System in Assassin's Creed

Chapter 139: Chapter 138: King George

[Current Balance: 11,416,923,998 R]

---Port Royal Docks---

[Money Withdrawal: - 2,340 Reales]

[Current Balance: 11,416,922,658 R]

Two hours had passed since the impromptu drinking competition Alaric had funded. The tavern was littered with unconscious pirates by now, snoring off the vast quantities of rum and ale they’d consumed.

The earlier rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and damp, the wooden planks of the docks slick and reflecting the sparse light from the lanterns and the moon peeking through the clouds.

Alaric walked alongside Antonia Sparrow towards the quieter section of the harbor where her ship was docked. He puffed casually on a fresh cigar as the smoke momentarily masked the smell of brine and tar.

”Say,” Antonia began, breaking the comfortable silence as they walked, her amber eyes glinting in the dim light with amusement. ”I must admit, Kenway, I’m quite taken with you. A man who can outplay me at Morris and outspend someone most men I know... that’s a rare combination.”

She gave him a sideways glance, a playful smile tugging at her lips. ”I could use a man with your... assets... Interested?”

Alaric raised an eyebrow, chuckling softly around his cigar. ”Flattered, Antonia, truly. But no thanks. I’m taken.”

”Oh?” She feigned disappointment, though her eyes still sparkled.

”A pity. Then why...” she asked, gesturing ahead towards her brig as they approached the gangplank, ”are you following me all the way back to my ship? Aiming to take advantage of a poor, defenseless lady after plying her with drink? I mean...”

”I understand the temptation. A woman in her prime like myself, barely twenty...”

”...No,” Alaric cut her off, chuckling again as he flicked the ash from his cigar. He stopped at the foot of her gangplank. ”Though I appreciate the... creative interpretation.”

He met her gaze, his smile fading slightly. ”You owe me one hundred thousand Reales, remember?”

”Ah, yes. That minor detail,” Antonia stopped her ascent up the gangplank, turning back to face him, clicking her tongue in mock annoyance. She leaned against the railing of her ship. ”About that... slight complication. I don’t actually have one hundred thousand Reales just lying around.”

”Eh?” Alaric raised an eyebrow again, taking a slow drag. ”So, you’re telling me you wagered money you didn’t have? All talk, then, Sparrow?”

She bristled slightly at the implication but quickly regained her composure, flashing a charming grin. ”Not all talk, Kenway. I fully intended to win, you see.”

She walked back down the gangplank to stand before him. ”But, since fortune favored you this night, perhaps I can offer my services instead? A woman of my... particular talents... can be quite valuable. Is there anything you desire? Information? Passage? An inconvenient rival made... inconveniently absent?”

Alaric considered her offer, his eyes drifting past her to assess her ship. The vessel was a sleek brig, clearly well-maintained and armed to the teeth with cannons visible even in the night. Fast, dangerous... potentially useful.

”What’s her name?” he asked, nodding towards the vessel.

”The Crimson Fortune,” Antonia replied proudly, gesturing towards her ship.

”Swift, deadly, and answers only to me. Though,” she added quickly, seeing the speculative look in his eyes, ”I’m afraid she’s not part of the payment plan.”

”Ah no, wouldn’t dream of taking a lady’s ship,” Alaric chuckled, crossing his arms. ”Alright, Antonia. How about this... you owe me a favor. A big one. Keep the Reales for now. But someday, somewhere in the future, I might need a fast ship and a skilled, discreet captain for a particularly... sensitive task. When that time comes, I’ll call upon you to lend me your hand, and your ship. Deal?”

Antonia stared at him for a long moment, weighing the proposition. A debt of service to a man like Alaric Kenway... it was potentially dangerous, but also intriguing. And certainly, better than trying to scrape together a hundred thousand Reales she didn’t have. Finally, a slow, calculating smile spread across her face. She extended her gloved hand again.

”Aye, Kenway,” she agreed, her voice firm. ”You have yourself a deal. One favor, when you call it in. Just try not to get me killed.”

Alaric shook her hand, sealing the bargain. ”Wouldn’t dream of it.”

With a final nod, Antonia turned and strode confidently up the gangplank onto her ship.

Moments later, orders were being shouted, ropes cast off, and the Crimson Fortune began to pull away from the dock, melting silently into the darkness of the harbor mouth.

’Today, I made lots of pirates drunk... heh.’

Alaric the brig go, a thoughtful expression on his face, then vanished from the dock in a flicker of displaced air.

---Kensington Palace, London, England---

Georg Ludwig, or King George I as he was now known, wasn’t exactly winning over his new subjects with charm.

He was a man of strict order, a ruler who valued precise control far more than understanding the often-turbulent emotions of the English people. Brought over from his Hanoverian homeland and placed upon the British throne earlier that year, he was still learning the complex game of the English court, a place of hidden agendas and shifting loyalties. Quietly, he’d started to see the practical ”sense” in what the Templar Order was offering... control, and above all, stability.

He wasn’t a tyrant, not yet. But his reign had begun with a few too many instances of looking the other way, especially as the Templars steadily increased their influence, and most notably, concerning the troubling situation in Bristol.

That whole ”Shadow Raven” operation? It had turned into a complete disaster.

The Crown, intending a show of strength, had sent two thousand soldiers supposedly to deal with this mysterious figure that was making a fool out of the Templar Order in the Mediterranean countries. The outcome was a disturbing lack of news, followed by the return of a single, traumatized survivor.

He was a mess, babbling, his uniform stained dark, his eyes reflecting a horror he couldn’t properly articulate. His story was alarming... one man, distinctive with platinum blond hair and a crimson Justacorps, had reportedly wiped out the entire regiment. The news hit the royal court hard.

Even the Templar high command, men that were used to wielding power discreetly, felt a significant sense of unease. The whispers which quiet but persistent, moved through the palace... no ordinary man could cause such destruction.

The conclusion, though unsettling, seemed unavoidable... a Piece of Eden was involved.

The air in the King’s private council chamber felt thick and close. King George, his expression carefully neutral, presided at the head of the long table. Around him, a somber group of high officials like ministers, advisors, and several stern-faced men he knew to be key Templar figures sat as the quiet was broken only by the occasional shift of weight or a soft cough.

”Two thousand men, Your Highness,” Lord Ashworth, a privy councilor whose brow was perpetually furrowed with concern, finally said, his voice tinged with disbelief. ”Gone. Wiped out. By a single individual, if the survivor’s account is accurate.”

”And we have little choice but to consider it accurate,” a Templar named Finch, whose eyes were a cold, pale blue, interjected, his voice smooth but firm. ”The initial reports, the... unusual energy readings from the site... it all points to something well outside normal combat.”

King George’s fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the table. His German accent was still noticeable. ”So, this... person. This blond man in red. What is the proposal?”

Sir Robert Walpole, a man gaining influence, known for his sharp intellect and practical approach, cleared his throat. ”Your Highness, the most pressing concern is containment, followed by capture. This individual, if they are wielding such power, presents a serious threat to public order. We propose a bounty. A substantial one.”

”How substantial?” the King asked, his gaze moving around the room.

Walpole paused, letting the weight of the impending figure settle before he spoke. ”One hundred thousand pounds, Your Highness.”

A heavy silence fell. Several officials exchanged surprised glances. It was Finch, the Templar, who broke it, an eyebrow raised in skepticism. ”One hundred thousand? Your Highness, with all due respect, that sum is... extraordinary. Henry Avery, the notorious pirate, who troubled global shipping for years, only had a bounty of one thousand pounds.”

”Avery had cannons and a crew, Finch,” another Templar, Davies, a stout man with a gravelly voice, countered. ”He did not, as far as we know, command the kind of power that can eliminate two thousand soldiers so efficiently. If this is a Piece of Eden, as the evidence suggests, then the person wielding it is far more dangerous than Avery ever was.”

”The sum is intended to be a clear signal, Your Highness,” Walpole explained, his tone steady, his eyes on the King. ”To attract every capable bounty hunter, every mercenary looking for a fortune, from London’s docks to the furthest colonies. It is meant to show the Crown’s absolute determination in this. We need him found. Or at least, the artifact he possesses.”

King George listened as his expression became unreadable. ”Piece of Eden.”

The words had a dangerous ring. Isu artifacts. Ancient, powerful, and unpredictable. The Templars desired such things, but they also feared them when not under their own control.

’One hundred thousand pounds,’ he thought. ’A massive sum for one man.’ But the alternative, letting this power remain unchecked, was worse. ”Very well,” he declared as his voice was firm and final. ”Issue the proclamation. One hundred thousand pounds for the man in the crimson Justacorps. Alive, if possible. Make sure to retrieve the artifact that he carries.”

A noticeable disquiet still lingered among some of the officials over the size of the bounty, but the King had made his decision. The matter was settled.

The conversation then shifted, as it had to, back to Bristol. ”And the city itself, Your Highness?” Lord Ashworth asked, his frown deepening. ”The slave trade... which was, shall we say, quite profitable for the Crown...”

”Profitable, yes, but likely a closed Chapter, at least for now,” Walpole sighed, rubbing his temples. ”The reports are consistent. The people there have... adapted. They’ve experienced life without it. To try and force it back now, especially with this... protector of theirs in the vicinity, would be asking for more trouble.”

”So we just give up control of a major English port?” Finch pressed, his composure showing slight cracks, a sharp edge to his voice. ”Allow it to become a defiant, independent entity?”

”And what is your alternative, Finch?” King George challenged, his eyes narrowing. ”Send another army? To face this one man again? Who would you suggest lead them this time? You?”

Finch drew back slightly. ”Of course not, Your Highness. But we cannot simply... do nothing.”

”The most frustrating part of this,” An admiral stated from his seat, his face lined with experience, ”is the complete lack of information. Bristol has become a blind spot. Our agents, those who haven’t disappeared, report the city gates are closed. They’re not trading with our merchants, yet they seem to be managing. Self-sufficient. How is that possible?”

”More than just self-sufficient, it seems,” another official added, his voice grim. ”We have confirmed reports of French vessels docking in their harbor. They’ve even fired on English ships that got too close. French ships, Your Highness, being welcomed in an English port!”

A wave of frustrated murmurs went around the room. French involvement? It was an insult on top of an already baffling situation. King George felt a familiar tension building. Here they were, leading a major European power, yet one city, one man, had them in a difficult position.

They had resources, armies, a network of Templar contacts, but against this... this unusual problem, they were struggling to find a clear path forward.

No one offered a simple solution. No one had an easy answer. They could only feel the weight of the situation, the unwelcome taste of their current limitations.

The grand council chamber, despite its symbols of power, felt constricting, the shadow of this unknown man in a defiant city was unsettling.

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