Chapter 27

The room was blindingly bright, bathed in the golden glow of sunlight that streamed through enormous skylights. Every surface seemed to shimmer, reflecting the light off gilded fixtures and polished stone, leaving no corner untouched by the oppressive warmth. At the far end of the room, seated on a high-backed throne, was a figure dressed in a cream-colored suit that caught the light, almost glowing in the brilliance. His presence radiated authority, enhanced by the heat and brightness that made the air thick and heavy. Beside him, resting against the throne like a silent sentinel, was a weapon—a long club lined with sharp obsidian blades, each edge catching the light in a deadly glint. This was Yupanqui, the man some whispered to be more than just a cartel leader, his power extending far beyond the criminal empire he commanded.

The door at the far end of the chamber opened with a creak, and a man stepped inside, blinking as the light hit his eyes. He was dressed simply, his clothes damp with sweat, and his posture was that of someone caught between fear and pride. This was the leader of the Quechua, one of Yupanqui’s most trusted, yet even he felt the weight of the Emperor’s presence. The heat in the room felt like it was pressing down on him, thick and heavy, as if the very air conspired to remind him of the power seated before him. He made his way slowly across the vast room, each step more hesitant than the last, until finally, he dropped to one knee at the foot of Yupanqui’s throne.

The Quechua leader kept his gaze low, unwilling to meet Yupanqui’s eyes, as if the mere act of looking up would invite judgment. His throat was dry, the words he had rehearsed over and over suddenly feeling inadequate in the Emperor’s presence. “Emperor Yupanqui,” he began, his voice barely above a whisper, “I bring news... troubling news.” He swallowed hard, the oppressive heat making it difficult to speak. “The one they call Zorro—he has been disrupting our operations. The people... they speak his name, and with each whisper, our control weakens.” His words hung in the air, fragile and heavy, as if he feared they would collapse under the weight of Yupanqui’s silence.

Yupanqui didn’t move, his gaze fixed on the man kneeling before him. The sunlight around him seemed to intensify, casting his figure in an almost divine glow, though his expression remained cold, unreadable. His fingers lightly tapped the armrest of his throne, the only sound in the oppressive silence that followed the Quechua leader’s words. After what felt like an eternity, Yupanqui finally spoke, his voice calm, almost serene. “Zorro,” he said slowly, as if tasting the word, “a symbol. Nothing more.” He leaned forward slightly, his piercing gaze never leaving the man at his feet. “And you, a man. Yet it seems you have allowed this symbol to cast a shadow over you. Tell me, why do they whisper his name and not yours?”

The Quechua leader swallowed hard, his mouth dry as the heat seemed to close in around him. He could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, soaking into his collar. “Emperor,” he stammered, “Zorro is no ordinary man. He moves in the shadows, striking where we least expect. The people—our own people—speak of him as if he’s more than human. They fear him, and that fear is eroding their loyalty to us. They think... they think we cannot protect them.” His voice wavered, betraying the desperation he tried to hide. “He is undermining our strength. The territory is at risk.”

Yupanqui sat back in his throne, his fingers slowly tracing the edge of the Macuahuitl resting beside him. The room felt even brighter now, the light harsh and unforgiving, reflecting off the polished stone floors like fire. He was silent for a long time, watching the Quechua leader with an almost disinterested gaze, as if weighing his worth. “Fear,” Yupanqui said at last, his voice as smooth as the golden light that surrounded him, “is a powerful tool, but only when it is in your hands. If you let another man wield it, you become weak.” He stood up slowly, stepping forward into a beam of sunlight that seemed to amplify his presence. “You speak of Zorro as if he were a god, when in truth, he is only a man. Men bleed. Men die. And it is your duty to remind them of that.”

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The Quechua leader bowed his head lower, his heart pounding in his chest. “Yes, Emperor. I will make sure of it,” he said, his voice barely audible. He dared not look up, not yet. “But Zorro... he hides behind his mask. We still do not know who he is. He strikes and disappears, leaving no trace.” His breath came shallow and quick, the weight of Yupanqui’s words settling in. “We need more time. With your blessing, Emperor, I can find him. I swear I will bring him down. I won’t fail you.”

Yupanqui stood completely still for a moment, his face unreadable as he gazed down at the trembling man. The silence in the room was suffocating, the sunlight pouring in like molten gold, unyielding and oppressive. Slowly, Yupanqui began to move, his steps deliberate as he approached the kneeling leader. “Time,” he repeated, almost mockingly, the word hanging in the air. “Time is a luxury, and I do not grant luxuries.” He circled the man like a predator, the heat in the room rising with every second. “You say Zorro leaves no trace. Perhaps you simply haven’t been looking hard enough.” His voice was calm, measured, but laced with an unmistakable menace. “Failure is not tolerated in my empire.”

The Quechua leader’s heart raced as Yupanqui’s words pierced through the oppressive heat. He felt the Emperor’s gaze burning into him, the weight of the sun’s relentless glow intensifying his panic. “I won’t fail you again,” he whispered, his voice barely holding steady. “I’ll find him, I swear it. Zorro will bleed, and the people will fear us once more.” His head remained bowed, his entire body trembling now, the air thick and stifling, making it hard to breathe. He dared not look up, terrified of what he might see in Yupanqui’s eyes.

Yupanqui halted in front of the kneeling man, his expression cold and distant. He reached down, his fingers lightly brushing the hilt of his Macuahuitl, the sharp obsidian edges catching the light like shards of the sun itself. For a long moment, he simply stared at the Quechua leader, as though considering his plea. Then, in a voice as smooth as the sunlight that bathed the room, Yupanqui said, “You are forgiven.” The words were soft, almost kind, but there was no warmth behind them.

Without warning, Yupanqui’s hand moved with lightning speed. He grabbed the Macuahuitl and swung it in a single, fluid motion. The obsidian blades sliced clean through the Quechua leader’s neck, the sharp crack of bone splitting the silence. The leader’s body crumpled to the floor, his head rolling across the pristine ground, leaving a trail of blood that shone like molten gold in the relentless light.

Yupanqui stood still for a moment, watching the blood pool around the lifeless body at his feet, the deep red liquid gleaming in the harsh light. He showed no emotion, no regret—only a quiet satisfaction, as though a task had been completed. With a casual motion, he wiped the edge of the Macuahuitl on the Quechua leader’s tunic, ridding the blade of the fresh blood. Then, with deliberate slowness, he turned and gestured to the far side of the room, where a group of young children, dressed in traditional Inca slave garb, stood waiting. “Clean this up,” Yupanqui said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, but carrying an undeniable authority. The children moved quickly, eyes downcast, as they began to scrub the bloodstained floor.

As the children worked in silence, their small hands scrubbing away the blood, Yupanqui turned from the scene, his expression unchanged. With the Macuahuitl still in hand, he walked back to his throne with slow, measured steps. The light that filled the room seemed to follow him, as though the sun itself bowed to his presence. When he reached his throne, Yupanqui leaned the Macuahuitl against it, the weapon resting once again like a sentinel by his side. He lowered himself into the seat, his movements deliberate and graceful, as if he had never been disturbed. Reclining back, he let his gaze drift out across the room, the brightness of the chamber now reflecting off the freshly cleaned floor. “Inti thanks you for your sacrifice,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone in particular, his voice soft and distant as the blood of his latest victim was erased.

Yupanqui’s gaze lingered on the room, his eyes narrowing slightly as he considered the future. The Quechua leader’s failure had been a minor setback, but it was not the first. Zorro’s influence had become a thorn, one that could no longer be ignored. As the children continued their work, their small bodies moving silently across the floor, Yupanqui’s thoughts turned dark. If Zorro truly was becoming more than just a man—if he had become a symbol—then the time had come to remind the world that even symbols could be destroyed.

He rested his hand on the armrest of his throne, his fingers tapping lightly as if in rhythm with the relentless heat of the room. The air seemed to thicken with each passing moment, the light casting long, unforgiving shadows on the walls. “A symbol,” he whispered to himself, his lips curling into a cold smile. “Let us see how long this symbol can survive the wrath of a god.”