Willingly, I Become Your Dawn

In every sense, it was a day of celebration.

Burddale, at the forefront of imperial expansion, had secured a decisive victory by conquering Natvan’s territory, and Captain Andrew Blackwood had played a key role in that triumph by devising the winning strategy.

To honor the nation’s returning heroes, Emperor Marthitis Antonio hosted a grand festival in their honor.

Burddale was a formidable empire, built on extraordinary economic growth and reinforced by overwhelming military power. Yet for Marthitis, that was never enough. To preserve the empire’s prestige, he waged the most dangerous wars without hesitation, regardless of the risks. Any force that dared oppose his rule was crushed mercilessly.

As a result, Burddale rose to become one of the world’s greatest powers.

However, beneath that glory, the imperial court had begun to decay, its foundations eroding into nothing more than the hollow remnants of hereditary rule.

And in such a time, a festival was held to celebrate a war hero’s return.

Andrew stood by the window of the residence prepared for him — a personal favor from the Emperor to a mere field officer — and looked down at the crowds cheering below.

Yet to him, it all felt distant. It was as though he were watching someone else’s story unfold.

“Despite his great achievements, it seems my cousin is not particularly pleased with how things have turned out.”

Marthitis reclined lazily in his winged chair, gazing at Andrew, who stood before him.

Perhaps because he had not inherited any of his mother’s imperial blood, Andrew bore no resemblance to the emperor, either physically or personality-wise.

His cold, pale eyes met Marthitis’.

“Even setting aside the lack of mourning for the countless unnamed soldiers who were sacrificed… I find this difficult to understand, Your Majesty.”

“……”

“The number of imperial troops who set out for war has been drastically reduced. Surely that has not escaped Your Majesty’s notice.”

The war ended in a decisive victory for the Burddale Empire.

But beneath that triumph lay a grim truth: fallen soldiers had been cast aside and piled up like discarded straw.

The emperor chose to ignore it all.

Intoxicated by victory, he proclaimed that imperial expansion and war were the keys to economic prosperity and imposing order on the world.

Andrew let out a quiet, bitter laugh.

This was not a war worthy of being called a great victory.

Beneath the banner of war, there had been people.

There had been inhuman sacrifice.

There had been senseless destruction.

Every aspect of it was grotesque and deeply repugnant.

This was why Andrew had not appeared at the festival celebrating the returning war heroes.

“How amusing. Those are not the words I would expect from the very man who stood at the front lines and crushed the Natvan army.”

“……”

“Are you trying to play the hypocrite now? From none other than the illustrious Duke of Blackwood?”

Marthitis could not fathom Andrew’s attitude.

A proud noble of imperial blood and heir to a distinguished lineage, the Duke of Blackwood was the second most powerful man in Burddale after the emperor.

Marthitis Antonio had lived in Andrew’s shadow since childhood and been subjected to endless unwanted comparisons.

While Andrew excelled in all things, Marthitis — slow in speech and awkward in manner — was quietly regarded as a burden.

In order to preserve his ties with the House of Blackwood, Marthitis suppressed the resentment that had long taken root within him.

True to his family’s legacy as soldiers, Andrew had once appeared to obey the imperial family’s commands unquestioningly, just as his ancestors had done.

However, at some point, the young duke began to drift from that path, which stirred something sharp and bitter in Marthitis.

Andrew did not bow his head to the emperor.

Although he had accepted the fate imposed on the Blackwood family, he did nothing to hide his hostility towards Marthitis.

Marthitis was certain of it: Andrew Blackwood was a dangerous man who would one day stab him in the back.

This belief was not based on reason, but on years of quiet inferiority and festering resentment.

“The Duke cast a vote against this war, didn’t he?”

Andrew remained silent.

His red lips were pressed tightly together, as if he were trying to swallow the turmoil within him.

Marthitis rose from his winged chair and approached him.

The sharp scent of whisky clung to him, assaulting Andrew’s senses.

Grinning and baring his white teeth, Marthitis let out a low, mocking laugh.

“What a pity, Andrew.”

“……”

“You would do well not to forget where your house’s roots lie.”

Like a deranged man, Marthitis’s unfocused gaze lingered on the reflection of an expressionless figure.

Andrew’s brow creased faintly as he felt Marthitis tap his shoulder.

“Come now, what’s done is done. Let’s just leave it at that, shall we?”

Without a second thought, Marthitis turned away with a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Ignoring his retreating figure, Andrew took a cigarette from the silver case on the console and put it in his mouth.

As the door closed, the tip of the cigarette lit up.

Smoke curled upwards in slow, heavy strands, drifting past his jet-black hair like lingering fog.

Outside, the city blazed with color, alive with celebration.

And yet, woven into that brilliance, were the cries of those weighed down by grief and regret.

Men dressed in black surged forward, silencing the shouting crowd.

Those who dared to protest against the tyrannical emperor were seized by the guards and dragged away into the darkness beyond.

The faint echoes of radicals and socialists pleading for peace lingered in his ears.

“End this barbaric imperialist interference!”

“Emperor Marthitis—take responsibility for shattering peace and relinquish your crown!”

“The Burddale Empire will collapse in ruin under Emperor Marthitis’s rule!”

His thoughts were a tangled mess, throbbing painfully.

Without hesitation, he drew the curtains, plunging the room into darkness.

All sound was immediately cut off, and a heavy stillness settled over him like the suffocating silence of the night just before the world falls asleep.

“What, are you dead?”

A sharp light pierced his closed eyelids.

Eventually, Andrew opened his eyes.

Despite the crushing fatigue and agonizing pain in his head, sleep would not come easily.

Lying on the sofa with the back of his hand pressed against his forehead, he looked up at the man towering over him.

“What a shame.”

Banton Bricklin smacked his lips and grinned. Holding a glass of clear vodka, he scanned the room at a leisurely pace.

His dull blonde hair was messier than usual — a fitting reflection of the rumors surrounding his wild lifestyle. He looked as though he had just returned from a night out on the town.

Andrew pushed himself up, groaning quietly.

His head felt as though it might split open.

“I’ve never found your family crest so cursed before. That phoenix of yours—makes it seem like the Blackwood family has more than one life. It’s downright unpleasant.”

“Stop making noise and shut your mouth, Banton.”

His voice was low and flat, tinged with irritation.

Banton shrugged indifferently and slumped onto the sofa beside him.

He set his glass on the table and reached for a decanter of water that had likely been prepared in advance. He poured himself a drink. He held it out to Andrew, who was still holding his forehead.

But Andrew didn’t even spare it a glance.

With a small, indifferent shrug, Banton put the glass back down.

“Every time you return from the front, you’re plagued with headaches. Don’t you think there’s something wrong with you?”

“……”

“Come on, now—”

“What are you up to?”

“Up to? What are you talking about?”

“You’re talking too much. That means you’re hiding something.”

‘Sharp as ever.’

Banton glanced at him sideways, then leaned back against the sofa. By sitting beside him rather than opposite, it was clear that he was hiding something.

All Andrew wanted was a moment of peace and quiet, a chance to rest.

But that small hope had already been dashed, along with any desire to stay in the capital.

The distant cheers and bursts of fireworks only worsened the pounding in his head.

Beside him, Banton tilted his head back and gazed up at the intricately patterned ceiling, then slowly closed his eyes.

“Heather is on her way here.”

He waited for the outburst that should have followed, but Andrew remained silent.

Banton slowly opened his eyes and turned to look at him. There was no visible change in Andrew’s expression.

Did he realize how threatening that quiet stillness was?

A bitter smile touched Banton’s lips.

“I was the one who told her.”

“Banton.”

“You could at least hit me. Don’t just sit there making the air feel this suffocating.”

Andrew dragged a dry hand across his face and lifted his head. Just as he opened his mouth to speak, there was a knock on the door.

When Banton answered it, a voice called out to him from outside.

Banton sprang to his feet.

This was his chance to escape the Duke of Blackwood alive.

“Wait a moment.”

He called out, flashing a sly grin as he stepped away from Andrew.

“We’ll talk later.”

Andrew watched him go, then loosened the tie around his neck.

The moment he heard Heather’s name, the face he had been trying so hard to forget appeared vividly before him — a pale, sorrowful face that refused to leave his mind.

“I’ll pray that you return safely to Burddale. Always.”

Just before he left for the war, she approached him, speaking in a quiet, steady voice.

He had walked past her without giving her a second thought.

Now, all he could remember was how pale her lips had been.

His throat burned.

Overcome by an intense thirst, he grabbed the glass on the table and drank its contents in one gulp.

A hot liquid slid down his throat.

Only then did he realize—

It wasn’t water.

It was alcohol.

He pulled the glass away at once, but it was already too late.

The liquor had already begun to take effect.