Feigning ignorance, Zach approached a young maid standing by the staircase.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice steady, curious.

"Ren Landwalker… he was found dead. At the old marketplace.”

Zach nodded thoughtfully.

The old marketplace. It has to be where we met. Where they held their discussions…

His gaze drifted across the room, where a small cluster of servants stood, their attention fixed on a mechanical box atop a table. The device emitted a tinny voice, a man speaking with the urgency of breaking news. A screen flickered, displaying a clean-shaven, dark-haired reporter.

“…law enforcers are actively searching for the culprit behind this heinous crime. Details are still emerging, but sources say the attack was swift and brutal.”

“What is that?” Zach asked, nodding toward the device.

One of the older servants glanced at him, startled by the question. “It’s a media replayer,” he explained, as though surprised he didn’t know.

*So that's what they call a TV.*

He nodded in acknowledgment, taking a seat on the couch nearby. Slipping his hand into his pocket, he felt the faint ridges of the branch concealed there.

The scene on the screen shifted as the reporter gestured toward the cordoned area behind him. The camera zoomed in, capturing the grisly sight of a body partially covered by a blood-stained tarp. Dark liquid pooled on the cobblestones beneath the tarp’s edge, glistening under the light.

“This,” the reporter said, his voice heavy with drama, “is the body of Ren Landwalker, nephew of the Governor’s wife, Apella. He was discovered here in the old marketplace just hours ago. Authorities have confirmed the young man’s identity, though the motive for this horrific murder remains unclear.”

The camera panned slightly, revealing an enforcer in full uniform standing a few feet away. He was in a completely white jumpsuit with yellow stripes.

The reporter approached him, black square that had a white sponge on the top of it, in hand. Some type of microphone.

“Officer, can you shed any light on what might have led to this tragedy?”

The enforcer, a burly man with a stoic expression, glanced briefly at the reporter before responding. “At this stage, we’re considering all possibilities. It could be personal—like a vendetta against the Governor and his family—or something broader.”

“Broader?” the reporter pressed.

The enforcer nodded, folding his arms. “We’re on the brink of war, as you know. Some people blame the Governor for the current state of things. Could be someone wanted to send a message, make an example of the boy.”

“Do you believe this was politically motivated, then?”

“It’s too early to say for sure,” the enforcer replied. His tone was clipped, cautious. “But we can’t rule it out. These kinds of acts are sometimes used to stir fear or anger, and tensions are already high.”

The reporter nodded gravely. “Has the family been informed?”

The enforcer hesitated, his expression unreadable. “That’s not for me to say. But they probably found out before I did.”

“Of course,” the reporter said, pivoting back to the camera. “As you can see, authorities are hard at work piecing together the details of this tragedy. We’ll continue to bring updates as they come. For now, it seems the Governor’s family has been thrust into the spotlight amidst these already turbulent times.”

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

He paused, as a man from off-camera leaned in to whisper something urgently into his ear. The reporter’s eyes widened, his voice rising in pitch as he turned back to the camera.

“We’re receiving breaking news! The suspected assassin has been located! On this scene!”

The screen flickered slightly as the feed cut to a shaky, handheld shot of the reporter hurrying through a bustling street, weaving between enforcers and bystanders. The servants watching murmured among themselves, leaning closer to the screen. Zach’s fingers tightened around the branch in his pocket, his pulse quickening.

Zach rolled the branch absently between his fingers. His mind raced. There’s no way they can trace me… except through the assassin.

“They’re saying the assassin turned himself in to the enforcers,” the reporter explained breathlessly.

Zach gripped the branch tighter, his knuckles whitening. His instincts screamed at him to act. He readied himself to snap it, ending the threat preemptively—until a soft, trembling voice on the screen froze him.

“Please, don’t hurt my family!” The camera zoomed in on a gaunt, middle-aged man kneeling on the ground. Tears streamed down his face, his hands clasped together as though in prayer. “I didn’t want to kill the kid!”

Enforcers surrounded him, their stances rigid. One stepped forward and clicked rectangular restraints around the man’s trembling wrists. The reporter crouched slightly, thrusting the microphone closer to the man’s face, his tone sharp but curious.

“Why did you do it? What drove you to murder Ren Landwalker?”

The kneeling man’s breath hitched, his wide eyes darting between the reporter and the enforcers. “I—” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t have a choice!”

“Explain,” the reporter pressed, his voice cutting through the growing murmurs of the crowd gathering beyond the camera’s frame.

The man hesitated. His mouth then opened to speak.

Immediately his back bent at an unnatural angle, the movement sharp and sudden like a branch snapping in two. A sickening crack reverberated through the room. Blood spurted from his mouth as he crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

Screams erupted on the screen, and the camera turned away sharply, obscuring the gruesome scene.

The servants watching gasped, their confusion mirroring Zach’s wide-eyed shock.

He stood abruptly, slipping the branch pieces into his pocket.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he muttered, leaving before anyone could question him.

---

Hot water cascaded over Zach’s skin, the heat doing little to wash away the storm of thoughts in his mind. The water was pouring out of a long bamboo.

He stared down at his hands, the memory of the assassin’s death vivid and unrelenting.

I just committed murder. Two murders.

He clenched his fists, watching water drip from his knuckles. The thought should have horrified him, yet it didn’t. His reflection in the fogged glass of the shower door stared back at him.

How do I feel about this? He wasn’t sure. Life had been moving too fast for him to fully process anything. One moment, he was on the run. The next, he was playing a deadly game of get the cube.

I don’t think I feel guilt. He traced the flower patterns on the wall absently, thinking. The shock has off, but there’s no deep sorrow. No dread. No nightmares waiting to claim me. Just… relief.

The realization was unsettling, but not enough to trouble him deeply.

He recalled a saying he’d once overheard: Murder becomes a habit.

Would that be true for him? Would he start seeing death as the solution to every problem? With his kind of power—his ability to kill from a distance—it wouldn’t be hard. And as a future knight(for however long that lasts), his status would shield him from most consequences.

Maybe I’m a bad person at my core, he thought, lips curling into a bitter smile. He had called himself selfish before, but this… this went beyond selfishness.

But I’m okay with that.

Evil wasn’t how he saw himself. No, he was simply doing what needed to be done. Killing those who posed a threat to him couldn’t be wrong, could it? He laughed softly, shaking his head at his own reasoning.

How many madmen have thought the same thing? But his situation was different, wasn’t it? His logic wasn’t warped—it was practical. Logical. Necessary.

Killing no longer scared him. It wasn’t the insurmountable line he once thought it to be.

He turned off the water, pulling down a level, and stepped out into the steam-filled bathroom, grabbing a towel and drying himself off.

The warmth lingered on his skin as he moved into the bedroom. He opened the wardrobe, rummaging through the assortment of clothes stored within.

Everything was desert-like attire, thin fabrics and loose cuts.

Zach frowned, pulling out a light brown pair of pants and a matching tunic. He held them up to the mirror, then tossed them onto the bed with a sigh. They were too big for him.

He shifted through the wardrobe again, pausing as his hand brushed against a pair of deep red pants. The color was bold, almost ostentatious. He pulled them out, they could fit him. That was all that mattered.

Next, he found a long, knee-length brown shirt. It was simple, but it complemented the red well, the contrast striking yet practical. He slipped into the outfit, adjusting the fit in the mirror.

It fit him well enough.

The knock at the door came just as he turned from the mirror. He strode over, opening it to find Melijuia standing there, her expression unreadable as always.

“We’re heading back to Mapil,” she announced curtly.

"...Already?"