System in Assassin's Creed

Chapter 333: Chapter 332: The Weight of the Crown and the King’s Quote

Kyū Madoka’s Memories - Forty Years Ago

The sudden, lazy drawl from above shattered the suffocating tension of the alleyway.

The five teenagers froze, their aggressive posturing evaporating as they craned their necks upward. Standing on the lip of the tiled roof, silhouetted against the bleeding orange of the late afternoon sun, was a giant of a man. His platinum-blonde hair caught the light like spun gold, but it was his attire that truly paralyzed the thugs.

The crimson coat he wore was tailored from fabrics that simply did not exist in the slums of the capital, embroidered with subtle, immaculate stitching that screamed of unimaginable wealth. He possessed the broad, imperious shoulders of a high-ranking nobleman, yet he carried none of the frail, perfumed delicacy that usually accompanied the aristocracy.

The older brother... the thug who had just been blinded by dirt... rubbed his tearing eyes and squinted at the man on the roof. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. To assault a noble in the Fire Capital was a crime that didn’t just end in imprisonment; it ended in the quiet, brutal erasure of one’s entire family.

The thugs exchanged a series of panicked, frantic glances. The fight had drained out of them entirely, replaced by the primal, rat-like instinct to flee before the city guards were summoned.

”You...” the older brother snarled, taking a hurried step backward as he pointed a trembling finger at Kyū and the girl. ”You two better watch your backs! This isn’t over!”

It was a hollow, weightless threat, thrown solely to salvage a microscopic fraction of their shattered pride. Without waiting for a response, the five boys turned on their heels and sprinted down the alley, dragging the wailing younger brother along with them until they vanished into the chaotic currents of the main street.

The alley descended into a profound, ringing silence.

Kyū let out a breath he felt he had been holding for an hour, his shoulders dropping as the adrenaline crash hit him. Beside him, the fierce girl let out a huff, brushing the dirt from her knees.

Then, a rushing sound parted the air.

Alaric simply stepped off the two-story roof.

He didn’t scramble down the lattice work, nor did he look for a foothold. He dropped like a stone, plummeting toward the cobblestones. Kyū’s eyes widened in sheer horror, fully expecting the sickening crunch of shattered femurs and pulverized ankles. A drop from that height would cripple any normal man.

But Alaric didn’t crash.

His boots met the stone with a soft, impossibly quiet thud. The kinetic energy of the fall seemed to simply vanish, absorbed into the earth without so much as bending his knees.

Kyū’s breath hitched. His father had hired enough elite bodyguards for Kyū to instantly recognize the mechanics of what had just happened. Only a trained shinobi... one possessing exquisite chakra control... could manipulate their momentum with such flawless, physics-defying grace.

Now that the man was standing on the ground, mere paces away, the true, terrifying scale of his physical presence became apparent. He was humongous. To the young teenagers, who had yet to hit their final growth spurts, Alaric was a towering mountain of muscle and intimidating aura. The tops of their heads barely reached the center of his chest.

Fear, cold and instinctive, began to creep into Kyū’s stomach. Yes, this giant had just saved them from being beaten to a pulp, but the sheer, suffocating weight of his presence was far more terrifying than a handful of street thugs with wooden clubs.

Alaric didn’t say a word at first. He simply stared down at the two trembling teenagers, his piercing blue eyes analyzing them with a bored, clinical detachment. He took a long, slow drag from his cigar, the cherry glowing bright before he exhaled a thick cloud of aromatic smoke that drifted past Kyū’s face.

”You both should go home as well,” Alaric sighed, his deep voice carrying a finality that brooked no argument.

Without another glance, he turned his broad back on them, the heavy tails of his crimson coat sweeping gracefully as he began to walk away, heading toward the deeper shadows of the commercial district.

”...”

Kyū stared at the retreating back, his mind entirely blank. His pulse thrummed in his ears. This man was a phantom, an anomaly who had descended from the sky, altered their fates, and was now simply vanishing without demanding coin or praise.

Kyū violently shook his head, breaking himself out of his terrified stupor. The pride of his lineage, the manners drilled into him since birth, demanded he acknowledge the debt.

”H-Hey, mister!” Kyū called out, his voice cracking slightly as it echoed down the brick walls. ”What’s your name!?”

Alaric’s heavy footsteps halted.

He turned his head slowly, looking back over his shoulder. He took another drag from his cigar, a faint, amused smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

”Isn’t it fundamentally impolite,” Alaric drawled, his tone laced with lazy reprimand, ”to demand someone’s name before introducing your own?”

The casual, entirely accurate chastisement struck Kyū like a physical slap. The young lord blinked, completely caught off guard by the reversal. He instantly felt the heat of embarrassment flood his cheeks, realizing he had just completely abandoned the courtly etiquette his father had beaten into him.

”I’m... I’m Kyū,” he stammered, straightening his posture to salvage his dignity.

He deliberately withheld his family name. Announcing himself as the direct line to royalty in the middle of a slum alleyway to a strange shinobi was a tactical error he was not foolish enough to commit.

Seeing that the boy had truncated his introduction, Alaric didn’t press for a surname. He didn’t care. He simply turned his gaze toward the dark-haired girl standing beside Kyū, raising a silent, expectant brow.

The girl bristled slightly under the weight of his stare. She crossed her arms, awkwardly looking to the side as a faint flush colored her own dirt-smudged cheeks.

”I’m Aiko...” she muttered, her fierce demeanor softening into something remarkably shy. ”...Aiko Raiden.”

”Alaric,” the blonde man replied simply, offering only his first name in an equitable exchange. He gave them a singular, dismissive nod before turning his back once more.

He took two steps before the young lord’s voice rang out again.

”...Wait!”

Alaric paused, an audible, long-suffering sigh escaping him. He tilted his head back toward the sky, clearly annoyed by the persistence of the youth. He looked back at them, his blue eyes narrowing a fraction. ”What now?”

Kyū stood perfectly still. He balled his hands into tight fists at his sides, taking a deep, fortifying breath before clearing his throat.

”I’ll never forget your kind act in saving us today,” Kyū declared, his voice losing its youthful tremor, adopting a resonant, absolute sincerity that sounded remarkably like a ruler giving an oath. ”I vow to repay you one day!”

Alaric stared at the boy. He saw the fierce, unyielding determination burning in Kyū’s eyes... the kind of conviction that could eventually move mountains or topple thrones.

The annoyance faded from Alaric’s features, replaced by a mild, evaluating respect. He raised a brow, nodded his head once more to seal the promise, and walked away, disappearing around the bend of the alleyway like a ghost returning to the mist.

One Year Later

Time in the Fire Capital moved with the relentless, unyielding rhythm of a river carving through stone.

A full year had passed since the violent encounter in the alleyway and the brief, enigmatic intervention of the crimson-coated shinobi. For Kyū, however, that singular afternoon had fundamentally rewritten the trajectory of his existence.

He had returned to the marketplace the very next day, and the day after that, deliberately seeking out Aiko Raiden. What had begun as a nobleman’s fleeting fascination with a fierce commoner rapidly blossomed into a profound, quiet intimacy. They became inseparable. Stripped of his silk robes and royal titles, Kyū was just a boy learning how to navigate the vibrant chaos of the civilian world. Aiko became his guide and his anchor.

They spent their stolen afternoons helping the elderly haul heavy rice sacks across the market square, splitting steaming pork buns on the edge of the merchant district, and sitting on the tiled roofs of abandoned shrines, talking about everything and nothing until the stars bled into the twilight.

With every shared laugh and every quiet glance, Kyū’s innocent infatuation hardened into a deep, unwavering love.

But the reality of his bloodline remained an invisible, heavy chain around his neck.

Kyū was currently seated in his private study room deep within the fortified, sprawling complex of the Daimyo’s Residence. He sat upon a plush silken cushion, a heavy calligraphy brush poised perfectly in his hand. He was diligently executing the grueling political theories and economic matrices his father required of him.

It was his subtle strategy: if he remained the absolute, flawless picture of a dutiful heir within these walls, his father would look the other way, granting him the marginal freedom to ”play around” in the city during his scant free hours.

The silent rhythm of his brushstrokes was abruptly shattered.

The heavy, lacquered shōji doors to his study slid open with a sharp, authoritative clack.

Kyū’s hand froze. He did not look up immediately, but his heart seized. It was highly irregular. Usually, his father would dispatch a high-ranking steward or a samurai guard to formally summon him to the throne room. For the reigning Fire Daimyo to physically walk to his son’s private quarters unannounced signaled a matter of dire, absolute gravity.

Kyū carefully set his brush upon the inkstone, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. He smoothed the front of his formal kimono and looked up.

”Kyū,” Kakyū Madoka stated, stepping into the room. The Daimyo’s face was carved from stoic, unyielding granite, his eyes carrying the heavy, exhausting weight of a man who moved pieces on a continental board.

”Yes, father?” Kyū replied, maintaining his perfect, deferential posture.

Kakyū did not sit. He stood in the center of the room, looking down at the complex ledgers Kyū had been studying.

”You have come of age,” the Daimyo began, his voice devoid of warmth, entirely consumed by the chilling pragmatism of statecraft. ”Your education is progressing adequately, and the court recognizes your growing competence. It is time you fulfill your primary duty to the legacy of our blood.”

Kyū’s pulse accelerated, a cold dread pooling in his stomach. He knew exactly where this rhetoric led.

”I have spent the past four months in delicate negotiations with the western borders,” Kakyū continued, clasping his hands behind his back. ”An agreement has finally been struck. To solidify our borders and form an unbreakable economic and military alliance between the two greatest nations on this continent... you are officially betrothed to the eldest daughter of the Wind Daimyo.”

The words landed in the quiet study like an executioner’s blade.

Kyū’s breath caught violently in his chest. His eyes widened to an impossible degree, the rich, vibrant future he had secretly built in his mind instantly shattering into sharp, jagged fragments.

He knew the responsibilities of being the future ruler. He had read the histories; he understood that noble marriages were transactions of flesh and influence, not of the heart. But love had made him beautifully, tragically foolish. He had genuinely, desperately held onto the fragile hope that his father might allow him the singular mercy of choosing his own bride. He had spent the previous night mentally drafting the exact words he would use to ask Aiko’s father... a humble blacksmith... for his daughter’s hand in marriage.

And now, with a single diplomatic decree, it was all reduced to ash.

Kyū’s mouth opened, a desperate protest dying on his tongue before it could be voiced. He looked at his father, his eyes shining with a sudden, profound despair.

”...”

”...”

Kakyū Madoka stared at his son. The Daimyo was not a cruel man, merely a hardened one. He saw the devastation blooming across his heir’s face. He saw the silent scream of a young man watching his humanity being sacrificed on the altar of the state.

The Daimyo’s severe expression softened by a microscopic fraction. He let out a quiet, heavy sigh that seemed to age him ten years in a single breath.

”I know it is a heavy burden to bear,” Kakyū said softly, offering the only comfort a king could afford. ”Take the evening. Digest the reality of your station. The official envoys arrive from the Land of Wind in two months.”

Without demanding a verbal acknowledgment, Kakyū turned and exited the study, sliding the doors shut behind him, leaving his son entombed in his gilded cage.

Kyū sat in absolute, suffocating silence.

His hands began to tremble violently. He didn’t know what to do. His heart screamed for him to run, to sprint down to the marketplace, grab Aiko’s hand, and flee the capital entirely. But his mind, trained in the brutal arithmetic of duty, knew that the Daimyo’s samurai would simply hunt them down, and Aiko would pay the ultimate price for his treason.

Unable to bear the stifling pressure of the room, Kyū pushed himself up from his cushion. His legs felt like lead. He walked toward the massive, arched window at the far end of the study, gripping the wooden sill so tightly his knuckles ached.

He looked out over the sprawling, magnificent expanse of the Fire Capital. The city stretched out for miles, a sea of tiled roofs, smoking chimneys, and distant, walled districts. It was vast, powerful, and overwhelming... a perfect, terrifying mirror of the responsibilities that had just crushed him.

”It’s nice, huh?”

Kyū’s head snapped up.

He blinked, utterly disoriented by the sudden, casual voice. He turned his head frantically, his eyes widening in absolute shock as he looked past the glass panes to the exterior side of the window.

Hovering in mid-air, three stories above the courtyard, was the giant blonde man from the alleyway.

Alaric was casually leaning an elbow against the outside brickwork, smoking a cigar as he admired the panoramic view of the capital. He looked exactly the same as he had a year ago, the crimson coat rippling slightly in the high altitude breeze.

”W-Who...!” Kyū gasped, stumbling backward and knocking over a small inkwell.

Alaric turned his head, blowing a thin stream of smoke toward the sky. ”My bad,” he said mildly, his blue eyes holding a lazy, familiar amusement. ”Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Kyū stared, his jaw completely unhinged. The sheer impossibility of a man floating outside his high-security window temporarily short-circuited his grief. ”A-Alaric? You... you’re flying?”

”Gravity is mostly just a suggestion if you know the right math,” Alaric shrugged, tapping the ash from his cigar. He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the window ledge. ”I was just passing through the neighborhood. Figured I’d drop by and redeem that vow you threw at my back last year. But...”

Alaric’s piercing blue eyes swept over Kyū, taking in the trembling hands, the pale, devastated complexion, and the wet sheen of unshed tears.

”...It seems to me that you’re the one who desperately needs another favor right now.”

Kyū swallowed hard, his breathing ragged. The shock of the impossible arrival was rapidly fading, leaving the raw, bleeding wound of his father’s decree fully exposed.

”You... you knew who I was?” Kyū asked, his voice fragile. ”You knew I was the son of the Daimyo?”

”I know a lot of things, kid,” Alaric replied smoothly. ”When a boy dressed in peasant clothes uses high-court vocabulary to swear an oath, the disguise tends to fall apart.”

Kyū lowered his head, a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaping his lips. ”So you are a shinobi, then.”

Alaric gave a single, slow nod. ”Among other things. Yes.”

The young lord fell silent, leaning heavily against the window frame. The sheer, overwhelming isolation of his position pressed down on him, and suddenly, the presence of this strange, powerful anomaly felt like a bizarre, divine confessional.

”What’s eating you, Kyū?” Alaric probed gently, his voice devoid of judgment. ”You look like a man marching to the gallows.”

Kyū closed his eyes, the tears finally slipping over his lashes. He couldn’t hold it back anymore.

”I am,” Kyū confessed, his voice cracking with the unbearable weight of his truth. ”My father just informed me... I am to be betrothed to the daughter of the Wind Daimyo. A political marriage to secure a blood alliance between our nations.”

He looked up at Alaric, his eyes begging for an understanding he knew the court would never grant him.

”But I love Aiko,” Kyū whispered, the admission tearing from his throat. ”I love her. I was going to ask her father for her hand. I was going to forsake the tradition... but my father made the decree. I am trapped. I don’t know what to do.”

Kyū gripped the window sill, staring desperately at the hovering shinobi. ”You are older than me. You are powerful. Please... I ask of you one more favor. Give me advice. What is the right path?”

Alaric stared at the broken boy through the glass. He didn’t offer a patronizing sigh, nor did he lecture the youth on the brutal realities of feudal politics.

He simply took the cigar from his lips, his expression flattening into absolute, unyielding clarity.

”What’s there to think about?” Alaric asked, his voice sharp and steady. ”If you love her... choose her.”

Kyū’s eyes widened, completely taken aback by the sheer, unapologetic simplicity of the answer. It was a fairy tale response in a world governed by iron and blood.

”I... I can’t just ’choose’ her!” Kyū argued, shaking his head frantically as the ingrained dogma of his upbringing fought back. ”If I love her, yes, I should. But I must be a man! I must face my father and accept my duty! Being the successor to the Daimyo’s throne doesn’t care about my personal feelings. It only cares whether I will be a good ruler or not. If I abandon the alliance for a commoner, I sacrifice the safety of millions for my own selfish heart!”

Alaric listened to the desperate, rehearsed political philosophy tumbling from the boy’s lips. He let the silence stretch for a moment, letting the wind carry the echo of Kyū’s despair away.

Then, Alaric leaned closer to the glass, his blue eyes burning with an intense, revolutionary fire that had forged an empire on the other side of reality.

”A ruler who sacrifices their humanity for the sake of duty,” Alaric stated, his voice resonating with an absolute, undeniable authority, ”ultimately becomes a very poor ruler.”

Kyū froze, the words striking him like a physical blow to the chest. It completely shattered the foundation of everything his father had taught him.

”That,” Alaric added, a faint, deeply respectful smile touching his lips, ”is a direct quote from my closest friend. A man who happens to be the King of my country. And let me tell you... his kingdom is thriving exactly because he chose to remain human.”

’...Wait, Penn knows he’s still human, right?’ Alaric thought before internally shaking his head. ’I certainly hope he doesn’t think of himself as some kind of God... and everybody else.’

Alaric pushed himself off the brick wall, the invisible force holding him aloft seeming to ripple slightly. He slipped the cigar back into his mouth.

”Anyways,” Alaric sighed, adjusting the collar of his crimson coat. ”I’ll be off. Think about what I said, kid. The throne is just a chair. It’s the man sitting in it that matters.”

Without waiting for a farewell, Alaric simply floated backward, ascending higher into the sky with terrifying, effortless grace.

”Wait!” Kyū gasped, pressing his hands against the glass, desperate to call Alaric back, to ask him a thousand more questions about this king, about humanity, about how to find the courage to defy a god-like father.

But he stopped. The words died in his throat.

He watched Alaric drift away, becoming a small, crimson speck against the vast canvas of the Fire Capital’s sky, until he vanished entirely into the clouds.

Kyū stood at the window for a long, profound time. The terrified, obedient boy who had cowered before his father’s decree was slowly dying, replaced by something harder, something forged by the simple, revolutionary advice of a phantom.

He looked out over the entirety of the capital. He balled his hand into a tight, white-knuckled fist, the fear in his chest transmuting into a quiet, unshakeable resolve.

’Thank you, Alaric-san...’ Kyū thought, his jaw setting with the determination of a man who had finally chosen his path. ’I owe you again.’

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