The Grand Duke's Son Is A Heretic

The lights on the stage dimmed once more, and a cold hush swept across the audience.

From behind a curtain of mist, a new scene emerged—vivid with snowfall and pale moonlight. On center stage stood the boy again, older now, clad in a soldier's tattered uniform, frost gathered on his pauldrons. And beside him, a radiant figure descended like a vision: the Ice Fairy.

She was adorned in silver and blue, her gown flowing like icy wind, her every step leaving behind a shimmer of frost. Her magic danced with elegance, tearing through demonic beasts with effortless precision. She was ethereal—an enigma of strength and silence.

The boy followed her across the battlefield. He no longer cowered. Though his sword trembled, he did not turn back. He mimicked her steps, stumbled at first, bled often, but never stopped. Scene by scene, act by act, he trained beneath the shadow of her brilliance—his body bruised, his spirit hardened.

Soft music swelled as the two shared a quiet moment beneath the shattered spires of a ruined church. Firelight flickered, snow fell gently, and he approached her, voice cracking with vulnerability. He confessed his love.

But the Ice Fairy turned away, face unreadable, and with trembling lips, whispered, "We cannot be together.."

"We are totally different and we aren't meant for one another."

A gentle gust of wind carried her words across the theater like blades.

He staggered back, devastated, while the audience held their breath.

"I see.."The man muttered softly.

She stood still, her eyes shining with unshed tears. As he turned to leave, a single droplet traced her cheek—crystalline sorrow that gleamed in the moonlight before vanishing into the snow.

The stage darkened momentarily.

When the lights returned, the backdrop shifted. Towering banners waved behind a fortress wall. Soldiers marched with determination. The boy—now a man—moved among them with a calm command. He had become a leader, a symbol of resilience.

Then a new character entered, a wiry man with wild hair and eccentric movements. Clad in soot-stained robes and dragging a toolbox behind him, he skittered onto the scene with exaggerated flair. Laughter rippled through the crowd.

The called him the King of Machines.

He and the warrior shared unlikely camaraderie—one of oil and gears, the other of steel and silence. Their chemistry was electric.

With every act, the boy received new inventions.Metal bracers, rifles that hummed with energy, gadgets that turned him into more than just a man.

The music quickened. Lights flashed with red and blue as the war escalated. Demons roared from the edge of the stage, lights dimmed with every death toll, and hope flickered low.

Then came a scene draped in white and gold.

A messenger handed the warrior a scroll sealed with a golden sigil.

A proclamation.

Trumpets blared softly as the setting transformed once again. Towering marble columns, glowing mosaics, and a divine choir's harmony framed the next moment. The man entered a sacred chamber guided by priests in flowing robes. The audience fell silent.

Before him, a towering statue of the Goddess stood—serene, with open arms, carved from moonstone. He fell to his knees. The music dropped to a tender, trembling note.

And then—voice alone—a sound not from stage but from the very air.

A woman's voice. Motherly. Celestial.

[Dear child, you have worked hard.]

The man looked up, and his face crumpled with tears. His whole body shook—not with fear or pain—but a release he had never known.

[I have been watching you, my dear… I am proud of what you have become, and all that you have done.]

The audience blinked away tears of their own as the warrior sobbed in the stillness, framed by divine light.

For once in his life, he was seen as a disappointment, not as a coward, but as enough.

And as the scene faded slowly into darkness, with the statue glowing faintly behind him,

The scene on stage deepened, bathed in a surreal golden hue, as if divinity itself had descended. A soft halo surrounded the statue of the Goddess, whose presence now felt alive, her voice echoing not just through the auditorium, but into the hearts of those watching.

The warrior knelt, his face streaked with tears—tears not born of pain but of unburdening. The long years of silence, solitude, rejection, and betrayal seemed to lift like mist. After the celestial words of praise, he looked up, his voice small and uncertain.

"Why… why have you called me here, my Goddess?" he asked.

The statue did not move, but the warm, graceful voice returned—its tone now solemn, heavier with truth.

[The demons rage not alone. They are guided, empowered… by Evil Gods.]

Gasps rippled through the audience like a wave. Even on stage, the actor portraying the man froze, his widened eyes illuminated by an upward spotlight.

"We—Orthodox Gods—are not the only ones in existence," the Goddess continued. "There are others... those who thrive in chaos and shadow.

The man's expression turned from awe to confusion, then dread. "Then... the war can't be won… not against gods…"

The voice softened, yet carried a sharp undertone.

"Which is why, My Child… I have chosen you. The humans need a hand to tilt the scale. A whisper of disruption in the dark. Someone to infiltrate, to learn, to sabotage from within."

The man stumbled back, his hands shaking. "You mean… me? As a double agent? In the demon realm!?"

He stood, pacing in frantic denial. "But… why me? Why not the hero or Someone better?"

The golden light pulsed slowly, and the voice answered with calm certainty.

"Because the demons would never accept a man of light. They will see through lies but.."

The man froze again.

"And you, My Child… you carry grievances in your heart so deep, they scar your very soul. Resentment for the family that scorned you. Hatred for those who mocked your efforts. Fury at a world that made you claw and crawl."

He trembled. His knees buckled, and he sank to the floor, breathing unevenly. He wanted to argue, to deny her—but the Goddess knew him too well. Every word struck true, like arrows into his chest.

A pause.

Then came a sudden shift—an unexpected warmth.

A slender, luminous hand, shimmering like morning frost, extended from the statue. It reached down, resting gently upon his head.

He flinched at first, but then—his body relaxed.

""You won't be sent empty-handed," she said, her voice like sunlight through stained glass. "For your burden, I offer a gift—my ultimate blessing."

The audience leaned forward. Even the background orchestra paused, letting the silence stretch.

The man looked up, barely able to form the words. "What… what is it?"

The light above flared brighter, casting divine runes across the walls and floor.

"Lost even to the oldest kings. I bestow upon you the power of SSS-rank Swordsmanship."

The hall filled with whispers of awe. The very mention of such a blessing sent chills down the viewers' spines. The man on stage fell silent, gazing at his own hands as if seeing them anew.

And then—the audience watched as spectral swords danced around him, memories of all the great swordmasters of time swirling in radiant arcs, etching themselves into his very soul. The music swelled—a rising crescendo of fate.