Bound To The Dead: The Deceptive Class-E Farmer
Chapter 88: The Second Proposal

Chapter 88: The Second Proposal

Morning came heavy over Carreon’s royal court.

No music played. No banners fluttered. The air was thick with silence.

Nobles stood in tight rows, their robes still, eyes flicking toward the doors. Generals and advisors whispered in low voices, their expressions cautious.

At the far end of the hall, King Belmont sat with his hands folded, lips tight.

Mikaela stood at his side, dressed in silver and blue robes. She did not speak. Her posture was straight, but her hands trembled slightly beneath her sleeves.

Everyone had heard the news.

An envoy from Velcro was coming.

The kingdom of the dead. The land ruled by King Azar Mandela, the necromancer king feared across the sea.

Velcro had remained quiet for months after the failed wedding.

But today, that silence would break.

And no one expected the one who would carry the message.

BANG!

The tall doors creaked open.

A cold wind slipped through the hall.

And then he walked in.

Lord Drako.

Once a king of flesh and blood. Now a shadow of his former self.

He was tall, his back unnaturally straight. His face was colorless, his skin pale as wax. His white hair hung loose and tangled, draped over his rusted armor. That armor, though cracked and dull, still bore the faded sigil of the old Knightdom of Revelor, a kingdom long believed dead.

But it was Drako’s eyes that stole the room.

They were white. Empty. Not blind, just... hollow.

Whispers broke through the silence.

"That’s... Drako?"

"Ruler of Knightdom of Ravelore hundred years ago, before King Azar burned it it."

"He’s supposed to be dust."

"How is he standing?"

"Thought it was just a myth."

No one breathed.

This wasn’t fear.

It was history, undead and walking.

Azar hadn’t just won. He kept his enemies.

Lord Drako walked with slow, uneven steps.

His joints made soft cracking sounds as he knelt before the throne.

When he bowed his head, the court saw how his neck creaked unnaturally, like it was held together by something other than flesh.

"By command of His Undying Majesty, King Azar Mandela of Velcro..."

His voice was dry. Like dust being poured from an old jar.

"...I come to restore the broken bond between our kingdoms. The royal marriage pact... shall proceed."

A quiet gasp came from someone in the back.

But no one dared move.

King Belmont did not flinch.

His hand rested on the arm of the throne, fingers curled tighter with each word. His face remained unreadable, but those closest could see it, his jaw clenched, his eyes cold.

This was the alliance he had wanted.

A marriage with Velcro would protect Carreon. Secure its future. Keep Azar’s armies away.

Across the hall, Drako’s voice echoed again.

"Refuse again... and Carreon shall be planted with the dead. He will not ask a third time."

Drako’s head turned stiffly.

His empty gaze fell on Princess Mikaela.

"You ran once," he said. "If you run again... it will be the last breath Carreon takes."

Mikaela did not move.

Her heart thundered in her chest. Her hands curled at her sides. But her eyes are sharp and wide, did not break contact with his.

No tears fell.

Drako had once been a king, but now he was hollow.

A weapon.

A slave.

Mikaela stared into his lifeless eyes... and memories flooded in.

The first time she saw Isaac in the market.

Her hasty proposal.

The acceptance of Isaac’s parents, despite the sudden marriage.

Then leaving him behind.

And finally, his death...

King Belmont finally spoke.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice was steady, clear, sharp, and without hesitation.

"The Kingdom of Carreon... accepts."

A flicker of emotion moved through the court. Some nobles lowered their heads. Others turned away.

But no one spoke.

King Belmont looked straight to his daughter.

"This union will happen, Princess Mikaela."

Mikaela’s lips parted slightly. Her breath caught in her throat.

But she said nothing.

Not in protest. Not in agreement.

Her silence was her answer, for now.

Drako rose slowly, joints creaking, like bone pulled against dry sinew. He did not look at the king.

Instead, his pale eyes stayed on Mikaela.

"In thirty days... Velcro will return."

He turned toward the exit, steps slow, deliberate.

"His Undying Majesty permits the wedding to follow your customs, your rites, and your temple. It will happen here."

He paused at the great doors.

"Do not test His mercy a second time."

The doors creaked open once more.

Drako stepped into the morning light.

Then he was gone.

The moment Lord Drako left the palace, King Belmont exhaled then rose from his throne.

"We’re moving to the council chamber."

He turned without waiting, his robes trailing behind him.

An emergency meeting.

Moments later, the royal court’s high council gathered in the council chamber. The nobles. The ministers. The generals. Princess Mikaela sat across from her father.

Doors closed.

Silence.

Then Belmont spoke.

"You all saw what entered this court."

His voice was low, but every word echoed.

"Drako. Once a legend King of Knightdom. Now a corpse. Azar’s puppet. Proof of what Velcro can do."

He paused, letting the weight settle.

"Velcro wants the marriage pact restored. In thirty days, they will arrive. And this time, there will be no second chance."

He looked at Mikaela.

"You will marry King Azar."

Mikaela stood, trembling but steady.

"No."

The room froze.

"I didn’t agree the first time," she said, voice low but steady. "And I won’t now. I won’t be chained to that monster."

Gasps rippled through the room.

King Belmont did not shout. His voice lowered instead.

"You ran once," Belmont said coldly. "We covered it. Buried it. But if you run again... it won’t be your blood that spills."

He leaned forward.

"It will be Carreon’s. Every house. Every child. Every name. Azar’s dead don’t knock twice."

Silence followed.

Then the room erupted in argument.

A nobleman slammed his hand on the table.

"We have no choice! We must accept Velcro’s offer. If we don’t, we’ll be torn apart from within."

Another noble countered:

"And what? Hand our future to a corpse? What kind of kingdom allies with death?"

A minister added nervously:

"Azar is feared across all seas. With him as our ally, even Rookheim would hesitate."

But then, a voice cut through the noise.

It was sharp, clear, and younger than the rest.

"Better to die with breath in our lungs than serve as puppets to a grave."

Everyone turned.

It was General James.

Youngest of the twenty-one Class-S of Carreon. His hair was dark and windswept. His eyes... locked on Mikaela.

She didn’t look at him.

But his voice wavered, just once, when he said:

"We should fight. Not kneel."

Another minister scoffed.

"Fight? Against Velcro? Do you wish to turn Carreon into a field of corpses?"

"It’ll become one either way," James snapped. "Just slower."

The room shifted into murmurs.

Fear and pride collided in every corner.

Then, from the shadows, an old man stepped forward. Elder John, Carreon’s oldest Class-S mage. His steps were slow, but his eyes were sharp.

His voice was low and rough, shaped by age.

His voice came low and gravelly, like wind scraping through old stone.

"What about... the farmer?"

Everything stopped.

Even Belmont raised his brow.

"The one who erased thirty thousand soldiers from Rookheim?"

"Yes," Eder John said slowly. "The Ghost General. The myth."

"We’re not even sure if that’s true," another whispered.

Elder John’s gaze swept the room, voice steady.

"If he is real, we can make an offer strong enough... perhaps we can convince him. To protect Mikaela. Or fight Azar. Or both."

A long silence followed.

Then one minister spoke up.

"Should we contact Bulcan’s Queen? They say he fought under her banner..."

Another quickly countered.

"No. Our spy says he acts alone. He doesn’t belong to any kingdom."

"Still, if we ask for help from a small kingdom like Bulcan, what will the others think of Carreon?"

"That we’re weak."

"That we’re desperate."

"That we’ve bowed before a farmer."

The room shifted uncomfortably.

But Elder John didn’t waver.

"Call him what you will... but a man who turned thirty thousand into silence is not just a farmer."

A breath held. Then released.

Mikaela’s hand twitched slightly.

She didn’t speak.

But hearing the word farmer, her heart began to race again.

Because deep down... she knew.

The farmer they spoke of, the one the world whispered about in awe and fear.

He had a name.

The one who’d loved her.