The Ghost That Topples Kings

A thin mist blanketed Ezzera Village that morning, hovering low among the trees like the breath of a slumbering ancient beast. Dew clung to the wild leaves, dripping slowly onto the damp earth untouched by sunlight. Beside the old kitchen, two figures sat side by side on a wooden bench—Reno, silent like a shadow, and Mother Yarra, whose eyes had long witnessed a world unravel and decay.

The soft clinking of metal from a boiling pot whispered through the air, as if marking each passing second.

"Ma'am," Reno finally spoke, voice barely above a breath. "Have you ever heard of... Aurelien?"

Mother Yarra didn't answer right away. She turned, looking deep into Reno's eyes as if reading the unseen layers behind the question. Then, with a raspy voice that sounded older than her years, she replied.

"An old family from the north. One of the Seven Pillars. Back then… they handled Noctera." She took a breath. "Why?"

Reno didn't respond immediately. He stirred the hot water with a twig, eyes fixed on the ripples forming a small, spiraling vortex.

"Our logistics used to come from V.A. Noctera, right?"

Yarra fell silent, reluctant to speak, then finally did—softly, like confessing a curse.

"Now everything comes from a new trading house… run by Berond's nephew. That's why the prices are up. The quality is garbage. But who dares to speak?"

Reno stared at the last ripple before the water stilled. Beneath his gaze, the gears began to turn.

A few days later.

Darel—the young guard with a faint bruise on his left cheek—looked away as he spoke with Reno.

"The Captain… takes a cut of the harvest. Says it's for the city's quota." His voice was low, like a ghost's whisper. "But… I delivered it myself to the junction. After that… they told me to head back. There's no city."

Reno didn't respond. He simply listened, absorbed, recorded. His voice never rose. He didn't command. Yet quietly, the wounds of the guards began to gather in the pouch of Reno's trust.

And behind those calm interactions, Reno began sowing the seeds of doubt.

Not with flyers. Not with speeches. But with idle conversations while helping to dry fish, coil rope by the kitchen yard, or sort rotten potatoes from the supplies.

"You know? Goods from V.A. Noctera used to last longer."

"Actually… the old route was cheaper, you know?"

Reno's words were never directed. But like poisonous fungi spreading through tree roots, the whispers slowly crept. Into villager chatter, into guards' ears, onto the dining tables of Berond's household.

And when the name Aurelien began to surface again… the village chief grew uneasy. But remained silent. Meanwhile, Captain Korr—the loyal dog with bloodied hands—began to sense the storm's direction.

Then that night, Korr was summoned. The order was clear:

"Remind that boy who holds this village's leash."

But Reno wasn't preparing resistance. He was crafting mental ruin.

He wasn't a fighter. Had no muscles. Knew no magic. But he possessed one rare skill:

Killing without touching.

For two weeks, Reno didn't just gather evidence. He crafted a narrative—not with one grand statement, but hundreds of tiny cracks in the minds of those Korr controlled.

He spoke to guards with old wounds.

He let children scrawl pictures of "faceless shadows" on stone.

He placed a single wooden crate marked with Aurelien's seal—empty—near the fields, visible enough to be noticed, ambiguous enough to be feared.

Then, he sent one letter. No name. Delivered by a small trader from the woods.

To House Aurelien,Ezzera Village has been cut off from the Noctera route by Chief Berond.Captain Korr tortures villagers and sabotages logistics.Evidence preserved. The village may fall.If Aurelien still values its territory, come.—A Witness

And after that? He simply waited.

Korr began to lose control.

Some guards no longer greeted him. Some villagers no longer bowed. Even Tomas—usually obedient—met his gaze directly in the town hall.

And more haunting than all: Reno had done nothing openly.

No evidence, yet everyone drifted away.

Korr searched. Dug. Questioned people.

But all were silent.

He tried to intimidate Darel. The boy only smiled faintly and said, "I just delivered the harvest, sir."

He questioned Mira. The girl simply replied, "If you're right, why is everyone too afraid to speak?"

That night, the sky over Ezzera was like the belly of a beast: black, heavy, and turning slowly. Only faint stars hung above, watching from afar, unwilling to intervene.

In the old warehouse to the east, Korr sat on the floor, his back against the rough wall. Wine had spilled on the ground. His hands trembled—not from drink, but from the silence—too long, too thick, too sharp.

He stared at a wooden crate before him. Old. Dusty. But the seal was clear: AURELIEN.

"I… never defied them," he murmured, to no one in particular.

His hand reached for a crumpled letter, slipped silently onto his desk the night before. No name. But its contents were clear. Detailed. Too precise.

"…your every move is tracked. Even your morning footsteps. You think you're hidden? They're just waiting for you to realize you're already exposed."

"Aurelien is watching."

Korr looked up. Wooden beams crossed above. Slowly, he stood—his body heavy, as if dragged by invisible chains.

He opened an old crate, pulled out a coarse rope—once used to bundle wheat. Simple. Rough. But strong enough.

With trembling hands, he tied a noose.

"If I die… who will they fear?" he whispered. "They won't have to fear anymore…"

His voice was soft, like a child who lost his role in a play.

As he stepped onto the crate, his face pale but calm. No tears. No rage.

Only one final sentence before he kicked the crate from under his feet:

"The deadliest enemy… is the one who never appears."

And then—silence.

The next morning.

Captain Korr's body was found in the eastern warehouse. His neck in a noose of old rope, body hanging among dusty crates.

No letter. No will.

Only one striking detail:

A crate with the Aurelien seal stood open, empty, beneath his feet.

The village was shaken, but no one cried.

Tomas ordered the warehouse burned—no ceremony. Mother Yarra only bowed her head. Darel—the once-silent boy—stood in the front row as the body was carried away.

And Reno?

He only watched from a distance.

"Suicide," one villager said.

"Or murdered… by his own thoughts," whispered another.

That day, Reno brought a single piece of wood from the Aurelien crate to the central field.

He didn't say much. Just placed it atop a large stone.

"A piece of the village's history," he said quietly.

But for those sharp enough to understand, Reno's message was clear:

"A system built on fear can collapse with a whisper.""And sometimes, a ghost doesn't need to kill. Just let you hear its breath."