Chapter 505: The Mercy of Release

Samwell walked in darkness.

A few candles burned along the walls, casting faint light, but it seemed restrained by an invisible force, unable to illuminate more than a hazy area, as if separated by a layer of unseen glass.

The silence was profound, broken only by the sound of boots scraping against stone.

A wooden door opened noiselessly, and Samwell stepped through.

The Faceless Man who had led him inside stopped at the threshold, not following.

Samwell paid him no mind and continued forward.

In the darkness, faint sounds emerged—whispering voices, soft weeping.

Passing through another wooden door, Samwell heard the sound of flowing water.

He now stood in a vast, circular hall.

Statues lined the walls, with red candles flickering at their feet like distant, dim stars in the night sky.

Closest to Samwell was a three-meter-tall marble statue of a weeping woman. Realistic streams of tears flowed from her eyes into a stone bowl she cradled.

Further ahead was a man with a lion's head seated on a throne, and beyond him, a faceless figure made of bronze and steel, a pale infant holding a giant sword, a shaggy black goat, and a hooded man leaning on a staff… countless shadowy forms loomed in the dim light.

Samwell recognized these as gods from across the world. Among them, he found the Seven, though only the Stranger was represented.

In the center of the circular hall, he found the source of the flowing water—a massive pool that appeared black as ink under the faint candlelight.

Sitting by the pool was a figure cloaked in black and white, their hood concealing a face of serene kindness.

Seeing Samwell, the figure rose and smiled warmly.

"All men must die," they said gently.

Samwell didn't reply, his eyes drifting to another person nearby—Bruce Antaryon, the Sea Lord's son.

Bruce saw Samwell and screamed in shock:

"Why is he here? You promised to kill him! Kill him now!"

"Death requires a price," the serene figure replied.

"I already gave you the dragon egg!" Bruce shouted.

"It is not enough," the figure said calmly. "To take the life of the King of the Seven Kingdoms, the most powerful man in the mortal realm, a single dragon egg is insufficient."

Bruce's face twisted with fear and rage.

"That dragon egg is the most valuable thing I have! I have nothing else!"

"No," the figure said, shaking their head slowly. "You possess something far more precious—something that will truly please the Many-Faced God."

"What is it?"

"Your life."

Bruce froze, the faint hope that had just risen on his face shattering in an instant.

Samwell watched the scene with interest, making no move to intervene. Instead, he added mockingly:

"Bruce, you've heard them—the Many-Faced God demands your life. If I were you, I'd sacrifice myself. Better to take your enemy to hell with you than to wait helplessly for death."

Bruce's eyes darted between Samwell's sneering face and the serene figure's tranquil demeanor. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to decide.

Desperation consumed him, and he roared:

"Help me kill Caesar! I'll give you all of Braavos!"

"You cannot give us Braavos," the serene figure replied. "It does not belong to you. Nor does the Many-Faced God desire Braavos. The only thing you can offer to please Him is your death."

"Yes," Samwell said, drawing his massive sword, which blazed with golden flames as he advanced slowly. "Make your choice, Bruce."

The dazzling light of the burning sword made Bruce's heart clench painfully. The oppressive aura filled the air, bearing down on him like a mountain and plunging him into utter despair.

He knew he had no choice.

"Fine!" Bruce screamed hoarsely. "I'll give you my life! Just kill Caesar!"

The serene figure smiled warmly, retrieving a stone cup from their robe. They bent to the black pool and filled it with the inky water before handing it to Bruce, gesturing for him to drink.

Bruce took the cup with trembling hands, unable to bring it to his lips.

"Death is not a curse," the serene figure said softly. "It is a gift from the god, ending our desires and our suffering. Whether we are lowly slaves or noble kings, we all find the truth of life in death.

"Drink, child. Taste the sweetness of death. Accept the god's mercy."

The soothing words seemed to wash over Bruce, easing the conflict in his eyes.

At last, he raised the cup and drank deeply.

Clang!

The cup fell from his hands, shattering on the marble floor. Bruce turned to Samwell, a twisted smile on his face:

"Caesar, I'll be waiting for you at the gates of hell!"

Samwell watched him silently, offering no response.

Bruce collapsed, lifeless.

Samwell turned his gaze back to the serene figure, only to find they had completely changed.

No, they hadn't changed faces—there was no face left at all.

The hood now concealed a pale skull, patches of rotting skin clinging to the bone. A white worm writhed from one empty eye socket.

"When each of us is born, the Many-Faced God sends a black angel to accompany us through life," the Faceless Man said. "When our sins grow too great, or our pain unbearable, the angel takes our hand and leads us to the Land of Night.

"There, the stars shine eternally. There, there is no suffering or torment…"

Samwell interrupted:

"There, there is nothing."

The worm in the Faceless Man's skull twitched, as if it were smiling.

"Do you remember your own black angel, man?"

"If I ever had one, I've already killed it," Samwell replied coldly.

"You cannot kill the black angel, just as you cannot escape death."

Samwell smirked.

"And what about you?"

"We cannot, either," the Faceless Man admitted. "The Many-Faced God grants death to all, even His servants."

Samwell twisted his sword, his tone mocking:

"Then let me grant you that release today."

"We welcome it with joy," the Faceless Man said sincerely, as though truly anticipating his end.

"Good," Samwell said, striding forward.

His steps were steady, his caution high. Something about this Faceless Man was deeply unsettling.

Of all the foes Samwell had faced, this one felt the most threatening.

Though his strength was now overwhelming—even capable of defying the power of R'hllor, the Lord of Light.

But this Faceless Man...

Samwell felt the breath of death.

It filled the area around him like darkness, It was omnipresent, inescapable, and immutable.

Samwell gripped Dawn, the sword of light, tighter.

Dawn No matter how sharp it is, can it cut through the darkness?

Samwell felt confused for the first time, but soon he re-resolute his heart.

If death was eternal and darkness unyielding, he would still cut through it.

Holding Dawn, his mission is to tear apart this long night!

Samwell stepped forward, the golden light in his eyes burning like flames.

Golden threads of light materialized from the surrounding darkness, flowing like streams into the blade of Dawn, merging into the sacred weapon.

Golden flames roared to life, blazing with a radiance as brilliant as the sun.

A surge of powerful, divine energy rippled outward, flooding the vast hall in mere moments.

Swoosh!

Samwell swung his sword, and a golden arc of light rippled through the air like a wave, spreading rapidly across the entire space.

Wherever the light touched, everything split apart. Statues were cleaved in two, walls fractured, and even the darkness seemed to be torn asunder.

The black-and-white cloak of the Faceless Man in front of him disintegrated in the blazing fire, reduced to ashes.

Yet beneath the ashes, the yellowed skull remained, the figure vanishing into the shadows.

Samwell narrowed his eyes.

When he raised his head, he saw a thousand faces in the darkness above him.

They were everywhere—on the walls, hanging in midair, or hovering close to the ground. No matter where he turned, countless faces stared back at him.

He saw aged and youthful faces, pale and dark faces, smooth and scarred faces. Some were male, some female, some even belonged to children and infants.

Some faces grinned mockingly; others wept or grimaced in anger. Hairless faces, bearded faces, freckled faces—they filled the hall like a suffocating sea of gazes.

"Cheap theatrics," Samwell growled.

Slash!

With a sudden flash of golden light, Samwell launched himself into the air. Dawn plunged through the chest of a Faceless Man hiding among the shadows, the blade cleaving upward.

Crack!

Blood burst forth as the Faceless Man's body split from torso to head, collapsing to the ground in a lifeless heap.

Samwell wasted no time.

Another burst of speed, and another Faceless Man fell, their severed head rolling across the cold marble floor.

Slash! Slash! Slash!

Samwell moved like a golden whirlwind, cutting through the ranks of the Faceless Men. His sword carved through them effortlessly, leaving behind a trail of corpses.

Soon, the marble floor was littered with lifeless bodies, their blood pooling together in dark, viscous rivers.

But what unsettled Samwell most was the lack of fear.

Even as he slashed and struck them down, the Faceless Men showed no hesitation, no dread.

Perhaps, as they themselves said, death is a relief and a gift.

Hundreds of Faceless Men, like moths to a flame, kept rushing towards Samwell, meeting their own death.

Such a strange and terrifying scene made Samwell feel a deep fear from the bottom of his heart.

Are the followers of the Many-Faced God really not afraid of death?

Or even... long for death?

Of course, the giant sword in his hand did not stop, still swinging continuously, reaping the lives of the Faceless Ones one after another.

"A death cult," Samwell muttered, gripping his sword tighter as he cut down another enemy.

The pile of corpses grew higher, the stench of blood suffocating.

But even as his blade struck true time and time again, Samwell could feel it—a gathering force.

Something was stirring amidst the death and shadows.

A presence.

Samwell stopped mid-swing, his instincts screaming at him to stand his ground.

The hall trembled.

The dragon outside, sensing its master's unease, let out a deafening roar and rammed its massive body into the walls of the Black and White Hall.

Boom!

The entire structure quaked as debris and dust rained down from above.

Amid the chaos, the remaining Faceless Men halted their advance.

They knelt among the corpses of their comrades, their hands crossed over their chests in silent prayer.

It wasn't surrender—it was a ritual.

A figure emerged from the crowd of worshippers.

Draped in a new black-and-white cloak, its yellowed skull still gleamed beneath the hood.

"The cold winds of winter have begun to blow," the figure intoned, its hollow voice echoing through the hall. "The steps of the Long Night are drawing near. The final judgment is at hand."

Samwell tightened his grip on Dawn, his voice steady:

"And who will judge me?"

"The gods, of course."

"The gods?" Samwell chuckled coldly. "What right do they have to judge anyone?"

The skull-faced figure tilted its head.

"Caesar, do you even remember who you are?"

"I know exactly who I am," Samwell said, his tone resolute.

"No," the Faceless Man replied, its hollow eye sockets gleaming with an eerie light. "You've forgotten. Where is your black angel?"

"What nonsense is this?" Samwell snapped, his irritation rising.

But before he could act, a wave of darkness surged from the depths of the hall, engulfing his consciousness like a black tide.

When Samwell's vision cleared, he found himself standing on the parapets of a castle.

Red tiles and white walls surrounded him.

This was Horn Hill.

The ancestral seat of House Tarly.

Samwell recognized it immediately—this was where his life had begun.

As his vision focused, he saw a chubby boy with dark hair sneaking into the kitchen, rummaging through cupboards for food.

It was him.

Samwell Tarly.

His past self.

And just behind the boy's shadow, something faint and ghostlike hovered—an indistinct presence that clung to him like a second skin.

Was this the "black angel" the Faceless Man had spoken of?

The apparition seemed to sense something terrifying. In the blink of an eye, it dissolved into black smoke, vanishing into the wind.

At that exact moment, the young Samwell collapsed in the kitchen, unconscious.

"Who are you?"

Samwell turned sharply, finding the skull-faced figure standing beside him once more, its empty eye sockets locked onto him.

The gaze burned into him, as though stripping away every secret he held.

Samwell suddenly felt a sense of fear, as if his biggest secret was being exposed to others without reservation.

This feeling made him extremely panicked.

But he soon regained his composure.

The dominance that the Monarch of the Seven Kingdoms should have, has been restored.

Samwell's resolve hardened, and he straightened his back.

"I am Caesar," he declared.

Reaching into the air, he summoned The Greatsword Dawn from the void, its blade igniting with brilliant golden flames.

With a single thrust, he drove the blade forward, aiming directly at the Faceless Man.

Boom!

The golden flame exploded, instantly engulfing the Faceless Man.

The illusion of Horn Hill rippled and dissipated like smoke, wisping away into the darkness.

When Samwell blinked again, he was back in the Hall of Black and White.

His sword had pierced the chest of the skull-faced Faceless Man, golden fire consuming its skeletal body.

But even as its form crumbled, the skull remained fixed on him, its hollow eyes unrelenting, as though staring into his soul.

Finally, the flames engulfed it completely, leaving behind only ash and silence.

Boom!

The hall shuddered violently, stone walls cracking as a massive shadow loomed overhead.

Roar-!

Through the collapsing roof, Cleopatra's massive head burst through, the dragon's crimson eyes scanning the chaos within.

Samwell glanced at his loyal mount, a small smile tugging at his lips.

When he turned back, the remains of the skull-faced figure had crumbled into dust, save for the pale-yellow skull itself.

In its empty eye sockets, the white worm twisted for a while, and finally turned into white smoke and dissipated in the air.

(End of Chapter)