CHAPTER 29: EXCUSE

Well, this is certainly interesting, Allen thought to himself as he looked at the translucent screen at the side of his view.

Allen watched the drone feed. The kneeling knight was a high-definition image on his mental screen. He zoomed in and saw the man’s face was a mask of pure terror and despair.

Doesn’t really look like a trick unless he’s a professional at faking his expressions. He took a moment to rationalize his thoughts. Hmm, perfect. I have gotten exactly what I needed! he exclaimed internally.

He slowed his pace, walking calmly toward the kneeling figure.

The MP5 felt unusually light in his hands.

"What’s this?" Allen asked, his voice flat and devoid of emotion as he looked down at the man. "Aren’t you supposed to fight to the death for your comrades and all that?"

Heath didn’t look up. He seemed to shrink in on himself, trying to make himself as small as possible.

"No... I won’t... please don’t kill me," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Allen tilted his head, his glossy eyes staring him down. He’d already decided what he was going to do with him. Yet something still felt amiss.

What is it? I don’t really feel satisfied about this... his thoughts wandered before he finally arrived at a conclusion.

I see. So that’s what it was, he commented inwardly.

"’Please don’t kill me’ isn’t a good reason," Allen said simply as if explaining the rules of a game. "Why should I keep you alive? What use are you to me?"

He saw the panic flash in Heath’s eyes. The man’s mind was clearly racing, searching for an answer.

For anything that could appease this monster. What could he offer? He was a mere knight. He had no gold, no power that mattered here.

Then, a spark of realization dawned upon him. He had one thing left. The only useful thing he could ever provide.

"Information!" Heath blurted out, the word tumbling from his lips.

He finally looked up, his eyes wide with a desperate hope.

"I can give you information," he said, his voice a little stronger now. "I-I’ll tell you about whatever you want to know. Our armies. Our commander, Randolf. Our numbers, our plans, our weaknesses... everything. I’ll tell you everything."

Allen’s expression didn’t change, but internally his thoughts were something else.

Wait, I did not even think of this. He thought, realizing that taking him as a prisoner of war and extracting information out of him is a genuine possibility.

He’d been too invested in his new weapon that he’d forgotten about everything else. This was more like a testing ground for him than an active battlefield with a war going on.

Though to be fair, it wasn’t really his fault either. Why should he care about it to begin with?

This was not his war. He was simply taking part in it for his own reasons. Certainly, if he had the right motivations and was fighting this for himself he would have thought about it.

Ah well, whatever. I guess this will increase the chances of my success so why not. He’s giving it for free anyway.

He let the silence hang in the air for a few long seconds, watching the hope and terror cycle on Heath’s face.

A small and cold smile finally touched his lips. Not a smile of enjoyment, but of pure, logical satisfaction.

The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. Even the ones he didn’t intend to fall, somehow. But it all was working out for him so it didn’t matter.

"Everything?" Allen asked at last, his voice low and quiet.

"You’ll tell me everything I want to know?"

Heath nodded frantically, with tears of relief and fear streaming down his face.

"Yes. Everything," he choked out. "I-I’ll tell you anything you want to know! Just... let me live. Please."

The air inside the command tent was thick and smelled of stale wine and nervous sweat. The only light came from a few flickering oil lamps that cast long, dancing shadows on the canvas walls.

Randolf sat hunched over a large wooden table. A messy campaign map was spread across it, stained with rings from his wine goblet. His finger drummed a frantic, unsteady rhythm on the table.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

"Sir!"

A scout stumbled through the tent flap, his face pale and his armor caked in mud. He was breathing hard, his eyes wide with a terror Randolf knew all too well.

"What is it?" Randolf growled, his voice rough.

"Did the line break? Did that bitch Revoltstar finally make her move?"

"No, sir," the scout panted, trying to catch his breath. "It’s... something else. Our forward units are getting torn apart."

Randolf’s drumming fingers went still. "Torn apart? By who?"

"We don’t know, sir," the scout said, his voice trembling.

"The reports don’t make sense. It’s a single person. They’re moving alone, but the damage they’re causing is... it’s huge. There are these loud, cracking sounds, like thunder, and our men just... fall. With holes in them."

Randolf’s mind immediately jumped to one conclusion.

So, the assassins failed. She’s still alive. The thought sent a cold dread through him.

"So it’s her," he spat, the name like poison on his tongue. "Revoltstar is on the field."

"The men who saw him say it’s not her, sir," the scout said quickly. "They say it’s a man. Dressed in strange black clothes. His abilities... they don’t match anything we know of Lady Revoltstar’s."

Randolf stared at the terrified scout. The anxiety on his own face slowly began to fade, replaced by something else.

An unbothered, empty curiosity. His shoulders relaxed and he leaned back in his heavy wooden chair, the leather creaking under his weight.

A slow, strange smile touched his lips. It was a smile completely devoid of joy or relief.

It was the smile of a man who had just found the perfect excuse.

"Interesting," he mused, his voice quiet. "Quite interesting."

He waved a dismissive hand at the scout, his gaze drifting back to the chaotic map on the table.

He looked at the wooden pieces representing his soldiers, now being wiped from the board by an unknown monster.

"It doesn’t matter," he said, his voice dropping to a low, bored tone that was far more chilling than his earlier anger.

"Whether we win this battle or lose it... the outcome is already decided. Let the ghost have his fun."