System in Assassin's Creed

Chapter 188: Chapter 187: Back in Bristol

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---Bristol---

It was January 2nd, and a cold, crisp morning had settled over Bristol.

Alaric walked through the familiar marketplace, a ghost in a city he barely recognized. He had used Hiraishin to teleport from Pennsylvania to a marker he’d left after arriving here with Kassandra months ago, the instantaneous journey was still a marvel he hadn’t quite grown accustomed to.

The city was thriving. The grim, desperate edge he remembered from his youth was gone, replaced by a lively, prosperous energy. But it was the details that truly struck him. The French language was a common sound now, mingling with the West Country English accent. French soldiers, in their distinct blue and white uniforms, could be seen conversing amicably with the city’s own militia, sharing pipes and laughing in the morning chill.

’Seems like many things happened while I was gone,’ Alaric thought, a wry smile touching his lips as he adjusted the collar of his simple merchant’s coat. His Henge was holding perfectly; he was just another anonymous face in the crowd.

He knew from his clone’s reports that Bristol, having declared its de facto independence, had forged a strong alliance with France, trading its bountiful harvests for military support and protection.

The city had become a thorn in the side of the British Crown, a defiant beacon of prosperity just beyond its grasp. The man orchestrating this delicate balance, according to the intel, was a former mercenary captain named Samuel Boddy. Alaric had never met him, but he was intrigued.

He continued his walk, his path leading him instinctively towards the old Kenway Estate. As the familiar gates came into view, he saw that it, too, had been transformed. It was no longer a simple farmstead but a administrative center, with wagons coming and going, and people moving with a sense of purpose.

He could sense a familiar chakra signature within. He let the Henge dissolve in a silent puff of smoke as he walked through the open gates.

The people in the courtyard, a mix of farmhands and clerks, stopped and stared as the towering, platinum-blonde man in the crimson coat strode past them. Awe and confusion rippled through the crowd.

”Ah... Boss!”

The voice, sarcastic and familiar, came from a man lounging in a comfortable chair on the mansion’s porch, dressed in the fine attire of a successful businessman. It was Clone #3. ”You dropped by!”

Alaric chuckled, walking up the steps to stand beside his duplicate. ”You know, you’re living the life.”

”Bah, I have to. I know I’m just a clone ’n all,” the clone replied with a dramatic sigh, not bothering to get up. ”But a man has to live, you know.”

”...You got that right,” Alaric grinned, his gaze sweeping over the fields his family had once tilled by hand. ”Why are you making other people work? It’d be faster if you did the harvesting yourself.”

”Boss... I think you forgot that I don’t have that much chakra,” the clone grumbled, shrugging. ”I’m basically like Rock Lee from Naruto. Can’t be using all my energy on farm work.”

”And like Rock Lee, you have a great physique,” Alaric countered dryly. ”You’re still my clone. I placed enough seals on you to make you a one-man army. Stop trying to reason with me.”

”Anyway, continue with what you’re doing,” Alaric said, already turning to leave. ”I’m going to meet that Boddy guy.”

The clone could only watch his original’s retreating back before letting out a long, weary sigh. ”I’m so busy managing this and the Estate’s farm business... I just want to dispel.”

-

In the heart of Bristol, near the Brygestowe, a sturdy brick building that had once been a merchant’s guild now served as the headquarters for the city’s provisional government.

Inside, the main office was a scene of controlled chaos. Desks were piled high with papers, clerks rushed back and forth, and the air was thick with the smell of ink and stress.

At the center of it all, at a massive oak desk, sat Samuel Boddy. He was a large man, a former mercenary, but the weight of leadership was clearly taking its toll.

He rubbed his temples, a headache pounding behind his eyes as he stared at two stacks of letters: one from his French allies, requesting more grain, and one from London, filled with thinly veiled threats from the Crown.

”C-Captain,” his assistant, a young woman who had joined his company a year ago, stammered from the doorway. ”We have a visitor.”

Boddy sighed, not looking up from a particularly troublesome shipping manifest. ”Whoever it is, tell them I’m busy.”

”B-But-”

”Can you stop stutteri-” Samuel’s frustrated retort died in his throat. He had finally looked up, and his eyes widened. Standing in the doorway, his tall frame seeming to fill the entire space, was a man with platinum-blonde hair, wearing a magnificent crimson coat.

”Y-You...!” Samuel breathed, a jolt of recognition and pure, unadulterated awe shooting through him.

”Samuel Boddy, I take it?” the blonde man asked, his blue eyes seeming to pierce right through him. ”The name’s Alaric Jonathan Kenway.”

”...” Samuel stared, momentarily speechless. He took in the man’s domineering presence, the sheer, unshakable confidence he exuded. He felt a sudden, humbling sense of his own insignificance. ”Yes... that’s me.”

Alaric’s gaze swept around the busy office, a faint, unreadable smile on his lips. He walked forward and casually sat down in the empty chair opposite Boddy’s desk, pulling out a Celestial Cigar from his coat.

”I... have so many questions, Mr. Kenway,” Samuel finally said, finding his voice.

”Fire away,” Alaric replied, lighting his cigar with a familiar snap of his fingers.

The people in the office, sensing the importance of the moment, had stopped their work. They gathered in a silent, respectful circle, their ears straining to listen.

”The letter,” Samuel began, his voice low and intense. ”The one that appeared on every doorstep in the city. Was everything you wrote in there... true?”

”Yes,” Alaric replied simply, taking a drag from his cigar.

”The massacre,” Samuel pressed, his heart pounding. ”Did you do it alone? Two thousand men? I wasn’t there to witness the fight, but I saw the aftermath.”

”Yes,” Alaric confirmed calmly. ”But I let one soldier live.”

A collective, silent gasp went through the room.

”Gods above,” Samuel whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. He had been skeptical, but the man before him answered without a flicker of hesitation. ”For the next one... why? Why did you and Sire Penn go to such lengths to abolish the slave trade? Why were you so bent on freeing them?”

Alaric looked at Samuel, then his gaze drifted to the faces of the people gathered around them. He took a long, thoughtful drag from his cigar before answering, his voice losing its earlier lightness, replaced by a deep, unwavering conviction.

”Because it’s unfair,” he said, his voice a low, powerful rumble. ”Imagine you are born into this world, and for no reason other than the color of your skin or the place of your birth, you are enslaved. It’s cruel beyond measure.”

He leaned forward, his blue eyes burning with a cold fire. ”I understand that in the wars of the past, the vanquished often became slaves. But the African people... many were sold by their own kind for profit. Once they become slaves, they are stripped of their very humanity. They are not allowed to feel tired, not allowed to cry, not allowed to love or dream. Children born to slaves are born into chains, their lives forfeit before they have even begun. They are treated as less than animals, their families torn apart, their spirits broken on the anvil of greed.”

He stood up, pacing slowly in front of the desk. ”That is why I forged an agreement with Queen Anne. To relieve the unfair suffering, not just of the African people, but of all who are oppressed by a system that values profit over people.”

He stopped, turning to face the crowd, his gaze sweeping over them. ”I’m glad that even months after my family and I left, you have all grown accustomed to a life without slavery,” he said, a genuine smile finally returning to his face. ”A city where everyone works to earn their keep, where a person can be successful without standing on the backs of the enslaved. That is a city worth fighting for.”

”...”

”...”

”...”

The room was utterly silent, the people staring at him with a reverence usually reserved for prophets or kings.

”...Are you a saint?” Samuel asked, his voice filled with a genuine, heartfelt awe.

Alaric couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound breaking the spell. He took another long drag from his cigar and shook his head. ”No saint would kill two thousand men on his own, Captain. I’m only standing by my own morals.”

He grinned.

”Plus, I don’t think a saint would enjoy a fine cigar such as this.”

The light joke eased the tension, drawing a few hesitant chuckles from the crowd.

”Alright, last question,” Samuel said, his expression turning serious again as he met Alaric’s gaze. ”Will you help Bristol fight against the Crown?”

...

...

...

...

”Yes.”

.

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