Atlanta didn’t expect this. She expected a harsh argument. Wall of refusal that could only be overcome by steep promises. The General expected to receive a steep price tag for the help. Truth to be told, the worst-case scenario of being sold right to Acrisius also ran a marathon behind her brain. She was hanging her foot over the accelerator to run for it the moment something gave.

Instead, they got a port-side café and a grape juice cider on Rem’s tab.

Phillip sipped the drink being served to them by a young server.

“It is incredible,” the young man commended

“Totally agree,” Rem took a gulp down his. “Those kids have some awesome talent. Got to love how the sweetness and fizzling feel down your throat.”

Atlanta eyed her mug with suspicion.

“Come on, General. I am not the type who poisons the drink. It is considered a bad form,” Rem said.

General took a sip. They weren’t kidding about the drink quality.

“Back to business,” Atlanta tried to grab the straw. “I need—“

“We won’t start a war,” Rem cut Atlanta's question before its maturity. “And this nation is already doomed. You may save the critically injured, but you can’t revive the dead.”

“How dare you!?” Atlanta yelled at his face.

Rem calmly took a sip, “Do you know what is a minimum function of a nation?”

Atlanta hung her mouth opened her mouth but nothing come.

“Minimum function of the social construct called country to protect it law-abiding citizen under it code of law. Any country which fails that low bar is over. You can split the country in two, and it will still survive. However, if the infrastructure to maintain order sails off the mortal coil, the nation is effectively dead. Sorry, lady, but the amount of bandit and anarchy erupting across several counties indicates we are way past that stage,” Rem answered his question.

“But… but,” Atlanta tried to dig out more venue of attack. “Are you going to let Acrisius get away?”

“God no,” Rem shrugged. “He is already screwed. It is the basic Art of War. Anyone raising an army must be paying for training, supplies, and the marching expense. Sure, War economy is exempt from that logic, but exceptions by nature prove the rule. Acrisius is loaded, but he won’t be for long if the civil war dragged on. The smart play is keeping him and the two other morons throwing their money and assets at the other’s throat, while decapitating their income. Those guys cannot show weakness in folding. This civil war is an all-in gamble because it is impossible to win as a half-revolutionary. Those Dukes must soundly win the war to be the history maker. Anything less and they become a parody.”

“Why?” Phillip asked.

Rem went further with his explanation.

“All conflict is built on justification. People need to believe they got lady justice’s favor, and every warmonger needed to spin her like they are the head cultist. Acrisius’s reason for this war is to remove the weakening and incompetent Royal Family and replace with a better leader: himself. The other two idiots seized this opportunity to decry themselves as a better option. That is the game board. This uprising is a gamble of a lifetime and their supporter would want to bet on the winning horse. It is an all-in, and there isn’t a second chance. How do you think this will end?”

“A blood-bath,” Atlanta answered.

“Exactly,” Rem said. “Normally, things will either end with one of them achieving quick victory or a stalemate. A stalemate which would sap away the intent and justification to keep warring. Acrisius is a slave of his own image. Failure at victory will disprove his claim. With each week stalls, the likelihood of those three morons getting knifed by their own supporter increases. The only thing we needed to do is to play psychological and informational warfare to make sure nature took its course. Now, with every variable charted, give me the reason to go out of the wall.”

“It sound horrible,” Phillip was the one who bought that up. “You are just letting them beat each other senseless. The country will never recover.”

“You are confusing what is important,” Rem stated. “A country is a social construct form by territorial claim and rule of law to forge the people into citizen. Those shit rise and fall all the time. What worth protecting is the people.”

Atlanta felt the snarky counter in her throat faced the raw cliff of greatness in Rem’s statement and promptly retreated to her voice box.

“Even if Centuria get ground to dust, as long as its people survive the culture, history and tradition remain intact. That is what you should be protecting. Abandoning that duty in favor of whacking your enemy is the true betrayal of the very tenet you supposed to stand for.”

“But…” Phillip knew Rem was right, but he couldn’t accept it. Something was missing.

“Kiddo,” Rem glanced at Phillip with his [Clairvoyance]. “Instead of hiding behind that selflessness, which is basically selfishness in denial, ask yourself what is it you are trying to save. We both know you will give your life to protect one thing, and it isn’t Centuria.”

Rem left the table, hoping the duo would bring him a satisfactory answer.

Yes, telling them what they should fight for would be easier, but no one would leave better for it. Bonds were beautiful because it was chosen not given. For Rem, that was the beauty of free will and growth.

…

The room was nicely kept for a prison cell.

The comfortable bed rested in the corner beside the silk curtain with golden embroidery. The room even came with a small desk with beautiful engraving and a red carpet. A modest ceiling lamp hung above the room. The room was, without a doubt, the picture of tranquil.

A girl in a plain white blouse and skirt looked out of the window like a bird gazing through the gilded cage. Her auburn hair and kind eyes had lost its luster after the ordeal that was the past few days.

She saw the men she knew being drilled into the training ground. They were conscripted, instructed, and paid, obeying their former enemies like the grudge could be easily buried. It was a simple statement of how their loyalty could be easily change like the color they wore. Like all the trail and tribulation, all the torment they suffered together and all those words of encouragement they once gave her were nothing to those stoneface men who were easily prided away from her side.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Your majesty seems to like the view,” said the gentle voice coming into the room without knocking.

The girl gave no replied.

“How cold. Maybe that is why Kakia went over you so badly. A little icebreaker won’t hurt anyone, milady,” the man softly chuckled.

The girl shuddered. Any kind of self-control and bravado fell apart upon recalling the utter nightmare of that two hours.

The trembling girl turned slowly to face the gentle voice. She was trembling, and the reason was shown on her face — a decoration of bruise and a black-eye. It was the surface of evidence of the perversion visit upon her. She could still feel the moment her dress got tore from her body, the tongue sliding across the nape and the so-many violating touches, slaps and fist visited upon her body. She remembered lying on the floor as a bruise trembling mess by the laughter of that woman.

Penelope knew the only reason Kakia didn’t pull out the whip and ecstatically celebrate by toying with her bloody half-dead body was because they needed her alive.

The man she faced wasn’t Acrisius.

No, he was far worse.

“Nereo Melosov, milady,” the bespectacled man with a charming smile gave a bow. “A humble researcher from the Isle of Knowledge.”

“the Isle of Knowledge?” Penelope backed to the window from fright the vision of her trauma scarring her heart. “What bring you here?”

Nereo invited himself into the room. Unlike Director El Acerbia, he wasn’t dressed in an extravagant display of clothing design or possessed lineage of a higher race. Nereo looked like any normal man in plain white flannel shirt and trouser. His non-offensive black hair, a moderately handsome face and silver necklace painted an image of a well-off man from Earth. It was an utterly harmless image.

But image was a subject every human projected for a reason.

“To check on you,” Nereo beamed with a friendly smile.

Penelope’s eyes widened. She could hardly believe anyone siding with Acrisius actually cared about her well-being.

“You look surprise,” Nereo politely joined her by the window-sill. “Do you perhaps believe all of us are like that rabid animal?”

“Don’t let Kakia hear you say that?” the young queen shuddered

“You are truly a kind soul,” Nereo observed. “Captured in disgrace, imprisoned in the glided-cage, but you can still spare some part of yourself to care about other. Truth to be told, being near you, it brought me some memories.”

Penelope glanced over at the man, “Someone important to you.”

The man huffed, “Maybe. And I don’t mean to be mysterious here. To this day, I still don’t know how or what I am supposed to feel. I guess that set me apart from everyone else.”

Penelope glanced at the man. Everything he said was utterly honest, but something was seriously off about him. The man looked like a moderately upstanding citizen until she heard what emerged next from his mouth.

“Don’t you know you are quite a fascinating specimen. When I heard the low-grade material laid the grimy hand on you, I nearly lost it.”

Penelope felt her hair stood up like someone dump a frozen water over her.

“Excuse me?” Penelope sharply turned toward the man. “Specimen?”

“Well, that is the truth.” Nereo replied civilly. “Think about it. Centuria’s influence is maintained by the contract between your ancestor with the very land, granting your line a marginal control over the continent guardians. Don’t you ever wonder how it works? The mechanism behind such covenants. The inner working of those magical bonds and how its miraculously inherited over a century. Does the contract alter your phenotype? If so, is it recessive or dominant. Or if something spiritual? So many questions, yet we are sadly downed to only one remaining specimen who carries on the such treasure of discovery.”

Nereo gave her a look of relief before growling in annoyance, “And because one imbecile, we nearly lost you. Truth to be told, I have an option of cloning as my last resource, but given the clones’ degradation problem, that option is too tardy for my preference.”

Those words scared Penelope to the bone. The man remained cordial and polite, but the content of the conversation veered into the most violating territory. Underneath that soft veneer and kind smile was a something utterly alien, it subconsciously repulsed her.

She tried to inch away from Nereo, but the man picked on it.

Contrary to her expectation, his response wasn’t the one of madness but complete understanding.

“Oh, I must apologize,” Nereo comforted the utterly freaking out Penelope. “I often have trouble keeping my image when I get sentimental. Let me assure you aren’t the first to react badly to my quirk.”

“You aren’t planning to dissect me, aren’t you?” Penelope was trembling like a kitten.

“I have to admit that investigation method crosses my mind,” Nereo replied in complete honesty. “But there wouldn’t be a point. Sure, if I have about ten members of Centuria’s royal family to cross-reference, then a dissection might actually produce something. But alas, the data sample was so tiny I cannot waste a high-quality sample on vivisection. Don’t worry. I already settled on my method of experimentation and it doesn’t involve knives.”

“What do you want from me?” Penelope backed herself into the corner.

Nereo sighed.

“Well, it appeared I overstay my welcome,” Nereo said while walking himself to the door. “You don’t need to worry about Acrisius’ ambition yet your majesty. Relax and take you time. I know your reaction toward me can be summed up as primal fear, but rest assure, I will guarantee your safety for the foreseeable future. Oh, a piece of advice, you shouldn’t trust Acrisius or any promises in this place. I know this might sound incredibly hollow, but I prefer you as living and healthy specimen.”

Nereo stepped out and closed the door on that happy note, leaving the young queen to fall to her knee sweating like she just chat with the devil.

…

Nereo Melosov wasn’t exactly pleased with himself.

He knew people's reaction to his perspective. As a researcher, his proud observation skills were more than enough to inform he wasn’t like most people. His morality simply didn’t conform to traditional value . As a kid, he tried to avert his eyes from his peculiarity, but those days were akin to a lie.

There were limits to how long Nereo could lie to himself. Those sentimental days were gone. Nereo was under no illusion. He was a Bonafede psychopath. The grieving reality smashed the denial at ten and awakened his lust for knowledge. How else could he explain the lack of tears from suffering the greatest parting of his life? His only regret for that tragic day wasn’t the loss. The tears he shed were from research mis-opportunities. The interview he could conduct. The CT scan he could do on himself. He lost the opportunity to discover the logical working of the alien emotion that suppressed him — his love for one woman. He regretted the lack of technical knowledge and skill he now possessed to make most out of the past.

Nereo lost his opportunity to discover the scientific underpinning of why he went through all those efforts to deny himself his joy. For that, he took revenge. Part of him probably tried to cling on to hope human emotion existed in him. Hope that he could feel pain and hatred.

That experiment failed. Even when the culprit behind her death died miserably by his machination, he received no solace, only more question. The point he accepted his twisted nature was the moment he asked himself why was he wasted so much time for vengeance instead of researching the truth of this world.

Thus, Nereo would continue to search. Maybe, if he searched far enough, he could answer the ultimate thesis evading him all this time: why is he this way?

He wasn’t happy with how he turned out. Nereo knew the mother-figure he lost would be disappointed at the man he became. But like how addicts couldn’t stop gambling even when they knew the house always win, Nereo couldn’t stop ramming a truck through any kind of moral or legal barrier in pursuit of his happiness in research.

And like any self-aware addict, the researcher understood he was a fuck-up. He knew he should be comforting the young queen, but he was more worried about how the emotional trauma might affect his findings.

Nereo rounded the corner to face another door.

The unexpected losses of two S-rankers would likely reach Acrisius by now. For someone with such a station, Acrisius’ information network was just deficient. The scrying formula he placed on Kakia and Promtus already told him everything he needed to know. He smiled, reminiscing about his study of Spirit. The truth about the creation of spirit was a breakthrough. Sadly, Nereo lacked the resource to create the Spirit himself, but he discovered the synchronization effect that attuned a scrying spell to someone with similar astral blueprint.

All it took to spy on two S-ranker through all their senses was to use their astral signature to create a faux junk-Spirit connected to the scrying formation that synchronizes with the target, akin to quantum entanglement. Then, viola, an unblockable spying device. Nereo even miniaturizes it into a size of a compass.

According to his nifty little quantum-bug, Acrisius just received the news. The poor man was trying to keep a cool-head, but the quantum state of his junk-spirit couldn’t lie.

Nereo smiled.

It was time to make a sale pitch.