There was a time," the man began, his voice a low, gravelly thing that seemed to absorb the light from the single, bare bulb overhead, "that I believed in mercy. I believed in fairness." He paused, the silence broken only by the ragged, wet breathing of the figure in the chair. "I truly believed that if I just waited long enough, was patient enough, the world would eventually do what is right. That justice wasn't just a concept we invented to make the suffering bearable."
The man in the chair was a testament to the lie of that belief. His hands, resting on the wooden arms, were a ruin of swollen, purple flesh and grotesquely angled fingers. His face was a multitude of wounds a split lip, a bruised cheekbone, a gash above his eyebrow that had crusted over a canvas of pain. He didn't react to the words. His eyes, one swollen nearly shut, the other wide with a terror that had long since burned through its fuel, held no spark of life, only the dull sheen of utter resignation.
"But the world... the world doesn't reward the kind," the speaker continued, turning his back on the broken form. He walked slowly towards a heavy oak table that stood against the damp, concrete wall. It was a display of grim history and immediate purpose. Upon it lay a collection of tools: clean, modern knives with serrated edges glinted next to older, more sinister instruments an old-fashioned heretic's fork, its twin prongs poised for a throat, and a set of thumb screws, iron dark and cold. He ran a finger along the edge of a blade, a craftsman considering his tools.
"It doesn't spare the weak." The words fell like stones, each one laden with a hate that was as profound as it was personal, an understanding of the universe's absolute, crushing indifference. He selected a knife, not the largest, but one with a fine, sharp point. The metal felt cold and right in his hand.
"It takes and takes until there is nothing left," he whispered, now standing directly before the man in the chair. He leaned in close, his breath fogging in the chill air. "The world doesn't accept the weak and the righteous. It spits them out." He looked directly into the man's one good eye, searching for a flicker of understanding, of recognition for this fundamental truth. He found only animal fear.
"But it accepts fear." He moved the sharp point of the knife towards the man's eye. A frantic, jerking movement was the only response, the head trying to twist away. With a grip that was suddenly iron, he grabbed a fistful of the man's greasy hair, yanking his head back and holding it perfectly, terrifyingly still. "It understands fear. It respects it." With a dispassionate slowness that was more cruel than any hurried violence, he placed the tip of the blade just below the lower lid of the man's wide, unblinking eye.
"Shhh, it's okay," he cooed, his voice a monotone parody of comfort as he began to apply pressure. A tear, hot and saline, traced a clean path through the grime on the man's cheek, washing over the tip of the knife. "You shouldn't cry. Why are you crying?" The point slid in, a millimeter at a time. "Didn't you do this to kids in Afghanistan? In those dusty little villages? I've seen the files, Mike. I've seen the pictures. I thought you liked this."
The knife slowly worked its way deeper, a sickening, wet sound accompanying the subtle movement. The man's body went rigid, a high, thin whine escaping through his gag, his back arching against the restraints. Then, with a soft, pop that seemed obscenely loud in the small room, the eye came free, resting on the blade. The scream that followed was a muffled, guttural explosion of agony, trapped behind the cloth in his mouth.
The man with the knife looked at the glistening, ruined orb on his blade with clinical interest before flicking it away onto the floor. He watched the man in the chair sob and convulse, his remaining eye squeezed shut.
"It's okay. We have much worse things planned," he said, his voice still that same, dead calm. He wiped the blade clean on the man's shoulder. "After all, you still have your skin, don't you, Mike? And your other eye. And ten more fingers. We have all the time in the world to learn the truth about fear."
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"Why are we even here?" Zero said, his voice a flat, bored monotone that cut through the carnival-like atmosphere of the city's main road. He stood stiffly, a statue of indifference amidst the jostling, jam-packed crowd of people. A woman bumped into his shoulder, offering a hurried apology that he didn't acknowledge. His eyes, usually sharp and analytical, were half-lidded, viewing the sea of humans.
Borin, in stark contrast, seemed to be in his element. He leaned against a lamppost, a worn leather wineskin already in his hand. He took a long, noisy pull from it before answering. "Your formidable intelligence isn't doing you any good here?" he asked, a familiar, teasing lilt in his gravelly voice. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a smirk playing on his lips.
Zero didn't turn his head. "Sorry, I don't waste my cognitive functions on memorizing tavern gossip and public festival schedules." The annoyance in his voice was subtle, a slight tightening around his eyes, but to Borin, who delighted in finding these tiny cracks in the boy's armor, it was as clear as a shout.
Borin barked a laugh, a sound like grinding stones. "Hahaha! Kid, drinking isn't a waste, it's a necessity. It's in my blood. I can't survive without it." He took another swig for emphasis, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Getting under Zero's skin was one of his favorite pastimes, a small reward for putting up with the boy's relentless, emotionless face.
Zero let out a slow, controlled sigh, the sound of a man practicing immense patience. He finally turned his head, his gaze landing on Borin with the weight of a lead brick. "Borin. Can I please know why we are here, now, at this specific moment, surrounded by this... crowd?"
"You see," Borin began, his smirk widening as he prepared to draw out the explanation, savoring Zero's growing irritation.
Zero's lips pressed into a thin, white line. He said nothing. He could feel the last threads of his composure beginning to fray. He was seconds from turning on his heel and walking away but,
The ground began to tremble. It was a deep, rhythmic vibration that traveled up through the cobblestones and into the bones of every person on the street. The cheerful noise of the crowd faltered, then swelled into a wave of excited murmurs.
Zero, who a moment before had been the picture of disengaged apathy, went perfectly still. His half-lidded eyes snapped wide open, every ounce of his focus sharpening into a single, razor-edged point.
The ground was shaking in earnest now as an army of hundreds of knights in gleaming golden armor marched into view. They moved in perfect, terrifying unison, a single entity of metal. With each synchronized step, the rocky ground beneath them groaned and shuddered.
Zero was in shock. An army, marching through the heart of the city in broad daylight? As far as he knew, this conflict was a defensive one, a response to Dragoncrest's unprovoked attacks on the border and they diplomatic silence. A full, public military procession like this, with no prior announcement of war, made no tactical or political sense. it was simple stupidity.
"This doesn't make any sense!" he said aloud, the words escaping him in a rare, unguarded moment of disbelief, spoken more to himself then anyone particular.
But something else interrupted his spiraling thoughts, something that froze his brain entirely.
A man rode atop a magnificent white warhorse at the head of the procession. The man wore a mask of polished gold, crafted into the serene, radiating shape of a sun. His clothes were a masterpiece of tailoring, a vibrant, impossible yellow that seemed to draw all the light in the square onto him.
Zero was speechless. It was the king. The Sun King himself, in the flesh, riding to war. Yet, the awe he should have felt was immediately supplanted by a cold, creeping unease. Something was off. When his gaze locked onto the masked figure, he felt a bizarre, psychic pressure, a sensation of being seen. It was impossible, a logical fallacy in the midst of this massive, cheering crowd. Yet the feeling was undeniable, a cold finger tracing its way down his spine. He could have sworn, with a certainty that defied reason, that the hollow, lightless eyes of that golden sun mask paused, shifted, and looked directly at him.
"Hey! Are you alive in there?!" Borin's voice was a sudden, unwelcome blast in his ear, accompanied by a sharp nudge to his ribs.
Zero jolted violently, his entire body flinching away from the contact as if electrocuted. "W-WHAT?!" he shouted, the word laced with genuine anger and the raw frustration of having his profound concentration shattered.
"I WAS SHOUTING YOUR NAME FOR THE PAST HOUR, HELLO!?" Borin bellowed back, cupping his hands around his mouth, though they stood mere feet apart. The crowd around them was reaching a fever pitch, screaming their adoration for the king.
"WHAT?" Zero shouted back, the noise swallowing his words, his mind still half-trapped in the unnerving gaze of the golden mask.
"I SAID..."
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As the army settled for the day in Sunspire for resupply, the King's estate was an island of forced tranquility in the city's chaos. It was a lavish, sprawling mansion, its halls now filled with servants who moved with the hushed, frantic energy of people who had only one day to prepare for a god's unannounced visit.
"Your majesty, is everything to your liking?" the head butler asked, his bow so deep his forehead nearly brushed his knees. He remained there, suspended in a posture of supreme deference, afraid to even breathe too loudly.
The King, known throughout the realm as the Sun King, did not turn. He stood by the window, a gilded silhouette against the fading light. His masked gaze swept across the room the fine but not exquisite tapestries, the polished but not rare furniture, the vases filled with flowers that were beautiful, but not unique. It was a noble's idea of royalty, earnest in its effort but ultimately missing the mark.
"It is fine," the King said, his voice a neutral, almost melodic baritone. It carried no heat, no anger, yet the words landed with the precise, cutting force of a surgeon's scalpel. "I wasn't expecting much, after all."
The butler flinched as if struck. "Your majesty, I we humbly beg your forgiveness! With more time, we could have!"
The King raised a single, gloved hand. The gesture was languid, yet it commanded absolute, instantaneous silence.
"Like I said, it is alright. The ambition is noted, even if the execution is... pedestrian." He finally half-turned, the hollow eyes of his sun mask seeming to rest on the butler's trembling form. "You may go now."
The dismissal was final. "Y-yes, your majesty." The butler bowed again, backwards out of the room, closing the ornate double doors with a soft, definitive click.
Alone, the Sun King walked out onto the balcony, his yellow robes whispering against the marble floor. He placed his hands on the balustrade, looking down not at the perfectly manicured gardens, but at the shadows they cast in the twilight. The air was still, heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers.
He stood there for a long moment, a statue of divine authority. Then, he spoke, his voice dropping its previous neutrality, becoming quieter, yet infinitely more dangerous. It was a tone not meant for servants or sycophants.
"What a bother," he murmured, the words barely audible. "To see you here, and now, of all times... Mister Overseer."
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In the darkness of the night, a figure clad in black, a living shadow, perched on the highest peak of the mansion's roof. The tiles were cool beneath her boots. She was a phantom, her presence erased from the world, her breathing synchronized with the gentle night breeze. Her target was the balcony below. She tensed her legs, preparing to leap down into the lion's den.
A whisper of air behind her. That was her only warning.
With inhuman dexterity, she twisted her body, the motion a blur. A blade meant for her spine sliced through empty space where she had been a heartbeat before. She landed in a low crouch, a short sword already in her hand.
Her attacker straightened up, a man wearing rugged, practical gear, a smirk visible beneath his hood. "Heh. I guess I shouldn't underestimate you shadow lackeys too much. Your kind always has a few tricks."
The shadowy figure offered no retort. Words were wasted breath. Instead, she launched herself forward, his movement a silent, deadly lunge aimed precisely for the jugular.
Clang!
The attacker parried, sparks erupting as their iron swords crashed together. What followed was a lethal ballet atop the world. They moved back and forth across the steeply slanted roof, their footfalls silent, their blades speaking a violent language of their own. Thrust, parry, dodge, slash a dance of assassins under a moonless sky.
A powerful clash locked their swords, and they shoved each other apart, sliding back to gain distance, their chests heaving slightly in the cool air.
The second attacker finally broke the silence, her voice low and accusing. "Of course the cult is protecting that monster. Tell me, how did you know I was here? I made sure to erase every track I left."
The man in rugged gear let out a short, sharp chuckle. "You think I'm protecting that bastard?" He shook his head, a glint of grim amusement in his eyes. "He's the last thing I want alive. I thought you were the one sent here to save him."
A moment of stunned silence passed between them. The pieces of a terrible misunderstanding began to click into place. But the realization came a second too late.
"Tsk, tsk, tsk."
The sound was soft, chiding, and came from directly between them.
Neither had seen him move. There was no blur, no sound, no displacement of air. One moment, they were alone on the roof. The next, the Sun King stood there, as if he had simply coalesced from the moonlight itself. He wore a simple sleeping robe, but the golden sun mask was still firmly in place, its hollow eyes turning slowly from one to the other.
"So much noise," the King said, his voice casual, almost bored, as if complaining about a stray cat. "You've woken me from a rather sweet dream."
He took a single, slow step forward. The air grew heavy, thick with a palpable pressure that made it hard to breathe. The two skilled assassins found themselves frozen, not by spell or chain, but by sheer, primal terror. Sweat beaded on their brows, cold and slick.
The King's head tilted. The pleasant, conversational tone vanished, replaced by a voice as cold and dead as the void between stars. It was a sound that promised absolute, irrevocable ending.
"So tell me..." The pressure intensified, crushing their will. "Who should I drink first?"