Chapter 38

The dawn light streamed through the massive circular window behind Yupanqui’s throne, blinding in its intensity. The window had been carefully positioned so that the rising sun would always cast its full brilliance over the emperor, making him appear larger than life, bathed in an unrelenting glow. The light was sharp, clean, and harsh, flooding the room with a brilliance that left no shadows. Every surface gleamed under the golden rays, from the polished stone floor to the gold relics lining the walls. The room, designed with meticulous precision, felt timeless—an imposing mix of ancient grandeur and modern coldness. Even in the early morning, the air was heavy with the scent of incense, faint but ever-present, as if the room itself breathed power and control. There was no warmth in the light, only the oppressive sense that every movement, every sound, was exposed to the emperor’s all-seeing gaze.

At the center of the room, Yupanqui’s golden throne dominated the space, a symbol of both opulence and ruthlessness. The throne was carved with intricate designs, ancient Incan symbols intertwined with modern, jagged edges, as if the past and present were locked in a permanent struggle for dominance. Propped against the arm of the throne was Yupanqui’s macuahuitl, its obsidian blades gleaming in the morning light, a constant reminder of the violence that lay just beneath the surface of his regal facade. The room itself was vast, but the light made it feel smaller, more suffocating, as if there was nowhere to hide. Even the towering stone walls, adorned with golden artifacts and relics from forgotten empires, seemed to close in under the weight of the emperor’s presence.

Four slaves moved in near silence along the edges of the room, their bare feet making the faintest sound against the polished floor. Each one was dressed in nothing more than a simple white linen loincloth, their bodies illuminated by the same harsh light that bathed Yupanqui. They moved with practiced caution, their heads bowed, never once daring to meet the emperor’s gaze or to speak. Vincenzo, like the others, knew the stakes—any mistake, no matter how small, could mean death. The air was thick with the unspoken rules of this space, a place where even the slightest misstep, like casting a shadow over the emperor, could lead to brutal consequences. The scent of incense mixed with their fear, creating a suffocating atmosphere, one that pressed down on Vincenzo with every breath he took. He dared not even glance at the others; the silence between them was not just a rule, it was a lifeline.

Vincenzo moved carefully as he approached Yupanqui’s throne, the golden chalice held steady in his trembling hands. The sunlight bore down on him as if the entire room was watching, not just the emperor. The weight of the light made him feel exposed, vulnerable, as though every tremor, every breath could be seen and judged. He poured the water with deliberate precision, watching the clear stream fall into the chalice, but never lifting his eyes. The memory of what happened to the last slave who made even the smallest error haunted him. He had seen the emperor’s cold, almost indifferent fury when the man’s body was split open for something as trivial as blocking the sunlight. The blood had stained the floor, and though it had been cleaned, Vincenzo could still feel the presence of that violence, lingering like a shadow under the pristine surface.

The room’s heavy silence was broken only by the faint hum of The Cusco’s engines, a constant reminder that Yupanqui’s palace was not anchored to any land, but sailed over the seas, far from the reach of ordinary men. Outside, beyond the blinding light, the world might have been moving—waves crashing, wind blowing—but within these walls, it felt as if time itself had paused, held captive by Yupanqui’s will. The thick scent of incense, mingled with the faint salt of the sea, clung to everything, enhancing the sensation of being trapped in a world disconnected from reality. The gold artifacts that adorned the walls shimmered in the light, relics from empires long gone, their presence a silent testament to Yupanqui’s obsession with the power of the past. Yet nothing in the room outshone the emperor himself, seated like a god at the center of his own creation, radiating authority that no one dared question.

The two soldiers entered without a sound, their heavy boots somehow making no noise against the polished floor. Clad in black tactical gear with faint gold accents, they seemed to glide through the blinding light, their presence marked by the subtle gleam of the golden eagle motifs on their helmets. Their faces were obscured by dark gold balaclavas, giving them an imposing, faceless appearance—like predators moving through the brightness. As they approached the throne, they moved in perfect synchronization, their every step calculated and silent. Upon reaching the base of the throne, both men dropped to one knee in unison, their eyes cast downward in a show of absolute deference. The light caught the faint gold wings on their helmets as they bowed, the eagle insignia glinting briefly before their stillness took over. They remained motionless, awaiting the emperor’s command, their cold professionalism a stark contrast to the palpable fear that gripped the room.

The room remained still for a moment, the air thick with the weight of anticipation. Yupanqui didn’t look at the soldiers immediately, as if the very act of acknowledging them was beneath him. Instead, he let the silence stretch, his fingers lightly tracing the rim of the golden chalice that Vincenzo had just filled. Then, with a single word, he broke the stillness. “Speak.” His voice, smooth and cold, sent a shiver down Vincenzo’s spine. The word echoed in the chamber, sharp and commanding, carrying with it a weight that made Vincenzo’s heart race. Though it was only one word, it was enough to remind everyone present of the emperor’s absolute authority, a chilling reminder that any misstep could lead to violence. Vincenzo kept his head lowered, trying to steady his breathing, the memory of past punishments flashing through his mind. In Yupanqui’s world, silence was safer than sound, and even the simple act of speaking carried consequences.

The sniper spoke first, his voice steady and sharp. “Zorro is dead, Emperor. The shot was clean—straight through the heart.” His words hung in the air, cold and precise, carrying the weight of finality. “After impact, he fell ten stories to the ground. No one survives that.” The sniper’s eyes remained cast downward, his posture rigid and deferential. His comrade, the spotter, knelt silently beside him, their synchronization flawless. The soldiers exuded a quiet confidence, the kind that came from years of calculated, deadly precision. But in this room, under Yupanqui’s gaze, even they seemed small, diminished by the sheer presence of the emperor.

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Yupanqui remained still, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he extended a hand and gestured toward Vincenzo. The command was clear, even in its silence. Vincenzo’s breath caught in his throat as he stepped forward, his movements slow and deliberate. His pulse raced, but he dared not show hesitation. Reaching the base of the throne, he bent slightly and took the tablet from the sniper’s outstretched hands, his fingers brushing the cold surface of the device as he lifted it. The weight of the task—of being the one to pass judgment into Yupanqui’s hands—sent a fresh wave of fear through him.

As Vincenzo carried the tablet to Yupanqui, he couldn’t help but glance at the screen out of the corner of his eye. The footage, captured from 600 yards away, showed Zorro mid-leap between rooftops, caught in the air as the bullet struck him. For a brief moment, his body seemed to freeze in mid-flight, as if time itself had paused. Then, like something out of an old cartoon, Zorro dropped, his arms flailing for balance as gravity yanked him downward. It was an almost absurd image—the kind of fall that would have made him laugh under different circumstances—but the finality of it was chilling. There was no footage beyond the five-story mark, just Zorro plummeting toward the ground, disappearing from sight. Vincenzo’s heart sank, and for a brief, heart-stopping moment, he thought Zorro looked like Andreas—Roberto’s brother. The resemblance was fleeting, just enough to twist a knife in Vincenzo’s chest. Any fragile hope he’d harbored that Zorro might somehow survive, or that salvation could come from this legendary figure, slipped away. He handed the tablet to Yupanqui, the weight of dread settling deep in his bones.

Yupanqui took the tablet from Vincenzo without a word, his face impassive as he began to watch the footage. The harsh light behind him framed his features in sharp contrast, casting deep shadows over his angular face. For a moment, his expression remained unreadable, a mask of indifference. But as the video played, his lips tightened ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing as they followed Zorro’s mid-air freeze, then the absurd, flailing drop. His gaze flickered with the faintest hint of disdain—not at the shot or the fall, but at the lack of something more... substantial. The emperor’s brow furrowed, just enough for anyone paying close attention to see the thin line of irritation forming there. He watched as the footage cut off, and for a long second, he remained still, fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the tablet. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he set the device aside, his eyes hardening as he finally broke the silence.

"Where is the corpse?" His voice, cold and precise, cut through the air like a blade, leaving the room in an oppressive stillness. His gaze shifted toward the soldiers, but his expression betrayed nothing more—no anger, no doubt, only the demand for an answer.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Yupanqui’s question lingered. After a beat, it was the spotter who finally spoke, his voice steady but laced with a subtle undercurrent of unease. “Milord,” he began, keeping his eyes fixed downward, “by the time we reached the scene, the body was gone. Likely some... do-gooder.” His words were carefully chosen, but there was no hiding the discomfort in his tone. “Because of the rain,” he continued, “there was no trace. No blood, no sign of where the body had been moved. Just... nothing.” The room felt smaller, the tension thickening with each word as he explained the failure. The spotter’s posture remained rigid, though the weight of Yupanqui’s presence pressed down on him like the light itself, relentless and unforgiving.

Yupanqui’s fingers drummed lightly on the arm of his throne, the rhythmic tapping the only sound in the stifling silence that followed the spotter’s words. His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face, but it was gone almost as quickly as it had appeared. His jaw tightened, but his lips curled into a thin, almost amused smile. Zorro was dead—that much was certain. The details of the body’s disappearance seemed to trouble him less than the fact that no trace of it remained. Still, the emperor appeared pleased. His gaze softened ever so slightly, his expression returning to one of calm authority. For Yupanqui, the corpse was a loose end, nothing more. The greater satisfaction lay in knowing that his enemy, Zorro, had fallen. The subtle shift in his demeanor, from irritation to a quiet, dangerous contentment, spread through the room like a slow ripple, calming the air but leaving a lingering tension beneath the surface.

The smile on Yupanqui's face lingered for a moment longer, then, without warning, his expression shifted again—this time into something more curious, almost playful. He leaned forward slightly in his throne, eyes settling on the two kneeling soldiers, as if weighing them in his mind. His next words broke the tension in a way that felt both unsettling and casual. “Tell me,” he asked, his voice smooth and measured, “do you prefer men or women?” The question hung in the air, utterly out of place and yet perfectly delivered with the kind of ease that only Yupanqui could command. His gaze flickered between the two soldiers, waiting, amused by the inevitable discomfort his forward inquiry would create. It wasn’t clear whether the question had any deeper purpose or if it was simply Yupanqui exercising his power, toying with them because he could.

The soldiers shifted almost imperceptibly, the weight of the question hanging heavy in the room. Neither dared to hesitate for too long, knowing that silence could be just as dangerous as a misstep. The sniper cleared his throat softly, speaking first, though his voice was subdued, careful. “Women, milord.” His eyes remained fixed on the floor, his posture still rigid, but there was no hiding the discomfort in his tone. The spotter echoed him immediately after, his voice just as low, “Women, milord.” It was clear that the forwardness of the question had rattled them, but they answered without defiance, knowing full well that even a sheepish response was better than none at all. Their words seemed to hang in the air, the room growing quieter still, as they waited anxiously for what would come next.

Yupanqui’s smile widened, a thin, satisfied curve on his lips as he leaned back into the throne, clearly amused by their uneasy response. “Good,” he said softly, his voice carrying an unsettling warmth now. “Your service will be rewarded.” He waved a hand dismissively, the gesture smooth and practiced, as if this was just another moment of casual cruelty in his rule. “You are dismissed. Report to the slave master, and take your pick.” His words dripped with the same air of control and casual indifference, as though offering up lives as rewards was simply part of the emperor's whim. He didn’t look at them again, as if their presence no longer mattered, already lost in his own thoughts as the two soldiers remained kneeling for just a moment longer, before rising carefully, bowing their heads, and turning to leave.

As the soldiers quietly exited, the heavy doors of the throne room closed behind them with a soft thud, sealing the oppressive silence once again. Yupanqui barely glanced in their direction, his focus shifting inward as though their dismissal had erased them from his mind entirely. Without speaking, he extended his hand once more, a subtle flick of his fingers that was all the command Vincenzo needed. His heart racing, Vincenzo stepped forward, the golden chalice in his trembling hands. The room felt impossibly still, the weight of Yupanqui's presence crushing down on him as he carefully refilled the emperor’s cup. The scent of incense hung in the air, thick and unchanging, mixing with the lingering tension. As the last drops of water poured into the cup, the glow of the morning sun framed Yupanqui like a living deity, untouchable and all-seeing. Vincenzo stepped back into the shadows, the soft click of the doors fading into the background, as if nothing beyond the throne room mattered anymore.