Jordan sputtered as a liquid was forced down his throat.

Looking up, he could see that Mercia was holding a potion to his lips. And judging from the expensive, golden filigree and gems covering it, it had no doubt come from his storage ring. He was still cradled in his new mother's arms, and as he drank he saw that the darkened lines on his limbs were beginning to fade away. However, they remained on Kioko who had been laid out next to him, daggers now gone.

“Wai—blah! Hey, stop! She needs some too!” Jordan hadn’t seen more than one of any given potion type on the table, so he didn’t believe there would be anything to give the cat-girl if he drank it all.

Mercia hesitated, looking back and forth between Jordan and Kioko. She looked like she was about to protest and shove the rest of the potion down Jordan’s throat anyway, but Jordan grabbed her arm.

“Mother. Please… help her.” Speaking was difficult, almost as much as calling her mother. It just felt disingenuous somehow.

But it worked as he thought it would. With reluctance, Mercia nodded and leaned over Jordan to pour the rest of the potion down Kioko’s mouth. She too sputtered, but the dark veins receded as her eyes flickered open with the last of the potion.

“Wha?” She gasped, before succumbing to a coughing fit.

Their moment of recovery didn’t last long as the woman from earlier, in her dark full plate, approached the gazebo. She carried a struggling man with her.

One Jordan recognized from earlier. The servant with the smile.

“Mistress Mercia, I have the assassin.” She declared with a bored air as she strode up to their group and dropped the man onto the floor. He moaned, cradling an arm that was bent in an unnatural fashion.

Mercia breathed deeply when she saw him, and laid a hand on Jordan defensively.

“Well done, Neriah. Thank you, let’s—”

She was interrupted, however, when the man on the floor began to chuckle. His eyes had been boring holes into Jordan, but had drifted to the bottle in Mercia’s hand.

“That’s,” he wheezed painfully, “quite the Essence signature there.”

Mercia looked back down towards the bottle, and Kioko gasped.

“Is that a Grand Panacea?” Kioko wheezed out. “How the hells did you get one!?”

“I…” Mercia looked back at Jordan.

Everyone’s gaze settled on him in that instant, making Jordan wince. He wasn’t sure why at first, but he experimentally tasted at the air with a breath, and his Ki flowed through his body. It burned momentarily, but he could feel his Skill [Discern Intentions] activate. He wasn’t sure at first who he picked it up from, but…

He knew the ‘Grand Panacea’ here was a forbidden item. The kind that the PIEA would be after him for, at least once they learned he inadvertently smuggled it, and other similar items, to Ænerith. He also felt…

That whoever he’d just read was willing to do whatever it took to stop this from being known.

“Neriah,” Mercia said, “why haven’t Constantine and Rahmiel shown up yet?”

“The Master and the Fallen are in the Brightgarden, Mistress.”

“Very... well then. How long until the Justiciars arrive?” Mercia asked, never taking her eyes off the prone form of the assassin.

“Perhaps another twenty minutes.” Neriah answered her, but Jordan couldn’t help but notice that the boredom she’d shown moments ago had begun to vanish. It was slowly being replaced by an odd air of… anticipation.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed, either.

“Ahahahah!” the man on the floor laughed. While he cradled his arm, his eyes glared back at them with a mix of anguish and fury. Dark black with red pupils, Jordan recognized the eyes of a fellow Demonkin, but he wasn’t sure what lineage the man came from. Other than a symmetrical pair of blemishes showing from under his collar, he looked like a middle-aged human in his butler-esque servants attire.

“Why is he laughing?” Jordan whispered to Kioko.

“Because he doesn’t care if we kill him now.” Mercia answered instead. “Because when the Justiciars investigate the situation they’ll discover the contraband items, and the punishment that will bring shall complete his intended mission.”

“We can’t hide them?” Jordan asked.

“As it is,” she replied, “they’ll ask about the status of the killer. If he lives, he’ll tell them what he saw, and if he dies they’ll question the justification. When they sense his execution was done unjustly they will uncover the items. If I lie and say he fled, they’ll discover the truth when they question you.”

“Unjustly? What do you mean—he tried to kill me!” Jordan shouted.

“Yes darling, I’m quite aware. But there are rules pertaining to the proper handling of criminals and the Justiciars will know and they will investigate. Neriah,” Mercia called out and the woman snapped to attention. “What means of escape was the assassin using?”

“None, ma’am. The bastard was waltzing out brazen as the stars.”

“That’s… unexpected. However, I’d venture a guess that he won’t bother for a second attempt. Not when he knows his mission has succeeded beyond his expectations, and doing so would only allow us to kill him in self-defense. However, there’s something odd here.”

The Brat’s mother knelt down to stare into the assassin’s eyes. “Tell me, why would you turn against your own, Greedborn?”

The man remained quiet in response, with only a small, smug smile.

“A well-practiced mask, good use of Skills. No amateur, that’s for sure.” Mercia began to mumble as she rested a hand on her chin. “But fearlessness in the face of death could be explained by professionalism… or something else.”

She looked back and forth between everyone in the area, as though tracing invisible lines. With a tut, she then stood up and began to pace.

“No escape prepared at all…. You didn’t want to collect on whatever bounty you were offered, Greedborn?”

The man’s small smile continued to dance on his face as he hatefully stared between Jordan and Mercia.

“I see. A suicide mission, which while extreme would increase your chances given the difficulty to infiltrate our Estates as it is. However, you weren’t doing this for money, but you wanted us to think so, didn’t you? That part is interesting to me.”

The man continued to stoically glare at the two of them.

“Huh?” Jordan couldn’t help but interject. He’d seen no indication the man wanted money and wondered if Mercia was she just assuming that based on him being a ‘Greedborn.’

“Ah, you didn’t notice it yet, did you darling? Activate your [Discern Intentions] Skill on the man.”

Jordan looked at her quizzically, but did as instructed. The Ki sang through his veins, still with the slightest edge to it from the poison, but he detected what she’d meant.

He knew that the man was desperate to strike it rich. Once he finally did, he could move on from his terrible life and pursue something more worthwhile. Jordan found his sentiments understandable, and it even resonated with Jordan’s own desires towards repentance.

But Mercia laughed lightly when she saw the pity in Jordan’s expression. “Darling, the Skill you used can be quite useful, but do not assume it is infallible.”

“Do you mean what I just detected is wrong?” Jordan wasn’t sure why he felt indignant about that, but he did.

“Of course—never overlook the context of a situation. If the man truly wanted to be rich, why on Ænerith would he come in without an escape plan?”

It was Jordan’s turn to grind his teeth. “Then what good is this Skill if someone can literally spoof the darn thing.”

Mercia knelt down and patted Jordan lovingly on the head. “Aureliana, in Social Combat, every manner in which someone presents themselves is useful information. That’s what I mean by never overlooking the context of a situation. If the man wants us to think he’s only here for money, then ask yourself: why.”

Standing up, she turned back to the prone man. “Your ability to conceal your emotions is admirable, but flawed. You haven’t taken your eyes off of myself or my daughter. You didn’t come here for money, but thought that’s what we’d expect. That over-embellished attempt to match our accent didn’t do you any favors either.”

Jordan was taken aback by her last statement, but he had to acknowledge that he couldn't detect the accents anyone was using given his translation power. Everyone just sounded oddly British to him.

“No… there’s something more to the hatred you’re showing. This was personal to you, and yet you’ve not once tried to gloat. So while you wanted to do this mission, you’re not raving like you would be if you came here on your own accord. Someone still hired you, and you’re remaining silent to protect them. You also aren’t a local Demonkin. Only someone raised outside the Hellwastes would make such a propagandist assumption on how we would perceive Greedborn in our lands.”

The man’s face was a perfectly formed mask, unmoving as he looked at them. But for some reason Mercia smiled.

“Aureliana, did you notice that?” Jordan just frowned. What was there to notice?

“I suppose that’s fair,” she followed up. “You lack the Skills required, but it can be seen with raw perception by the wary or those with a good affinity for the Socialize Ability. Our guest here just did what is known as ‘raising one’s guile.’ It’s a basic tactic used to hide away one’s reactions for the purpose of subterfuge, or privacy.”

The explanation didn’t make a great deal of sense to Jordan, but when he looked back at the man, he did notice that… “His face is… too perfect?”

He’d seen Mercia do it a couple of times, but with her it had almost been too obvious. With the man it was subtle, barely registering to Jordan at all. It just stood out for its lack of imperfections on his expression.

“I knew you’d see it dear; you are my daughter after all.” The woman bent down to stroke at Jordan’s cheek. He blushed a bit at the praise—he really didn’t know what was special about seeing that after all—but when she was done she turned back to the assassin.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

“Now, it’s interesting how you only activated your guile when I accused you of not being local. It could be a bluff, or a misdirection, but I don’t think it is. Not with how you’ve been looking at us. Not with this being a suicidal mission for you. It wouldn’t fit the context.”

She huffed irritably. “So why would a Demonkin from a neighboring Kingdom want to strike at our family? One that must have also been hired by outsiders as well; given your lack of correction to our culture. Neriah, darling.” The armored women smiled in response. “Please check him for any signs of a memento. Vengeful types are loath to part with them, especially on a mission of this type. A one-way trip, isn’t it called?”

Mercia mused at the words playfully while the black-metal clad women walked over, and smashed a boot into the back of the prone man. She then began ripping into his pockets, tearing parts of his clothes to shreds. She found a few hidden knives, a second poison vial, but eventually… a locket. Mercia held out a hand and Neriah tossed it to her.

Opening it, she laughed. “What a beauty this is. A little young, however. Your daughter perhaps?”

The man’s perfect mask broke as he snarled. The veins popping in his face clearly marked his fury, but he held his tongue.

“Well, not a daughter but someone very close if it could so easily break past your guile. Given her age and your reaction then, she must have been… a sibling or wife in your past. Which do you think it is, Aureliana?”

“Er, I, ah, I don’t know.” Jordan said. The man on the floor had been alternating his baleful looks between them, but had stopped. He was focused solely on Mercia now.

For her part, Mercia breathed in dramatically, as though tasting the air. “Hmm… no, there’s a hint of passion there. If it were a sibling you two would have a lot to explain.” She laughed lightly, as though only chit-chatting with a friend.

The man screamed in rage, spittle flying out of his mouth, but before he could form coherent words, his teeth slammed shut. It was hard enough to make Jordan wince in sympathy, but the man remained quiet.

“Oh, a Discipline Skill to prevent a reaction? Touching.” The Brat’s mother taunted. “So, a foreign Demonkin who lost a wife early on in life. You’re willing to die for the sake of your mission, so the only thing I can possibly guess at then… is that you’re a survivor of the Rebellion of Roceans, aren’t you?”

The man’s eyes carried only a cold fury as he looked back up. He breathed deep as he met her eyes with an unwavering conviction.

“And there it is.” Mercia said, snapping the locket closed. “Still, tell me why would you harbor ill-will towards our family for that? The Duke was simply following the High King’s commands. You would really blame a soldier for the general’s orders?”

“I can’t kill that fucking Tyrant,” The man finally spat, “but I can damn well strike at you.”

“What was this rebellion?” Jordan whispered over to Kioko. He could have sworn the word Roceans sounded familiar. Had the Spider-God mentioned it?

“It, ah, it was a few decades back. One of the newer cities of the UKK tried to rebel and—”

“The High King had everyone involved killed.” The assassin declared loudly. “It’s how that Tyrant handles dissent.”

“But, why us then?” Jordan shot back at the killer. “I get that maybe you can’t target the High King guy, but what did we do that made you target us? To target me.”

“Duke Freyhell is the one who razed Roceans to the ground, hellspawn.” The man hurled back. “He killed my family. I’m just paying him back in kind.”

Jordan’s mouth dropped. “R-razed? As in…”

“Destroyed it. Burned it to the ground with his own fucking spell and slaughtered tens of thousands at the command of that fucking Tyrant.”

Jordan was struck speechless at the accusation. His new father had really done that? He’d seemed so… kind and wonderful. This had to be—

“Aureliana, your father was a part of His Majesty’s forces at the time." Mercia said. "It was the High King’s orders to repress the rebellion in such a manner.”

“That doesn’t make that right!” Jordan shot back. The man that ruled the UKK was really that evil?

“Perhaps it doesn’t, but the High King doesn’t suffer dissidence. And given his strength, we aren’t afforded the luxury of options here.”

And it was into that monster’s academy that Jordan was desperate to get into? If he did get in… would he be asked to do similar deeds?

“I’m sorry darling, but we’re running out of time. I need to take care of this before the Justiciars arrive.”

“W-what are you going to do?” Jordan asked.

“I’m going to show you just how deadly Social Combat can be, Aureliana.”

----------------------------------------

It began with a makeup kit Mercia pulled out of her own storage ring. Then, blatantly in front of the assassin, she began to change her appearance. It was more than simple brush strokes, or a curl of her hair, however.

Trails of Essence followed the poofy ball she applied blush with, and sparkling motes sunk into her hair when she brushed it. Her complexion began to change, and features warped in real time. She finished by storing the jewelry that covered her form and patting at her dress, creasing it in the process.

It took several minutes, but when she was done Mercia looked like a completely different person. And the assassin wouldn’t stop screaming at her.

“How dare you! How fucking da—” He was silenced by a heavy steel boot to the back by Neriah.

“Thank you dear, now let’s—oh! Almost forgot to apply age lines, she would’ve aged after all, and we can’t leave out the details.” She took out a pencil and aged decades in a moment with the lines she drew.

“Now then, let’s begin, shall we?” Mercia said with a new voice. “This is my last Mana, so be a dear and don’t fight this too hard, alright? [Memory Reweaving Charm].” She commanded as she leaned down to stare into the assassin’s eyes.

He resisted for a time, lasting almost a minute, but he couldn’t look away. It was like his eyes were glued to Mercia’s gaze. And eventually, he went lax. Once he was slack jawed, Mercia spun a tale of a grand escape with honeyed words. Of years of servitude to an awful family that had left her broken in spirit. He drank in every word, lost in her story. In the end, she broke down crying and embraced the assassin, thanking him with her deepest gratitude for finally finding her after all this time.

But then accused him of abandoning her after the ruin had befallen their home.

The man protested, begging the Disguised-Mercia to forgive him. He was entranced by her eyes somehow, never once even looking away to see the world beyond. His protests broke down over the next several minutes, taking long enough that Jordan began to worry the justiciars would arrive at any second.

But they didn’t get the chance.

“Please sweetheart, just tell me what I can do!” His heartfelt plea fell onto murderous ears.

It had been what Mercia was waiting for. She convinced him to share his spare vial of poison with her, spinning her lies to sell him a promise of an eternity in the afterlife together rather than execution in a cell.

To spur him, she drank first and he followed after her desperately. She stroked at his cheek as she whispered loving words, before the man started coughing up blood. He fell over and began to spasm, more blood leaking out of every orifice, before finally falling still.

When Jordan looked back at Mercia, she tipped the poisoned vial over theatrically, showing how the liquid didn’t spill for her. Another Skill in her arsenal. She laughed merrily as she brushed off her disguise moments after.

“How will you explain…this.” Jordan stared at the corpse on the ground as it oozed. A surreal execution that clung to his mind alongside the vile smell tainting the air from the assassin’s passing.

“As I wasn’t the one who killed him, I can—”

“You tricked him into drinking poison! How is that not going to condemn you?”

“I only convinced him into doing something he’d already decided on. This had always been his plan, darling. Even if he’d escaped, he was always going to kill himself later.”

“How can you know that?” Jordan said through tears.

“Why else would he have brought a second vial?”

“I…”

Mercia hushed him with a finger to his lips. “Darling, I’m sorry if you found this difficult to watch, but I won’t allow anyone to bring you to harm. When we have time, I will go over with you the intricacies of Social Combat, and the dangers and advantages one’s Beliefs will have in it. For now, Neriah.” She snapped and the armored woman responded.

“Take these two to Aureliana’s quarters to rest. I will handle the Justiciars.”

As the winged woman bent down to pick them up, Jordan saw the [Perfect Smile] on his new mother’s lips. It terrified him almost as much as Rahm’s had.

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Jordan rested in his double-king-sized mattress with Kioko snoring softly from her spot, several yards away. His mind had kept wandering after the armored woman had deposited him there, too caught up in turmoil to let him rest. Distressingly, it wasn't the gruesome murder he'd just witnessed that bothered him the most (he once again blamed Rahm's inadvertent psychological scarring).

He couldn't get over the revelation that the country was being run by an honest-to-goodness Tyrant. It hadn't even sunk in until he realized the light it painted his new father with.

And what it could mean for his own future.

The thing was—Jordan wasn’t a hero. That would likely never change, but he would never accept that following orders absolved you from guilt. Pulling the trigger still made you culpable, even if you could sympathize with the reasons someone did it.

While it wasn’t hard to understand that Constantine had likely agreed to perform his war crime ‘duty’ for the sake of his position and family… it didn’t justify it. How many terrible events in Earth’s history had been performed by good men doing what they were told because they were afraid of the consequences?

But it would never make it okay. And while he cared for the members of his new family… many of them scared him. He had discovered the dark side of each of them now.

An accidental child, likely to be ostracized by the Nobility because of her low bloodline rank. Doomed to be bullied and shunned. Jordan had seen in the Trial’s visions how Catella would turn out if abandoned. What would happen if happiness became bitterness.

A mother who killed with a smile to protect what she cared about. Who flew off the handle, and seemed moments away from breaking apart.

A father who had burned a city to the ground on the orders of a madman. Someone Jordan had shared a connection with until the fire had been torn away.

And a grandfather who could be inadvertently cruel and forgetful, who schemed and plotted all while laughing.

What was Jordan supposed to do? His original options had been to enter the Academy and earn his freedom, or be married off to spend the rest of his life as a political pawn. Now, however, he realized why there had been so many Potentials in his cultivation vision that had looked wild. Crazy even.

Those had to have been the possibilities of him going rogue—of rebelling against the system. And it made all the sense in the world now.

He didn’t know if that would be the path he took here and now, but he resolved himself to keeping it an option. He would need to find a way to break the Contract he was under for that to work, but when he finally got started leveling and growing he would need to look for that and additional options to save himself. Even if they went against the world.

Because if the world was wrong, he had every right to resist it, didn’t he?

But if he went rogue and abandoned his new family… what would become of them?

Could he help them? Change them in any way?

Were they beyond salvation? Even worth saving?

Was… he?

Jordan had to believe he could be saved. Maybe not in a biblical sense, but at least as a human being. So he had to believe that he could help the Freyhells as well.

A child that worried about her sister. Who just needed a smile and some warmth to shine like the sun.

A mother who needed a hug. To be reminded that she had worth and her sacrifices weren’t in vain.

A father who wanted to be proud of his family. Who wanted what was best for them even if it meant forsaking himself.

And a grandfather who could be controlled with a kick to the shin. Who smiled despite his pain, and would move heaven and earth for family.

It had only been a short time since Jordan had arrived in this world, but he’d grown close with them all. A part of him still wondered if it was because of the similarities between the Brat’s family and his own, but he knew it didn’t matter in the end.

He’d chosen the path of thorns to be with them. While going rogue held an appeal, he couldn’t abandon the Freyhells so easily. While that didn’t leave a lot of options, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be smarter about what choices he did have.

Going forward, he could attend the Academy in hopes of gaining the strength necessary to challenge the ruler of it. It would be dangerous, suicidal really, but it wasn’t mutually exclusive with the option of going rogue later on. So long as he didn’t get caught, that was.

It was also the quickest, surest path to power and going there would allow him to remain as a part of his new family. Maybe even save them. While it was possible he’d have to abandon ship later on, maybe by that point he could do something to bring them with? They could all go rogue together.

Jordan mulled it over and decided that for now, this remained his best option. He would attend the academy not just for the sake of personal freedom from marriage, but also to fight against tyranny.

He’d just need… contingencies. He wasn’t good at those, or planning at all really, but it would have to be something he became better at. Scheming, not unlike Rahm. And he needed to not be so damn stupid that he let himself walk into an assassination that he’d literally had shown to him!

He needed to take control. To be the one to decide.

Because if he didn’t, what kind of villains would this world twist him and his family into?

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