Chapter VI: Ratti, qui in cloacis vagantur.

Year 3460 after Rostdor's foundation, capital city of Martalaz, Martalaz. Rostdorian Forum (city Square).

-It's a pleasure to finally make your acquittance, governor. I've been around high Martalaz for a while, but with the construction of the new roads made by my legionaries and my pirate hunts, I've been too busy to properly meet you.

The governor was an old plain guy. Not too tall, with scarce but well tend to hair, he wasn't entirely bald, but was trying too hard to grasp what remained of his hair. He wore a formal suit used to greet important guests, which fit him rather tightly taking into account his body fat. He wasn't excessively overweight, but it was clear as day that he didn't exercise regularly.

-It's a pleasure as well, your most brilliant Highness. Word of your deeds and achievements have reached far and wide. Even his Majesty wanted to commend you for them. I'm sure archbishop Renoir would like to ask you for guidance as well, for divine blood seems to be stronger in you than in most. And, although we never asked for such a grace, we gladly receive it.

Caesar made a mental sigh. He knew that what the governor was really trying to say was more akin to: we never asked for your help, so do not try to demand anything from us.

Slowly but surely, Caesar was starting to understand all the subtleties of noble talk, and political nuance. Something he noticed was that not only his physical body got incredibly better, but his brains seemed to have improved just as much, or even more. He was surprised to even notice he had an almost perfect memory.

-I'm just glad to be able to help these poor people. They seem to like me for it as well, although I never did it with that intention.

A navy officer approached out of nowhere, followed by what seemed to be his bodyguards.

The knights that guarded Caesar, wearing full lorica musculata (made out of the finest Demetrian steel) sneered at the navy.

Out of the legion under Caesar command, 200 were fully aura trained knights. They could theoretically evade bullets, protect themselves from a small amount of them and even regenerate themselves to a point with it. The knights relied on the elite knowledge of aura, the navy and army relied on bullets and numbers. Hence, why the knights (although they did use fire guns) knew themselves superiors to any other branch of the military.

The navy bodyguards spit on the ground, something apparently leaving a bad taste on their mouths.

-It is my highest honour to meet the little sun, a part of his great majesty's light. I'm the Nauarchus princeps of the north Martalaz sea. I'm here in good faith, to have a small talk about your recent movements, your Highness.

-Well governor, I was hoping to talk to you about a minor... Issue, I've found on Martalaz. And, while do believe me I Love this great city, I would say we need a little more privacy before we engaged on discourse.

The governor was a little taken back by the fact that the third prince had completely ignored the chief of navy on the north sea, but he couldn't exactly reproach a prince, so he just said:

-Your Highness, that would be great. I just hope you don't have any kind of prior appointments before discussing... Such things.

Caesar looked at the Nauarchus princeps, a relatively young man for such a post. Maybe reaching his forties, impeccable skin and not even wearing the navy uniform but a rather expensive Ulster Chesterfield.

-Worry not governor, for I do not have such an appointment. And I would never have such one with... People who know not manners.

The Nauarchus Princeps' eye twitched slightly. Knowingly he had insulted the prince with his greeting, but he expected not the prince to not only understand his insult (for it was well disguised) but to even return one instead. One which he couldn't even refute, for his manners in the exchange were lacking and he hasn't an appointment.

Once they entered the governor's residence, Caesar couldn't help but sigh in his mind again. Why was everyone so fucking tiring? Every single exchange with anyone that was slightly high ranking was full of long sentences, hidden insults and plain disdain towards his age. It was like none of the high ranking people cared about the customs or traditions about the Royal blood anymore.

And all of that was directly opposed to the way the common people would immediately start praying in front of him and present their children and asking for a blessing. As if he could do anything at all.

He would go to a restaurant and the waiter would offer to pay all of his bills if he blessed his mother to recover from cancer, and get pissed once he said he could do no such thing. A common church priest would kneel before him asking for teachings and wise words. The next second, a nearby noble rank of baron would try to laugh at him by providing his retinue with subpar quality of living.

It was... Truly the worst of every world. Theyr worshipped him but despised him as soon as he couldn't solve all their problems in one go, and the ones that should be serving him tried to subtly mock him.

Caesar was tired. Mentally. Physically raging. So he found a perfect excuse.

He found a heretic cult worshipping some kind of sea-god of Martalaz who allegedly was the original god of the city, in the sewers.

He only needed the governor's permit and he would go hunt them down for sport.

A horrific thought, to be honest, but after months of battling pirates and small time terrorist, he kind of developed a weird psychopathic relief. He felt better after killing anyone who he deemed deserved it. Which, for some unknown reason to him, made people like him. His soldiers thought of him as a model royal, the people praised him as a divine executioner and even small time nobles complimented his bravery.

He knew it was fucked up, but no one seemed to care, and with frustration slowly building up, he couldn't do anything else.

He was already dreading the next month: The new year. In about half a month, he was to return to the royal Capital, and start the preparations for his debut. Once he made 16 years, the same year he would start in September the Weichster academy for nobles, which every single noble attended. And he would not be able to let out his frustration by killing people there.

He was kind of horrified of himself, but kept his peace of mind by saying that if he didn't kill those bandits and pirates, his soldiers would've done so anyway, so he didn't really change anything.

Year 3460 after Rostdor's foundation, capital city of Martalaz, Martalaz. Sewers.

The rat squeaks were high pitched but short lived. The man had grabbed it swiftly by the throat and with one bite, he sliced it's head clean off.

While chewing on the rat, he started moving silently through the darkness. He knew his god provided him with superior stealth, so he used it well.

Suddenly, an echo through the well built now green due to moss hallways. The Martalaz Sewers dated back a couple thousand years, created and renovated time and time again by the Rostdorian people, he knew these invasors would eventually fall. He was a firm devout of Clazul'oo. The seas were his forte, and even though feces ran through them, the sewers still contained the sacred waters of Martalaz.

The echo grew stronger. Some kind of... Boots? Boots... Heavy boots. Imperial boots. He started thinking quickly: probably the base had been revealed. How? That didn't matter. Where were the imperials? From the sound of those echoes, they were kind of lost, but nearing the camp. How? His will be done. What was he supposed to do? He knew it: he was to reach camp and warn his brothers and sisters. How?

And then, he started rushing through the dark. Maintenance doors, stairs to the surface, small separation filters, he kept going. Abandoned quarters, used back when the technology required for people to repair things often, back for when malfunctions would happend weekly.

A stare. A knight stared him right in the eyes. A fully plated fully armoured Rostdorian knight. The best ones in the world. He raised his Mauser C96 stolen from a Viscount, and aimed immediately: he fired three shots and vanished.

He knew the knight would not even get a scratch, but with his sudden focus in defense, trying to chase him would prove useless. And the echoes... Oh the echoes, how they reverberated. Now confusion was spreading.

Finally, at camp. What used to be part of the city, before it was built upon and incorporated to the sewers. A small open space. He had to warn his brothers.

-HEAR ME, BROTHERS. THE OPPRESSORS ARE ON OUR TAIL. WAKE UP, AND RUN!

while he shouted that, someone came out of one of the makeshift tents.

-You heard me brother! Please run!

As soon as he noticed the golden hair and pale skin he put his Mauser in front of him and started shooting. None of his brothers or sisters were blonde or pale.

The first shot was fired; what was a 20 step distance reduced to 13 steps.

The second shot was fired, but he could not believe what he saw: there was no aura used. Just a sword slicing his bullet in two. 6 steps.

The third shot was done when the figure grabbed him by his neck. He aimed at his head. Aura manifested itself and stopped the bullet dead, making some of it's broken shards dig into the cultist's skin.

-AAAAGH -he yelled.

For some reason a teenage boy with a sword (a sabre?) broke his hand, the gun falling to the ground.

The cultist's screams were high pitched but short lived. The boy had grabbed it swiftly by the throat and with one slash, he sliced his head clean off.