50 - Organization
The night air around the Count’s estate was heavy. Still. Oppressive. As if the very wind itself had stopped breathing.
On the rooftops beyond the high marble walls, a lone figure stood—no longer the plump, forgettable coachman. The disguise had been shed.
In its place stood Crown Prince Zafiel Abaddon Morrigan von Clematis in his true form. Tall. Imposing. Clad in dark attire that seemed to drink in the moonlight rather than reflect it.
And resting against his shoulder is a massive greatsword. Its blade shimmered with a faint, ominous purplish-black aura, as if something unnatural pulsed within it.
Zafiel’s amethyst eyes scanned the estate below. Knights. Dozens of them. Guarding every entrance. Patrolling every corridor. Alert. Afraid. Useless.
“… I suppose,” Zafiel murmured softly, “this is your last attempt at resistance.”
Then, he stepped forward. And disappeared from the rooftop.
---
The first guard never had time to react.
A blur of motion. A flash of dark steel. A wet sound and silence. The body dropped. Before it even hit the ground, Zafiel had already moved.
The courtyard erupted into chaos. “INTRUDER—!”
The shout was cut short. A massive blade cleaved through armor as if it were paper. Zafiel did not slow down. Did not hesitate. His movements were not frantic. Not wild.
They were… efficient. Each step deliberate. Each swing calculated. Each strike fatal. Knights rushed him. He cut them down. One. Two. Five. Ten.
Their numbers meant nothing. Their training meant nothing. Their fear only made them slower. The purplish aura around his greatsword pulsed faintly with every swing. The air itself seemed to distort with its movement.
A knight lunged from behind and Zafiel didn’t even turn. The blade reversed in his hand. The man fell before finishing the motion. Blood stained the pristine stone of the courtyard.
The screams of men filled the night, then were silenced just as quickly. Within minutes, the estate’s outer defenses had collapsed.
---
Zafiel walked forward. Calm. Unhurried. The massive greatsword rested loosely in his hand. Its tip dragging across the marble floor.
The sound echoed through the halls as he stepped inside. Servants froze. Butlers. Maids. Their eyes wide with terror. One dropped a tray.
It shattered loudly against the floor. Zafiel didn’t even glance at them. He walked past. Ignoring them completely. Because they were not his targets.
A knight charged from the hallway ahead. Zafiel’s arm moved. The man collapsed before reaching him. The blade continued dragging across the floor.
The entire mansion seemed to hold its breath. No one dared move. No one dared speak. Only the sound of that blade echoed through the corridors like a countdown.
He did not ask for directions. He did not search. He already knew. From the interrogations. From the information he had gathered. From the fear he had cultivated.
Zafiel moved through the estate like a man walking through his own home. Straight. Unwavering. Toward a single destination. The Count’s office.
Inside that very room, the Count of Libera stood frozen. His hands trembled uncontrollably. The distant sounds of chaos had already reached him. The screams. The clashing steel.
Then, the silence. And now, footsteps. Slow. Measured. Accompanied by that horrible, dragging sound.
The Count’s breathing grew erratic. “… no…” His mind raced.
No. No, no, no... this wasn’t supposed to happen.
He had prepared. He had gathered forces. He had secured alliances. He had—
The door opened.
Zafiel stepped inside, fully revealed. No disguise. No pretense. Just the Crown Prince. In all his terrifying presence.
The Count’s eyes widened in absolute horror. “… you…” His voice broke. “… yo-you—”
He stumbled backward. Because he recognized him. Of course he did. Everyone did. Stories. Rumors. Whispers in noble circles.
The imperial court where certain nobles had been executed without trial. Killed, publicly. In broad daylight. By the Crown Prince himself.
The image flashed in his mind. Blood staining the polished floors of the imperial palace. Screams echoing beneath the high ceilings. And at the center of it all, this man. Zafiel.
The Count’s legs nearly gave out. “… no…”
Zafiel tilted his head slightly. “… you recognize me.” It wasn’t a question.
The Count dropped to his knees. “Yo-Your Imperial Highness—!”
Zafiel stepped forward. The greatsword still dragging behind him. “Stand.”
The command was quiet. But absolute. The Count scrambled to his feet immediately. His entire body shaking.
Zafiel stopped a few steps away. His gaze cold. Unfeeling. “… let’s not waste time.”
The Count swallowed hard. “I-I can explain—”
Zafiel raised a hand slightly. Silence. Immediate.
“You will answer.” His voice remained calm. “But do not misunderstand.” He took one slow step closer. “If I find your answers lacking…” The greatsword lifted slightly. The faint purple aura flickering ominously. “… I will correct that.”
The Count’s breath hitched. “Te-Tell me what you want to know—!”
Zafiel’s eyes narrowed faintly. “… the organization.”
The Count froze. “… what…?”
Zafiel’s gaze sharpened. “The one you’re afraid of.”
Silence. Heavy. Oppressive.
The Count’s lips trembled. “I-I don’t—”
Zafiel moved. Instantly.
The greatsword slammed into the floor beside the Count’s leg. CRACK. The marble shattered. The Count screamed. “AAH—!”
Zafiel crouched slightly. Leaning closer. His voice dropped to a whisper. “… do not lie to me.”
The Count’s entire body shook violently. “I-I—!”
Zafiel’s expression did not change. But something in his eyes shifted. Darker. Colder.
“… you fear them.” A pause. “… good.” Another. “Then you already understand what I’m capable of is far worse than what they could given the circumstances.”
The Count’s mind broke. “I’LL TALK—!” The words burst out of him. “I’LL TELL YOU EVERYTHING—!”
Zafiel straightened slowly. “… I know.” He rested the greatsword against his shoulder once more. His gaze never leaving the Count. “Start talking.”
Outside, the estate stood silent. Every knight. Every guard. Gone. And inside, the true dismantling of the rebellion had just begun. One confession at a time.