The Assassin's Seven Principles of Manipulation

Chapter 183: Chapter 180 — Let Go

”Or what?”

Koran’s expression seemed to twist. Zephyrion recognized that look, realization. He had fallen into Garrick’s trap. The focus, which had once been their duty of apprehending a criminal, had shifted entirely to Garrick’s blasphemous behavior.

As a high priest, he could not let such a thing go. But... given Garrick’s nature, the world would probably end several times over before an apology ever left his mouth. Which left them at a stalemate.

The air felt heavy. Garrick’s gaze even more so. He held no weapon, yet somehow looked as though he stood on a battlefield. Crazed. A madman.

Every eye in the hall remained fixed on the two of them. Tense. Waiting. None were certain about how this would proceed, not even Zephyrion.

”Then you will stand against the Iron Father? You will stand against our god?”

The high priest attempted to steer the conversation back by ignoring Garrick’s earlier statement.

’This is important.’ Zephyrion realized. It had always been important. After all, Koran had come personally.

”Like I said...” A grin slowly spread across Garrick’s lips. ”If the old man’s got a problem with it, he can come down here and tell me himself.”

”The Iron Father is not someone the likes of you can simply summon. He is our god. He is divine. We, his servants, hold the sacred duty of carrying out his wishes. A duty which you all seem intent on obstructing.”

His gaze swept across the hall. Many of the lords remained expressionless, carrying their eyes, still unwilling to involve themselves.

”And I’m just supposed to take your word for that?” Garrick scoffed. ”This one blasphemed. That one’s evil. This one offended the heavens. Funny how it always seems to work out exactly the way you lot want.”

Koran’s expression darkened. Zephyrion caught the brief hesitation that flickered through the man’s eyes.

Garrick’s words touched upon a longstanding point of contention between the Sarakhel and the other dynasties.

The former believed themselves chosen by the Ferran god himself, attributing much of their authority and actions to carrying out his divine will.

But the other dynasties argued that with the Metal Elemental God having fallen centuries ago, were they truly carrying out His will, or merely their own?

The Sarakhel had won the people over. The dynasties remained unconvinced.

A tense moment later, Koran released a measured breath.

”We are the servants of the Iron Father. Chosen by his divine self personally. But even setting that aside, you are interfering in Sarakhel internal matters. This does not concern you. Can you bear the consequences?”

’Sarakhel matter?’

Zephyrion glanced toward Lumi, recalling the title Koran had used when addressing her. A Sarakhel. Not just any Sarakhel.

A Ser.

He exhaled slowly, collecting his thoughts. Koran had shifted the stakes considerably. They were no longer standing against the Ferran Church. They were standing against the Sarakhel, one of the ruling pillars of the Ferran Empire.

Yet Garrick’s grin only grew wider.

”Last time I checked, the little flower carries Calderalth’s name.” He spread his arms lazily. ”You’re standing in our estate acting like you own the place. Sounds pretty fucking relevant to me.”

The two held each other’s gaze, the tension in the hall rising. It had become so quiet a dropped pin would sound like a cannon.

No one seemed certain what would happen next. A fight? Would one of them back down? The moment Koran invoked the Sarakhel, this had ceased being official business.

Now power, prestige, and pride were involved. A clash between two dynasties. The one who retreated would be the one who lost. A stain on reputation. A wound to pride.

Garrick was a well known madman. He would sooner throw himself off a cliff than yield in a confrontation.

Koran, however, was different.

Having led the Southern Church for decades, he was known as a man as strict as he was ruthless. He never hesitated to punish those who strayed from the Iron Father’s teachings.

There had been numerous clashes with House Calderalth before. Zephyrion remembered several from his childhood. But none had been significant. Well... until now.

”I suggest...” Every eye turned toward the Grand Marshal. Garaxe’s usual calm demeanor had vanished. There was only coldness in his eyes.

”You pursue the appropriate channels for matters as important as this. As you can see, we’re trying to enjoy our evening. I think it’s best you leave.”

”Yeah, what he said. Fuck off.”

Garaxe shot Garrick a glare. The man merely grinned and gave an innocent shrug. Koran’s jaw visibly tightened. A tense moment passed.

Then the high priest released a slow breath and swept a cold gaze across Garrick, Garaxe, Ingrid, and finally Zephyrion.

”This isn’t over.”

Garrick barked a laugh.

”Says the sore loser.”

The vein at Koran’s temple twitched. Without another word, he turned and strode from the hall, the two priests following closely behind.

The celebration did not immediately resume, the tension still lingering in the air.

”Are you okay?”

The question slipped from Ingrid before she could stop herself. She froze.

For a brief moment, something flashed across her face before the usual composure returned. Even so, her eyes remained fixed on Zephyrion. Had his thoughts not been so muddled, he might have noticed the concern hidden beneath them.

”...I’m fine.”

Ingrid’s brows furrowed. The frown on Zephyrion’s face was more emotion than she had seen from him in years. Her gaze drifted toward Lumi. All because of... her?

Ingrid’s fingers tightened slightly. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was feeling. A moment later, she exhaled.

”You should return,” she finally said. ”Tomorrow will be a long day.”

Zephyrion did as she suggested and left the hall. As he passed, Garrick flashed him a confident grin, the sort that seemed to say everything would be fine.

Every eye was on him, particularly Lumi. Different emotions lingered within them. Contempt. Shock. Judgment. His hypersensitivity picked up every trace of it. Yet Zephyrion ignored them all.

Lumi walked quietly at his right. Tobias remained at his left. Both were silent for entirely different reasons. Zephyrion made no effort to break the silence.

All Zephyrion could think was...

How?

How had he missed something so obvious? How had he made such a mistake? Lumi was mute. All Ser were mute.

How had it never occurred to him to confirm? Such a stupid blunder. He had never felt so foolish. Demorian was raging in his mind, but Zephyrion ignored the ancestor.

They reached the mansion beneath the pale moonlight. Zephyrion parted ways with Tobias without a word. The ward tried several times to say something. Zephyrion never looked back.

He entered his room, Lumi silently trailing after him with her head lowered. Zephyrion glanced toward her. A faint tremble lingered in her hands. She looked pitiful, frightened. Even after all this time...

Something twisted in Zephyrion’s stomach.

He didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he gestured toward the bed.

”Get some sleep.”

Lumi silently nodded and climbed onto the mattress, disappearing beneath the thick sheets.

Zephyrion released a slow breath and rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension coiled through his body.

Then he remembered what he had almost done in the hall. If Ingrid hadn’t stepped in, would he really have attacked the Sarakhel?

Zephyrion stared at his hands in disbelief. Such impulsiveness. This wasn’t how he was supposed to be. His mother had drilled that lesson into him since childhood.

’Rule three.’

Emotion clouds judgment.

He knew this. He had always known this.

A quiet sob reached his ears. Zephyrion turned toward the bed. Lumi’s small frame was trembling beneath the blankets.

He felt his pulse rise. Zephyrion closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. When he opened them again, there was nothing but detachment within them.

He walked toward the window and stared into the distant night.

He knew exactly what this was. The Sarakhel had tried to kill him the moment he was found. All this time, they had been waiting. Watching. Studying. They had identified his weakness and struck at the perfect moment.

It was a direct attack on him.

In such a situation, the correct response was obvious. They believed they knew his weakness. They believed they had him cornered. He should prove them wrong.

The worst thing he could do was fight this. That would be the same as announcing his weakness to the entire south, to the entire Ferran Empire. Enemies would come in droves.

He should cut Lumi off. Let them realize they knew nothing about him. Let them continue guessing. Let them wonder. It would keep them cautious.

Then he could calmly prepare his retaliation.

Zephyrion turned toward the sobbing Lumi, his eyes utterly detached.

Yes.

He would cut her off.

After all, compared to his goals, she was nothing.

...

The silver moon sank beyond the horizon. The blazing sun rose in the east, bathing the world in golden light.

Yet Zephyrion had not moved from his place by the window. Somehow, his gaze had remained on Lumi throughout the entire night.

A knock came from the door.

”Enter.”

The door creaked open and Kilo stepped inside, immediately lowering her head into a bow.

”Y-you summoned me, young lord.”

Zephyrion turned toward her. Sometime during the quiet hours of the night, the detachment in his eyes had changed. Now there was only coldness, one that froze Kilo where she stood.

He had tried. He had considered every angle. Every outcome. Every reason.

But no matter what conclusion he reached...

He couldn’t let it go.