51 - Failsafe
The Count’s breath came out in ragged bursts. His entire body trembled as if his bones could no longer hold him together.
Across from him, Crown Prince Zafiel stood unmoving. Waiting. Watching. Like a predator that had already decided the outcome.
“…T-The organization…” Count Marcuse stammered, his voice cracking. “The-They came to me… not long ago…”
Zafiel said nothing. But the silence pressed down like a blade against the Count’s throat.
Marcuse swallowed hard. “They didn’t just approach me…” he continued, forcing the words out. “It wasn’t just the South…” His hands clenched tightly. “... it’s everywhere.”
A faint shift in Zafiel’s gaze. “Clarify.”
Marcuse nodded frantically. “Yes... yes! I will...!” He wiped the sweat from his face with shaking hands. “They… They gathered us.”
Zafiel’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Where?”
Marcuse hesitated. Just for a moment. Zafiel’s greatsword tilted. A subtle motion. Barely noticeable. But enough.
“I-I don’t know exactly—!” Marcuse blurted out immediately. “It was… dark! Completely dark! We were blindfolded before we even arrived!”
Zafiel remained still. “Continue.”
Marcuse nodded rapidly, his breathing uneven. “There were others…” His voice lowered. “Not just me. Lesser nobles. Barons. Viscounts… some minor counts like myself…” His eyes flickered with lingering fear. “… from all over the Empire.”
Zafiel’s grip on the greatsword tightened slightly. Not visible. But there. “How many?”
“I-I don’t know…!” Marcuse shook his head frantically. “Dozens… maybe more…! We couldn’t see each other clearly, but I could hear them—voices… different accents… different regions…”
Zafiel’s expression remained unreadable. But his mind was already moving. Mapping. Connecting. Calculating. “… what did they want?”
Marcuse’s lips trembled. “They… they gave us orders…” A pause. “… to prepare.”
Zafiel’s voice cut in softly. “For what?”
Marcuse’s eyes widened. “… rebellion.”
The word echoed in the room. Heavy. Final. Zafiel did not react. But the temperature seemed to drop. “How?”
Marcuse swallowed. “By any means necessary…” His voice grew weaker. “Gather forces… stockpile weapons… secure funds… destabilize local regions… create unrest…” His breathing became erratic again. “They said… when the time comes… we would be contacted again…”
Zafiel’s gaze sharpened. “And if you refused?”
Marcuse froze. For a split second, his fear deepened. Because that question… was worse than all the others.
“They said…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “…failure to comply within a month…” His lips quivered. “… would cost us everything.” Zafiel said nothing. Marcuse forced himself to continue. “Our lives…” His voice cracked. “… and our families.”
Silence fell. Heavy. Suffocating. Zafiel’s eyes darkened slightly. “… so you chose treason.”
Marcuse flinched. “I... I didn’t have a choice...!”
“You always have a choice.” The words were calm. Cold. Absolute.
Marcuse shook his head desperately. “You don’t understand...!” he cried. “They’re not normal! Those people...!”
Zafiel’s gaze sharpened. "Describe them.”
Marcuse froze. His breathing hitched. “I... I couldn’t see their faces…” His voice trembled violently. “They wore masks… cloaks… everything was hidden…”
Zafiel took one step closer. The floor creaked softly beneath him. “… anything.”
Marcuse’s eyes darted wildly as he tried to recall. “Their presence…” he whispered. “… it was wrong.”
Zafiel remained silent.
“Even without seeing them… you could feel it…” Marcuse’s hands shook uncontrollably. “Aura… mana… but not like anything I’ve ever felt before…” His voice dropped further. “… it was suffocating.”
Zafiel’s eyes narrowed faintly. “Stronger than imperial knights?”
Marcuse laughed weakly. “Stronger?” he whispered. “…they made knights feel like children.” A pause. “… and their accents.”
Zafiel’s gaze flickered. “… go on.”
Marcuse nodded frantically. “They weren’t from Clematis…” he said. “I’ve dealt with nobles my entire life… I know how people from each region speak…” His voice trembled. “… those people… they spoke differently.”
Zafiel’s grip on his sword tightened slightly. “… foreign.”
Marcuse nodded. “Yes… yes, exactly…!” Hope flickered briefly in his eyes. As if giving useful information might spare him. “They weren’t from here… I’m sure of it…”
Zafiel fell silent, processing.
Foreign power. Coordinated infiltration. Dozens of nobles. Simultaneous pressure. A one-month deadline. Not chaos. Not coincidence... strategy.
Deliberate. Calculated. His gaze slowly returned to Marcuse. “… what else?”
Marcuse froze. “I... I told you everything...!”
Zafiel stepped closer. The pressure in the room intensified. “Think.”
Marcuse’s mind raced. “There... There was one more thing...!” he said quickly. “One of them… he spoke directly to me…”
Zafiel’s eyes locked onto him. “… describe him.”
Marcuse swallowed hard. “He was tall… I think… broad shoulders… his voice was—” He suddenly stopped. Mid-sentence. His body stiffened.
Zafiel’s gaze sharpened instantly. “… continue.”
Marcuse didn’t respond. His eyes widened. Confusion. Fear.
Then, pain. “Ghk—!” Blood spilled from his mouth. Dark. Thick.
Zafiel moved instantly, yet too late. Marcuse collapsed to the floor. His body convulsing violently. Blood poured from his lips as his eyes rolled back. “No...! No...!” he choked.
His hands clawed at his throat. As if something inside him was tearing him apart. Zafiel knelt beside him. Grabbing his collar. “… what did they do to you?”
Marcuse’s eyes locked onto his. For one final moment, pure terror. “…The-They said…” His voice broke into a wet gurgle. “… we… must not…” Blood flooded his mouth. “… betray—”
His body went still.
Silence. Absolute. Zafiel released him slowly. The corpse fell limply to the floor. The room grew quiet once more.
But this time, it was different. He stared down at the body, expression unreadable. “… a failsafe.” His voice was low. Cold. Deliberate.
Whatever that organization was, they had expected betrayal. Prepared for it. Ensured silence even in death.
Zafiel stood slowly, his gaze darkening. “… interesting.”
---
Far away—
Beyond the borders of Libera. Beyond the watchful eyes of the Empire, in a place untouched by light, a single figure stood. Cloaked. Hidden. Watching.
Before him, a faint shimmer of mana flickered. Then vanished. The hooded man smiled. Slowly. Satisfied.
“… how obedient.” His voice was smooth. Amused. “Even in death.” He turned slightly. The darkness around him seemed to move with him.
“… The Crown Prince has begun to notice.” A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “Good.” His eyes gleamed beneath the hood. “Let him chase shadows.” A pause. “… by the time he understands…” His smile widened. “… it will already be too late.”
The darkness swallowed his figure whole.
And somewhere in the Empire, a storm, carefully crafted in silence was beginning to unfold.