20. Learning the game

The noblewoman's words lingered in Harsh's mind long after he had left her chambers.

"What do you really want?"

It was the kind of question that had no simple answer.

Harsh knew his goal—to change everything. To break the cycle of oppression that had existed for centuries. But was that even possible? Could a single man, even one with knowledge from the future and strength beyond normal men, truly shift the foundations of society?

Or was he just another pawn in someone else's game?

These thoughts haunted him as he walked through the moonlit corridors of the estate. His mind was a battlefield, torn between ambition and the reality of the world around him.

Then, he heard it.

A whisper of movement.

His instincts sharpened instantly. He was being followed.

Harsh's pace remained steady, but his senses extended, his body tensed for action. Whoever it was, they were good. No heavy footsteps, no clumsy breaths.

But not good enough.

He turned a corner, then suddenly spun around—and caught the shadowed figure by the wrist.

The assassin moved fast, a blade flashing toward his throat.

Harsh's newfound strength took over. He twisted, yanking the assassin forward and slamming them against the wall with a force that sent a shockwave through the stone.

A strangled gasp. The hood fell back, revealing a young man—no older than Harsh himself.

But it was the eyes that caught his attention.

Empty. Resigned.

Harsh had seen that look before—in men who had already accepted death.

"Who sent you?" he demanded, his grip tightening.

The assassin smirked, blood trickling from his lips. "Does it matter?"

Harsh's heart pounded. He had expected opposition, but not this soon.

This wasn't just a warning. It was an execution order.

The noblewoman had been right. The whispers had already started.

And someone wanted him gone.

The assassin coughed, his body trembling. "You should've never drawn attention to yourself."

Harsh's grip wavered for a moment.

Then, before he could react—

The assassin twisted, driving his own blade into his throat.

A choked gurgle. A spray of blood.

Harsh stumbled back as the assassin collapsed to the floor, lifeless.

He stood there, chest rising and falling, staring at the corpse at his feet.

They were willing to send men to die just to kill him.

The weight of that realization settled in his bones.

This was only the beginning.

---

Harsh didn't return to his chambers.

Instead, he went back to the noblewoman.

She was awake, waiting, as if she had expected him.

"You're bleeding," she observed, glancing at the smear of blood on his sleeve.

Harsh didn't answer. He sat down heavily, his hands still stained with the assassin's blood.

"They sent someone after me," he said finally.

The noblewoman sighed, swirling the wine in her goblet. "Of course they did."

Harsh looked up. "You knew?"

She tilted her head. "I suspected."

Anger flared in him. "And you didn't warn me?"

She arched a brow. "Would it have changed anything?"

Harsh clenched his fists. She was right.

She leaned forward, her voice quieter now. "You were tested today. And you passed. That makes you valuable."

Harsh exhaled sharply. "And dangerous."

A smirk. "Exactly."

Silence settled between them.

Then, the noblewoman spoke again, her tone softer.

"Now, do you understand?"

Harsh met her gaze.

He did.

This world wasn't just about who held the sword.

It was about who controlled the whispers in the dark.

And if he wanted to survive—if he wanted to win—

He needed to learn how to play that game.