CHAPTER 32: WORST OF MEN

There are only two ways an empire—or a kingdom—can fall. The first is through force: siege, conquest, the bloody and brutal inevitability of war. The second is from within. When cracks spread and weak points are struck, the foundation collapses.

Aric had no means to employ the first method. As for the second, the deeper one is embedded within, the easier it is to break it apart. If Aric could enter the king’s inner circle, he would gain an undeniable advantage—access to vital information and the chance to bend it to his will. That was the prince’s ultimate card.

But Aszer was no fool.

The king’s chuckle echoed through the throne room before swelling into a booming laugh that rattled the stone walls.

"You mean to tell me that you, a Valerian prince, would aid me in stealing power from your own sovereign—and you expect me to believe it?"

He laughed again, though Aric stood silently until his calm voice cut through the sound.

"What other choice do you have? Without me, your plan is doomed to fail. My offer ensures it does not."

The king leaned back, studying him. "Why should I trust you?"

"You shouldn’t," Aric replied evenly. "It would be foolish to. Our partnership won’t be built on trust, but on a shared goal: the fall of the imperial rule. If I wanted to betray you, I could have told the emperor everything already. The Valerian and Draken empires would reduce Byzeth to rubble, and even the Northerners would think twice before fighting both. So you see, you don’t need trust to know I’m not against you—only common sense."

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[The King of Byzeth is intrigued | Susceptibility increased by 2%]

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Aszer studied the cloaked figure of the fourth prince, uncertainty flashing across his features.

"Why do this? Why help me?"

Aric turned away briefly, as if weighing his words, before looking back.

"Because... I have nothing to lose."

"Yes, I am an imperial prince in name," he continued, "but we all know the story. The tale of the Forgotten Prince has spread across the empire. Born without Ki or mana, I was cast aside by the royal family. I may bear a prince’s title, but I live like a peasant. In this world, it isn’t a name or birthright that defines a man—it’s ability."

The king raised a brow. "The ability to wield Ki or mana?"

"Yes," Aric scoffed, "but only to fools."

He stepped forward slightly, his voice hardening.

"Let me tell you what ability truly matters: the ability to take another man’s life, whether by blade, by spell, or by design. The method doesn’t matter. The ability to so utterly brutalize, chastise, and annihilate one’s enemies that none dare oppose you—that is what matters. The ability to poison every inch of ground but the one beneath your feet, leaving no room for antagonism to rise."

He paused, then steadied himself.

"In this world, what defines a person is their ability to become the worst of men. I may have nothing, but that gives me the chance to gain everything. I take vengeance and power. You claim Valeria. A fair exchange, isn’t it?"

The king glanced at his council, who remained silent, before returning his gaze to Aric.

"I would be honored if the prince joined us for a meeting in two days at sundown. Then, perhaps, we may discuss a way forward."

"Wonderful. I’ll see you then," Aric said with a nod, turning toward the exit.

"Please—allow me to prepare a chamber for your stay. I am a hospitable host," the king offered.

"I must decline, Your Grace. As I said, if I am not where I am supposed to be when I am supposed to be there, it becomes... a problem for us both."

At the door, he paused and looked back.

"And before you give the order—I will know if I am followed, be it by a man or even a mouse. The moment I do, this information goes straight to the emperor. Have a pleasant day, Your Grace."

He nodded once, and the guards opened the great doors to let him pass.

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Through the same means of travel with which he had arrived, the fourth prince returned to the Midgard Province. The sun was already retreating toward the horizon when he stepped back into what now served as their base of operations.

Aric pushed open the door to find Serina and the old man by the fireplace, cups of steaming drink in hand.

"Ah, you came back alive," Hitoki remarked, genuinely surprised.

"I told you," Serina said with a smug grin.

"It seems the king still believes his schemes are hidden from the imperial city," Hitoki mused.

"No," Aric corrected, removing his cloak. "He knows. I confronted him about it."

Both Serina and Hitoki nearly spat their tea at the words.

"You did what?" Serina demanded.

"It’s fine. I’m here, aren’t I?" Aric said smoothly. "Hitoki, I’ll need every detail you have on the king’s council by tomorrow morning. I’ll pay well for it."

The old man nodded.

"Where’s Lerai? I need to speak with the bandit leaders," Aric asked, glancing around.

"He’s been in the basement with Alan for hours," Serina replied.

"Yeah?" Aric said, already turning toward the hallway. "I’ll go meet him."

He followed the narrow passage to the basement door, descended the stairs, the dim torchlight flickering against the stone walls.

As his foot touched the last step, his pupils flared. His hand snapped up in a blur—catching an arrow mere inches from his face.

"What the—"