The Assassin's Seven Principles of Manipulation

Chapter 193: Chapter 189 — See

The hall fell silent, every eye fixed upon the scene. Menias barely noticed as he struggled to draw breath back into his lungs.

When he finally managed it, he lifted his head and glared at Zephyrion with burning eyes.

”Is this how you intend to bring the sinner to his knees?” Zephyrion wasn’t loud, yet his voice carried effortlessly through the silence. ”By kneeling first?”

Laughter rippled through the crowd.

Menias gnashed his teeth.

”I’ll kill you.”

He exploded forward. His blade moved faster this time. The thrusts sharper. More desperate. Steel screamed through the air. Yet Zephyrion’s blade met every attack. Clashing. Clashing. Clashing.

The ringing of steel became unending. Jagged bursts of sparks scattered across the arena, dancing through the air like embers caught in a storm. Every strike was blocked. Every feint seen through.

Zephyrion stood exactly where he was, his blade blurring into an impenetrable wall around him. With each failed attack, Menias’ expression twisted a little further.

The confidence was gone. The certainty was gone. What remained was becoming increasingly difficult to look at. Zephyrion could see it now, he could smell it. Fear.

The next clash brought their faces within arm’s reach of one another.

”It seems you still haven’t figured out what’s happening.”

Menias glared at him but said nothing. He was listening. That was enough.

”Your strength. Your techniques. All that confidence. None of it matters.” Another clash. Sparks burst between them. ”You’re still going to lose.”

Menias’ gritted his teeth, but didn’t respond. Only the frantic collision of steel as blade continued to meet blade.

”But unfortunately, this isn’t a battle of winners and losers.” Zephyrion lowered his voice until only the two of them could hear. ”It’s a battle to the death.”

”...”

”You will die. Everything you’ve built, everything you’ve worked for, will crumble. It’ll become meaningless. I’ll move on. The South will move on. Eventually, no one will remember you.”

More sparks burst between them, their light reflecting in Menias’ increasingly unsteady eyes.

He got him.

Zephyrion slipped past a downward thrust and drove his fist into Menias’ face.

Crack.

Bone gave way. Blood sprayed. Menias crashed onto the anvil and tumbled across its surface before coming to a stop, blood already running from his battered face.

Zephyrion met his eyes. He saw it. Not doubt, or anger. Fear. It had finally taken root. This time, Menias didn’t glare back. Instead, he scrambled to his feet and spun toward the crowd.

”This is rigged!” Menias thundered. ”My fellow Ferrans, you can’t seriously believe this! Think about it! The anvil, the trial, all of it! It was planned from the beginning! This isn’t the Iron Father’s judgment! It’s a sham! Stop this! We have to stop this!”

Zephyrion didn’t speak, he didn’t need to. The hall had gone silent. Every Ferran stared at Menias with the same expression. Contempt.

The Trial of Iron had been fair. They had watched the duel with their own eyes. He was losing, now he wanted out. A coward. Did he truly think they were fools?

The contempt quickly curdled into disgust.

Bam!

Something wet smacked against Menias’ shoulder and burst apart. A drink. Someone in the crowd had thrown it.

”W-what?” Menias stared blankly at the liquid dripping down his body. Unfortunately for him, it didn’t end there. More objects followed. Food. Tankards. Scraps of metal. Water. Anything people could get their hands on.

Everything came raining down amid a storm of jeers.

”Coward!”

”You’re a disgrace!”

”You shame the Ferran people!”

”Accept your fate, you fool!”

Above, Koran’s expression had gone pale. He looked moments away from marching onto the stage himself. It was a pleasant sight. Then Zephyrion began walking toward Menias, and the crowd instinctively stopped their barrage.

By now, Menias was soaked in an unholy mixture of liquids and half-eaten food. Zephyrion’s senses even caught a faint scent that was suspiciously similar to urine. Crazy Ferrans.

”Why is no one listening?” Menias muttered, staring at the liquid dripping from his body. ”It’s rigged... it’s obviously rigged... there’s no way...”

”It’s because they finally see you for what you are.”

Menias turned toward him, his body trembling.

”W-what are you talking about?”

”A coward.”

A straight punch to the face sent him crashing back to the ground.

”And now,” Zephyrion said, calm, ”you get to live with the consequences.”

”No. No...”

Menias wiped blood from his lips, panic creeping into his voice.

”It can’t end like this. Father! High Priests! Do something! Stop this! This is wrong! It’s unfair! I’m a servant of the Iron Father! I have devoted my life to him! I can’t die here! Not like this! This is barbaric! Stop him!”

Zephyrion glanced toward Koran and the Sarakhel priests. Every eye in the hall followed. Waiting, watching, anticipating.

But Koran was smarter than that. Despite the fury burning in his eyes, he never moved from his seat. Even from this distance, Zephyrion could see the veins standing out along his temple. He was angry. Good. Zephyrion wanted him angry.

Only silence answered Menias’ desperate pleas. Slowly, he turned back toward Zephyrion with trembling eyes and found him still looking at Koran.

An opportunity. At least, that’s what Menias thought. Hope flashed across his face. He lunged. He was wrong. His blade carved through empty air. A heartbeat later, Zephyrion’s blade drove through his chest and into his heart.

Menias froze. The hall froze with him. Then Zephyrion turned him toward the crowd. To the South, he was trying to show them the execution of Menias. The execution of true justice. Yet Zephyrion’s attention remained entirely elsewhere. Koran.

He wanted the man to watch. To watch as the light slowly faded from his son’s eyes. To watch as the consequences of his actions were laid bare before the entire South.

This was the price of crossing him. Not just for Koran. For every member of the Sarakhel House watching from the stands.

They had come after him when he had only just returned. Worse, they had come after what was his.

Yet this was only the beginning. The first payment. The first lesson. The price of crossing him was not something they could afford.

He would make certain they understood that.

As Menias’ body finally collapsed onto the anvil, the entire South erupted into a deafening roar.

....

The rest of the tribunal went as expected. The rules of the Trial of Iron could not have been clearer. With Menias dead and the Lightning Prince standing tall before his lifeless corpse, the people roared.

”Praise be to the Iron Father!”

”This is true justice!”

”Lightning Prince! Lightning Prince!”

The people who had once stared at him with murderous eyes now cheered his name. It was only when the crowds gathered outside the church joined in that he realized the entire trial had been broadcast.

The whole South had seen it.

The Sarakhel priests departed beneath the deafening cheers with twisted expressions, though not before Koran threw him a glare so cold the temperature seemed to drop. Zephyrion met his gaze, the world around them fading into the background.

This was not over.

Koran left with the other priests. Zephyrion remained alone upon the stage, surrounded by endless applause and the thunderous cries of the South.

...

”He’s really an incredible child.”

Appearing beside Kastor high above the city, Garaxe shook his head as he looked down at the roaring crowds below.

Kastor said nothing.

”He shocked us all. I know he shocked me. I honestly thought the tribunal was a lost cause. Who would’ve thought he’d turn the Sarakhel weapon against them?”

Garaxe glanced sideways at the silent Kastor, amusement in his eyes.

”I mean, that’s why you came, right, brother? You thought he was going to lose too. You came here ready to put your foot down.”

”...You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Garaxe barked out a laugh.

”Sure I don’t. When you were forging the anvil for the duel, I could practically feel your excitement. You were proud, weren’t you?”

Kastor said nothing, but Garaxe didn’t miss the slight twitch at the corner of his lips. He was actually trying to hold back a smile.

The air felt lighter somehow. Peaceful. Kastor was happy. Garaxe couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen that.

Then, the air grew heavy.

The cheers below swelled once more, drawing Garaxe’s attention downward. Zephyrion was making his way toward the waiting carriage alongside the other trainees, while Garrick strode at the front with a grin that looked entirely too pleased with itself.

Garaxe followed Kastor’s gaze to Garrick and sighed.

”You fought again, didn’t you?”

Kastor was silent for a moment before giving a small nod.

”About the trial.”

Another nod.

Garaxe rubbed his forehead. Of course. He didn’t need to hear the rest. Garrick had probably wanted to march straight into the church and start a war. Kastor had refused. It was always the same argument with those two.

”I don’t understand why you keep our plans from him, brother. If you’re worried he’ll betray us, Garr—”

”That’s not it.”

Kastor’s response came immediately, sharper than before. Garaxe blinked and turned toward him. Kastor was already looking back, his expression unusually serious.

”Then what is it?” Garaxe frowned. ”I don’t get it. If he knew everything, he wouldn’t react like this. He’d understand. Why won’t you just tell him?”

”No.”

”Brother.” Garaxe sighed. ”Why do you keep letting him hate you?”

Kastor turned away, his gaze drifting back to the crowd below. To Garrick, then to Zephyrion.

The wind rolled across the city, stirring his hair and robes. For some reason, looking at his brother now, Garaxe felt an ache in his chest.

Kastor had never looked more alone.

”...Because I deserve it.”