manynovel Chapter 14 Paris's Dream
Chapter 14 Paris's Dream
On the dueling arena, the noise surged like a tidal wave.
Paris stood in the center of the field, slowly raising his arms, letting the fervor and cheers of the Trojan people engulf him.
He was wearing the same attire Hector wore when he ascended the throne: a white robe woven from tussah silk, a laurel wreath on his head, and gold and red silk draped over his shoulders and neck.
This outfit is completely unsuitable for today's life-or-death duel; it's more like a formal gown for a grand celebration.
The battle between the two had not yet begun, and the horns and cheers of victory in Troy had not yet subsided.
Paris, however, had already adopted the posture of a victor, calmly accepting the cheers of the entire audience and displaying his physique.
He looked up at the stands, his gaze landing precisely on Hector, who was also paying attention in this direction.
The King of Troy, his brother, stood there, his eyes and brows beaming with undisguised pride.
The only thing that Paris felt was lacking was the Emperor.
He was not there in person; this omnipotent being whom Paris felt was incredibly holy, like a god, did not witness the glory that was about to be his.
Paris had intended to bestow this glory and joy upon his brother, his father, and the emperor.
On the other side, Achilles also stepped onto the battlefield.
This time, he was not carrying the bull's head. He was fully clad in fine steel armor, armed to the teeth, and his expression was solemn.
It was as if he knew he was facing an extremely formidable war god.
Achilles, holding a shield in one hand and a sword in the other, assumed the most orthodox Trojan battle stance, his expression calm.
"Paris, Achilles is an undisputed warrior."
His brother's words from last night echoed in his mind, his tone tinged with worry.
"I hate to admit it, but right now his fighting skills and experience are definitely superior to yours."
"He was exceptionally gifted, and his body and physique were extremely robust. Even at that time, I was probably only slightly better than him."
"If you want to win, keep a close eye on his footwork, and be even more careful of his cunning and swift wrist movements. Don't be impatient, don't..."
Paris stood on the field, and he simply smiled at his brother's admonition.
Wearing this cumbersome white robe, he moved nimbly, as if dancing, and in the blink of an eye, he rushed to Achilles.
He was incredibly brave, swinging his sword swiftly and decisively, forcing Achilles to frequently use his shield to parry Paris's attacks.
Achilles did not demonstrate his seasoned experience as Hector had suggested, and did not gain the upper hand in his direct confrontation with Paris.
Instead, they were repeatedly defeated by Paris.
Paris watched and felt it; his face displayed the unique arrogance and confidence of a young man.
He firmly believed he would win.
Achilles wasn't as powerful as his brother had described, nor was he as invincible as he had been a few days ago. Paris thought to himself.
While they were fighting, Paris even had time to turn around and look at Hector on the high platform.
She noticed her brother's expression change from tense to astonished, and then to full of pride.
Looking back, one can see the boasted, supposedly invincible Achilles being forced to retreat repeatedly by the layers of sword strikes, looking utterly disheveled.
Achilles' wrists, ankles, and the joints where his armor was attached were repeatedly struck and cut, and blood seeped out from the gaps in his armor.
Achilles, however, lived up to his reputation as a warrior and the praise of his brother.
Even though his body was covered in scars, and even though he was panting heavily, his parrying and sword-wielding became increasingly slow, and his vision began to blur.
Achilles showed no sign of admitting defeat.
But victory was inevitable.
Paris thought proudly.
A smile crept onto his lips, and with a sudden flick of his wrist, he executed a flashy and swift parry, knocking Achilles' sword away and catching the blade in his own hand.
He then quickly closed in, placing the blade against Achilles' neck, and Paris enjoyed the look of Achilles' astonished and dejected expression.
He felt a sense of joy and a morbid pleasure from it.
"The winner!"
"Troy's First Warrior!"
"It's Prince Paris!"
I won, brother, no objections.
Listen, everyone is cheering for me!
Listen, Troy has welcomed its first warrior!
Paris raised his hands with even more arrogance than when he entered the field, overflowing with ecstasy, glory, and youthful pride.
In the years that followed, he traveled through the streets and alleys of Troy, and wherever he went, there were thunderous cheers and hymns of praise for him.
The people revered him as their greatest warrior, and Hector boasted about his brother to everyone he met. He even met with him privately to sincerely apologize for having previously doubted his abilities.
Laurel wreaths were presented to him, wine and blessings poured in, countless women were captivated by him, and countless soldiers regarded him as an idol.
Paris grew up amidst this boundless glory. Years later, he led the Trojan fleet to defeat the alien army and rescued the beautiful Helen. The two fell in love, had children, and lived a happy and fulfilling life.
His elder brother's approval, the title of the first warrior known throughout the universe, the love of all people, a happy family, and an innate noble status.
He has everything.
Paris, you have everything.
However, what follows is a deep-seated emptiness and confusion.
Boredom and dullness made Paris unbearably lonely. He craved something more wonderful—perhaps a higher status, perhaps a woman more beautiful than Helen, perhaps a more sublime skill…
Everything that once thrilled Paris gradually lost its appeal.
Only Helen's smile and doting affection could give Paris a kind of addictive and decadent infatuation, like drinking poison to quench thirst.
Time passed again, and Paris's children grew up.
Paris looked at him, at his face, which was even more handsome than when he was young, at his noble attire, at the sword in his hand, he was already a qualified son of the royal heir.
A strange sense of satisfaction arose, like a long-lost reunion.
His son looked at him, his tone resolute:
"Father, today I will be crowned king and rule Troy."
Yes, my child, you are about to sit on the throne of Troy.
Paris envisioned the throne in the Trojan palace, the one Hector had sat on, ivory inlaid with gold, magnificent and dazzling.
The elder brother beside the throne looked old.
My elder brother... has grown old.
and many more! ! !
Paris jolted awake from his hallucination, his breathing rapid and his chest heaving violently as if he were sucking up all the air around him.
The more rapid his breathing became, the faster it was, which made Paris increasingly dizzy and disoriented, as if he would faint at any moment.
But immense shame, fear, and anger pulled Paris back from the brink of fainting.
Damn it. What am I thinking? What did I see? Paris, what are you craving?
Paris covered his face tightly, trying to hide the cowardice, fear, and rage surging in his eyes, as well as a barely perceptible, extremely faint longing.
Just now, in that dream, was I cursing my brother from the bottom of my heart?
Could it be that deep down I covet my brother's throne?
Am I really such a despicable person?
Just as Paris was wallowing in self-pity and self-torture, tossing and turning on the ship, trying to quell his fear and anger by smashing things and verbally abusing the servants who came to him.
Another deity in the highest heavens, the Youngest Lady, savors Paris's dream.
He cast his insignificant, pitying gaze upon us, a faint, almost foolish smile playing on his lips.
He gently stroked his twisted yet immortal body, like a purple serpent lying dormant, thirstily awaiting the moment of harvest.