Ruentes ad rem-LXXXVI
-
-
DATE:20th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
-------------------------------------------------
-
-
The news from this morning left me unsettled—not because of the headlines themselves, but because of what they made me realize.
The King of the Unified Kingdom had been spotted attending some film festival in Normandia. A mundane piece of news, hardly worth notice.
But as I stared at his image, something gnawed at the back of my mind.
He looked as young as ever—no older than 30.
It didn't make sense.
The timeline was already strange enough. Ventium was discovered around 40 years ago. Heroes began appearing about 20 years ago. And yet, the Royal Governor was known to be at least 100 years old.
And the King? The records said it had been 70 years since his coronation.
How could that be? How could a man who had ruled for seven decades appear no older than 30?
I studied his features on the screen. Slim, tall, vibrant green eyes. Long, braided blonde hair that shimmered unnaturally in the light. And his ears—long and pointed.
He wasn't human.
Legends from Scandinavia spoke of creatures like him—elves, they called them. But surely, he couldn't be one. Officially, the Elowyn dynasty, rulers of Normandia and its conquered territories, was as human as the rest of us. Legolas Elowyn, the current king, had many titles under his belt, including Grand Duke of Normandia, King of the Franks, King of Aquitaine, King of the Hispanics, King of Ventia and Grand count of Concord. All of these titles are forged from the old Ventian Empire. I am unsure why he didn't proclaim himself Emperor. Possibly a disdain for the Matriarch of Saturn In Rome. I for one wouldn't bow down to such a witch so I can understand his decision, if that was the reason for it.
But then why lie that he is a human?
---
I took a sip of my tea, the heat brushing against my lips.
It was all too complicated.
Instinctively, I pressed my earbud. "Emily."
Her voice came through instantly. "Yes?"
"How was kissing me supposed to wake me up from that nightmare?"
She hesitated—a rare occurrence. Even in her virtual space, she seemed flustered. "It was... it was meant to ground you," she stammered. "Something emotional. Something real. It's easier to wake someone like that."
I frowned, setting my tea down. "I'm not an emotional man. You should know that."
"I do," she replied softly. "But it worked, didn't it? That means you're not as far removed as you think. It's... human nature."
"I didn't feel anything," I said bluntly.
She froze. For a moment, there was silence, like she hadn't processed my words. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter. "I see. That's... alright."
Realizing my mistake, I softened my tone. "It's not just you," I said quickly. "I didn't feel anything kissing Alice, either."
"That's fine," she said, but her tone betrayed her.
---
After finishing my breakfast, I stepped outside for a walk.
The heat was oppressive, the humidity sticking to my skin like a second layer. But Genova, for all its flaws, was picturesque.
The Ligusticum Sea brought a cool breeze, fresher than anything Concord could offer. This place could have been a paradise if not for the people.
Ventian tourism would likely soar if the culture weren't so... terrible.
Even now, as I walked the sunlit streets, I knew the truth. The locals resented tourists. To them, outsiders were enemies, intruders on their sacred traditions.
Was it nostalgia that made me see past it? Perhaps. But that didn't change reality.
---
"Emily," I said, pressing the earbud again. "Do you have any records of the Royal Governor or the King in Naomi's archives?"
"No," she replied quickly. "Even in those, they were elusive. It's strange—almost deliberate."
"Figures."
"But..." she hesitated. "There's no definitive record of how heroes appeared, either. Dumas may have been exaggerating, or perhaps that information was kept outside any database. Either way, it's strange."
I didn't respond.
As I turned a corner, I noticed a woman being dragged into a back alley by two men.
I stopped briefly, watching as they pulled her deeper into the shadows. For a moment, I considered stepping in, but the thought passed as quickly as it came.
What was the point?
If I saved her, she'd be trafficked again tomorrow. Tradition would keep her here, rooted in a city that would never protect her. She'd cling to false hope, thinking they'd forget her, but they wouldn't.
And let's say I killed them. Someone else—a cousin, a brother, a neighbor—would take their place. The chain would remain.
This country had no redemption.
---
I returned to the hotel, disgusted. I didn't bother to eat dinner because of how sick I was feeling
___
___
___
-
-
DATE:21st of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Genova
-------------------------------------------------
-
-
It seems my night was cut short because I woke with the drug surging through my veins, my chest heaving as the world around me slowed to a crawl.
My eyes opened to blinding darkness. The faint light from the lamp on the desk glinted off the blade of a dagger, suspended mere centimeters from my neck.
A woman—no, a maid, judging by her uniform—was crouched over me, her face taut with nervous focus as she drove the blade downward.
I raised my hand, intercepting her wrist with ease. The dagger trembled in her grip as I wrestled it away, twisting her arm sharply. She gasped, her eyes widening in shock as time resumed.
"Please," she choked, her voice trembling. "Let me go."
Her pleas fell on deaf ears. My grip tightened around her throat, her pulse erratic against my fingers. "Why are you here?" I demanded, my voice low and cold.
Her struggles intensified, but I applied just enough pressure to remind her who was in control. Finally, her resistance broke. "Your uncle sent me," she confessed, her words spilling out in panicked gasps. "He said you're... you're a ghoul. That you don't deserve to live."
A ghoul. How poetic.
"If he was so certain," I said flatly, "why didn't he give you a wooden stake?"
"I... I don't know," she stammered, tears streaming down her face.
I didn't bother responding. Dragging her out of the room, I forced her into the elevator.
---
The hallway was dim and silent, the fluorescent lights casting a cold, decrepit glow on the tiled floor. Each step echoed, her muffled sobs breaking the stillness. She begged me to forgive her, saying that she will go on the streets or whatever. I didn't really feel like paying attention.
At the reception desk, the woman behind the counter glanced up, her expression shifting to unease as she spotted us.
"Check the cameras," I ordered, shoving the maid forward. "She tried to kill me in my room."
The receptionist hesitated, her fingers twitching nervously. Her fear of me outweighed her loyalty to her colleague, and she wordlessly complied.
The footage left no room for argument.
The police arrived shortly after, their disdain for being called in the dead of night etched into their faces. You'd think they'd appreciate someone doing their job for them, but no. This was Ventia.
They arrested her without ceremony, the maid writhing in their grip as they dragged her away. I was supposed to come tomorrow for a statement, but I didn't really feel like it. I didn't care whether she went to prison or not. She was dead either way. In the prisons she would be trafficked and on the streets she would be pimped out. What end is better?
I returned to my room, locking the door behind me.
---
Placing the earbud back in, Emily's voice crackled to life, her concern palpable. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine," I muttered, shrugging off her worry. "I won't be here much longer anyway."
Her voice softened. "Still, I—"
I cut the connection, turning my attention to the gear laid out on the desk. This AI has gotten too attached to me. She was 'Worried'? What a joke.
---
The flak suit felt heavier than I remembered, each strap and buckle pulling me further from the person I once was. It wasn't just armor; it was a second skin, designed to absorb the violence that had become my life.
The exoskeleton clicked into place with mechanical precision, augmenting my strength—a necessary enhancement for a man who had learned to rely on cold, calculated force.
I holstered the revolver, its ornate barrel catching the faint light as it slid into place. The SmartGun followed, its weight familiar against my hip.
Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I felt nothing. This was who I was. A weapon, stripped of sentimentality and weighed down by the tools of survival. Who is Emily to care about me? Does she think she actually has feelings for me? So misguided.
I stepped out into the night, the air thick with the promise of confrontation.
"It's time to visit my uncle," I murmured, my voice devoid of anything but purpose.
I asked Emily to teleport me back into his office. There was no point in driving there.
With a blink, I was back in his office.
The smell of blood hit me again—metallic, heavy, and cloying. The walls adorned with mounted animal heads had their lifeless eyes stare down at me like silent witnesses to decades of horror. Today it will be their end. I will put them to rest.
Such a horrible place.
Emily buzzed faintly in my ear as I connected her to the old computer, though I already knew it was pointless. The Syndicate preferred their secrets on paper, stored in ledgers and files that burned easier than bytes.
After a few minutes, I struck a match, the flame dancing briefly before catching on the edge of the desk. The fire spread quickly, licking at the papers and walls as I stepped out into the hallway.
---
Through the heat vision in my mask, I spotted a man patrolling at the end of the corridor.
There was no need for noise.
Moving quickly, I approached from behind and drove the bayonet knife into his neck. The blade slid easily through flesh and bone, the power of the exoskeleton making the kill clean and efficient.
The body fell silently.
---
Emily's surveillance through the primitive camera system confirmed my uncle's location: his room, sitting at his desk, writing under the dim glow of a lamp.
I ignored the cages as I passed by, sparing them only a brief glance. Men, women, children—it didn't matter. Their fates were sealed long before I arrived.
Taking revenge on my uncle was one thing, but hurting the Syndicate financially? That would only draw their ire, turning me into their enemy once more.
These people, trapped and desperate, weren't my concern. I wasn't a hero.
---
On the ground floor, two guards stood near a window, smoking lazily.
I acted quickly, throwing a smaller knife into the neck of one and muffling the other's scream with my hand. Driving the bayonet into his chest repeatedly, I felt the exoskeleton amplify each strike, the blade piercing through ribs and organs like paper.
For the first time, I understood the allure of power.
Was this how the heroes felt? Invincible. Unstoppable.
Power was intoxicating. No wonder they acted so smug.
---
Reaching the second floor, I nearly let a guard see me. He stood in a corner, distracted, his belt undone.
Suppressing a wave of disgust, I approached silently. This one, especially, had to die quickly—the heat vision confirmed my uncle was still at his desk, just a few doors away.
The bayonet pierced his back, his body crumpling soundlessly to the floor.
The second floor was lined with storage racks for wine bottles. The air was thick and warm, oppressive. It was a fool's attempt at storage—wine couldn't survive such heat. They couldn't be bothered to even pretend that this was a normal store. These very bottles were supposed to be downstairs...
Reaching my uncle's room, I leaned against the wall, my finger brushing the trigger of the SmartGun as Emily whispered in my ear.
"He's still at the desk."
I breathed in, steadying myself, and stepped inside.
---
The shot was clean.
The bullet struck his temple, and his body slumped forward, blood pooling across the desk.
His room was surprisingly refined, a stark contrast to the rest of the base. The furniture was carved from rich, oaken wood, the scent filling the air. Cabinets were lined with leather-bound books, and the bed—large and draped in fine sheets—dominated the space beneath a mounted bear head on the wall.
But the figure on the bed caught my attention.
A young woman, no older than her twenties, was chained to the frame. Her short, vixen-orange hair clung to her face, streaked with sweat and tears. Her makeup was smeared, running down her cheeks in dark streaks.
She called out to me, her voice trembling.
I ignored her, stepping toward the desk.
The bloody paper beneath my uncle's corpse was a title deed—likely for his slaves. Among the scattered papers lay a necklace, a captain's sigil marked with the Syndicate's insignia. Taking it, I slipped it into my pocket. This thing could allow me to enter almost any base of the syndicate without being asked anything.
Emily's voice turned sharp in my ear. "You need to help her."
"She's none of my concern," I replied coldly, rifling through the drawer.
The woman shifted, the chains rattling as she tried to move. "Aionis!" she cried suddenly, her voice breaking.
I paused, glancing back. I don't know why I bothered to do that...
She stared at me, her face streaked with tears.
Sighing, I stepped toward the bed and snapped the chain binding her ankle with the exoskeleton's strength. Reaching for the keys on the desk, I tossed them in her direction. I suppose I did set the building on fire so the slaves are almost dead already.
"What you do with them is your choice," I said flatly. "The way, the building is burning. "
She nodded, her expression a mix of fear and disbelief. I didn't wait to see her act.
---
I left the way I came, having Emily teleport me back to my room.
The armor reeked of blood as I cleaned each piece, my hands moving mechanically. I killed 5 men in an hour. I am getting sloppy.
It was done. I did say that it was pointless to kill men of the Syndicate, but the next captain they will send here won't know me. Especially if the building burns.
It didn't take long for news to appear on my TV about the "famous winery" burning. I find it amusing how everyone was pretending that this was a proper establishment, and that the owner was a "victim".
It was very nostalgic to watch the news. There were 7 headlines all over the screen to not "bore" the viewer and the anchor was dressed like a prostitute. These kinds of channels usually dwell in relationship drama of local celebrities or dating shows. That is what Ventians like to watch. Who am I to decide what is quality content?
It was currently 2AM.
I decided to sleep for a new hours. What's the worst that can happen? I already sent away this night's assassin.-*-*-*-*-*