Chapter 339: The Supreme Leader

The Kingdom of Ismyr had many enemies. Most of them were ground into rubble and left to rot. War followed war, and under the Sun’s banner the map kept shrinking. Years of conquest—kingdoms rising, falling, rising again only to be burned down—left the world with three true powers. Two could still stand against the Sun.

One was the Kingdom of Knowledge—also often called the Kingdom of Wisdom. The other was the Kingdom of the Moon. The Sun Kingdom worshipped the Sun God; Knowledge bowed to the God of Wisdom; the Moon to the Moon God.

It was no small coincidence that these three were also the most devout. Some said it was the gods’ will that they were the last left standing—that the gods themselves held up the pillars of these near-empires. Divine protection. Divine intent.

Perhaps.

Even without gods, the land itself seemed to conspire. The Blue Waters carved the world apart and strangled crossings. The Sun Kingdom had the Endless Forest at its back. The Moon Kingdom was ringed on three sides by deserts that broke armies long before spears ever met. The Kingdom of Knowledge kept mountains and hills like teeth along its north and east.

The churches preached it as proof: the Sun, the Moon, and Wisdom stood superior by heaven’s decree.

But belief is never clean. For every believer there was a skeptic, and for every skeptic there was someone who believed but refused to bow—who chose instead to defy the gods’ will.

Deep in the deserts that lead to the Moon’s realm, a camp lay spread across the white night. Lines of pale canvas, low fires breathing heat, men and women moving in light armor with sweat shining on their throats. The stars were so many they turned the sand into a sea of salt.

At the camp’s heart stood a great white pavilion. Inside, the air was cool and scented; gold thread laced the hangings; ornaments caught starlight and threw it back in small, private suns.

A familiar figure in black knelt there, head bowed, top hat pressed to his chest, a raven mask turned toward the floor.

Before him, the bed’s veils were drawn open. A man sat at its foot, robed in layered blacks. A silver bunny mask—beautiful, chilling—hid his face, and only a pair of golden eyes watched from within.

“Pierre… he won’t be happy to hear this.”

A voice came from behind the bunny mask—hoarse, like a man who hadn’t tasted water in days. It was frail, and yet so frightening that the Plague’s body tightened on instinct.

He said nothing. The voice went on.

“He has done so well these past months… making that secret organization believe Pierre held one of the Thirteen Teeth—letting them chase him, letting them think they’d cornered him—keeping them busy. He’s limited himself in everything… for us.”

A sigh drifted through the silver mask.

“…How is he supposed to remain loyal if this is how we repay his loyalty?”

The Plague bowed lower.

“I… will tell him myself. I will accept any punishment.”

“Punishment, hm? For what?” The golden eyes fixed on him until they felt like hot nails through bone.

“Tell me, Doctor—why was the little girl running from you? Was it fear of your face… or something else you ‘forgot’ to report?”

“….”

“Or do you seek punishment for accidentally confirming she is the source of Pierre’s invincibility?”

The Plague did not dare speak.

“Tell me, Doctor… how did you let a child make a fool of you?”

His hands clenched. The voice did not relent.

“You didn’t even dare take him out. You retreated. I understand a Master is not someone you wished to face… but a mere boy? Even if he’s an Expert like you, it is unlike you to run. And this was not as simple as weighing pros and cons.”

Still nothing. The golden eyes narrowed, colder.

“Answer me.”

The Plague trembled at the command from…

the Supreme Leader.

“I… was afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Him.”

“A boy made you afraid?”

His heart skipped a beat. Then, tentatively he said:

“…For some reason, he reminded me of you. But… different.”

“Different how?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Your experiments are corroding your judgment, it seems.”

“No, I—”

“Enough.”

The word cut him off like a blade. A hand slipped from the layered robes—shrunken, withered, pale, a half-corpse’s hand—and pressed to the mattress. The Plague lurched upright, alarmed.

“Your Majesty, allow me—”

“No.”

Trembling slightly, the Supreme Leader pushed himself to his feet. The Plague watched, worry hidden behind the raven mask, as the Supreme Leader crossed to a small table where a ring of candles burned.

Without turning, the voice asked,

“So—you claim he destroyed the forest’s spell himself?”

The Plague nodded.

“Yes. I believe he did. He said the forest pitied him… and showed him its weakness.”

A sound answered that the Plague had not heard in years—a low, genuine chuckle, rare enough to still his blood.

When the Supreme Leader spoke again, it was with a weight of immense sorrow.

“She was always the sort to feel pain simply from seeing it in others.”

Those frail fingers kept brushing the warm wax at the lips of the candles. The Plague’s heart pinched at the sound of that voice. Then the Supreme Leader spoke again.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Doctor, but you said he’d heard rumors you were operating somewhere to the south—came to you to confirm a few things?”

The Plague, still bowed, nodded to the Supreme Leader’s back.

“That is what I assumed—and what he said.”

“Was that all?”

“Pardon?”

“You didn’t attack him. Why didn’t he attack you? He claims he isn’t with that organization, yet you think he is despite his words. Wouldn’t it have been more useful to them if he’d taken you out then and there?”

“He said it would only be fair if his… acquaintances were the ones to take me down—presumably to have their revenge for what I did at Count Horvix’s estate in the Black Circle.”

“Yes. You put his daughter in a coma—she’s tied to that organization, or close to it. He could at least have taken you alive for them, but he didn’t…”

The Supreme Leader turned. Golden eyes fixed the Plague where he knelt.

“Is there anything else you’re leaving out about him? Anything unusual?”

The Plague hesitated, then bowed lower.

“There was a potion I’d made. Very lethal. I showed it to him—I was testing how far he would go. The vial never left my hands. Then, in the instant I used my ability to finally leave… it was gone. In my hand was something else.”

“What?”

“A note. And a small object.”

The Supreme Leader’s eyes narrowed.

“Show me.”

The Plague produced a scrap of torn paper and a small black disc—coin-sized, light as ash. He rose, offered both. The Supreme Leader took the paper first and read:

Dear Plague,

I hate doctors.

Yours truly,

a normal and sane healthy human.

The Supreme Leader said nothing. The Plague ventured,

“He… certainly is a character.”

No agreement. No denial. The Supreme Leader turned the little black object between his fingers.

After a moment, he sighed.

“You’ve been played for a fool.”

“…What?” The Plague’s voice sharpened.

“I don’t understand, Your Majesty.”

Disappointment cooled the gold in those eyes.

“It’s a tracker. Whoever carries it can be found.”

“…!”

The Plague went rigid behind the raven mask.

“Though it is not a void artifact… it seems more human-made, technology we don’t have…”

“….”

“There’s still a trace of mana clinging to it,” the Supreme Leader went on.

“He used some skill to lift the potion from your hand and replace it with this device—and the note.”

“How… how could I have let that happen..?”

“This was his aim all along: to learn where we’re hiding. He’s more cunning than you gave him credit for. Perhaps it was wise not to engage him.”

“…Please punish me, Your Majesty.”

The Plague dropped to both knees, bowing until his mask touched the rug.

“I have made grave mistakes. I deserve death.”

“You may,” the Supreme Leader said mildly.

“Now he knows we’re in—or very near—the Kingdom of the Moon, and we don’t know whom he’ll tell. If he speaks, the truth won’t stay buried…”

The Supreme Leader paused. Then, spoke quietly:

“…that I am the real king of Nymira.”

Silence held between them.

“But you’re too valuable to waste just yet.”

The Plague lifted his head.

“Then—please. How can I make amends?”

“You can’t. What’s done is done. Instead of waiting and praying he does nothing with what he’s learned, it’s time we stepped into the Sun.”

“What do you mean?”

“The summit is in two weeks. Every king, every individual with power that matters, will be there. If leading the revolutionary army isn’t influence enough… perhaps the world will listen if I am also known as the King of Nymira.”

“You mean…”

“Kill the puppet. He’s served his purpose as king. Prepare everything for my public appearance. I’ll handle Pierre myself.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty.”

Dismissed, the Plague bowed deeply and withdrew.

Alone, the Supreme Leader turned back to the candles and lifted one in his withered hand.

“Mio,” he whispered, “in the end, I couldn’t see your face—and I never will. Even in… death, I’ll never walk where you walk. But I promise you… I will make the sinners pay. No matter the cost.”

He let the candle fall. The wick kissed the rug; flame ran quick and quiet along the weave, climbed the tassels, caught at his robes, then leapt to the bed-curtains. Fire ate the tent in slow breaths.

He did not flinch inside it. Instead he scowled.

“You think you can hide from me? You have one second before I kill you.”

A figure stepped through the veils immediately—black-robed, hood drawn low. A man’s voice chuckled from the shadow.

“There aren’t many who baptize themselves in fire. Where I’m from, there are fewer still—especially with your… condition.”

The Supreme Leader was all silhouette now—flame for flesh.

“Who are you?”

“If my hands healed a touch faster, I’d pull down the hood. Alas…”

A soft laugh came from the man.

“My name is Corven Draumirius Zevrak. I come before you to propose a deal—concerning a common enemy, King Lykos Aureliath.”