction now.

Despite sharing the same space, Vivisian wasn’t looking at him.

And that unbearable emptiness made Herel sink to his knees.

The moment they touched the ground, a bone-chilling cold seeped into him.

His nose had long since been numbed by the stench of rusting iron and the foul smell unique to prisons.

Now, he couldn’t smell anything at all.

His trembling fingers hovered uselessly in the air, unable to reach the lifeless body before him.

When he finally grasped Vivisian’s hand, Herel let out a breath of pure despair.

“How did you even survive in a place like this? And after finally making it out, why didn’t you live? Why did you have to die again?”

Of course, Vivisian gave no answer to his resentful questioning.

When Herel finally regained a shred of composure and raised his head, he saw a face at peace.

The man who had always twisted in agony, even in sleep, looked as if he had finally found tranquility.

Looking at him, Herel thought—just for a moment—that he wanted to die, too.

He stood up on unsteady feet, staring down at Vivisian’s motionless form.

Lifting him carefully, he was startled by how light he felt, as if there were no soul left in his body.

From criminal to temporary duke.

And back to a criminal again.

His body, neither burned nor buried, had been returned to this prison.

Yet now, the warm sunlight pouring down on him seemed to prove his innocence.

His face, still so clean despite being abandoned in a prison, looked as though he could open his eyes at any moment.

The sight sent a wave of shock rippling through the gathered crowd.

Among them, Haen, who had run from the ducal estate upon hearing Herel had arrived, slowly stepped forward with an unreadable expression.

He reached out, running his fingers gently down Vivisian’s cheek—still warm, as if he were alive.

Then, in a whisper, he asked,

“Vivisian, my friend. Answer me. Did you really commit no sin?”

Was I really wrong?

Despite his gentle voice, his expression remained stiff.

It had been nearly two weeks since Vivisian’s death.

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