CHAPTER 7

Maximillius Rex was halfway through his twenties when he was coronated the King of Lenamontis: a title that he carried with pride, because if he were to be very honest, pride was the only thing that kept him going. That, and his love for his people, sure, but that’s a different thing entirely. If not for the massive size of his own ego, he would’ve given up on the throne countless years ago.

As of right now, that very ego was on the brink of collapse.

Unlike most other Alliance meetings, this one was done in secret. The Royal Court had a smaller reception hall, usually used when the King had to address someone of notably lesser station—someone who wasn’t an ambassador, a noble, a particularly influential merchant, or other businesses that required much keeping up of appearances—and it was there that the leaders of the united world convened. Or, to be exact, only the leaders of Humanity United. Maximillius knew that the Ferae had a very sensitive history regarding slavery, and that the elves and the dwarves had little to offer in the way of constructive arguments specifically in this regard.

So, sitting there surrounding the reception table, comfortably on the sofa, sipping on their warm beverages to help combat the cold of snowfall, were the kings of all the greatest human kingdoms. And one High Priestess.

Everyone that defined human civilization was there in one cramped room in the middle of a castle, unannounced to the rest of the world.

Their topic, however, was far from unannounced.

“Don’t you think he’s getting way over his head?” the King of Admari began with no hesitation. “It’s even worse than it seems, because the moment I passed censure to his use of the academic channels, even the men who disagreed with him struck back at me. They said the academic platform was promised to be free of any intervention. Who in the Goddess’ True Name did they think gave them that guarantee to begin with?”

The usually-quiet Ruler of the East, the Shogun of Yamatai, sipping his tea, seemed to concur. “The outside has been a bad influence.”

The Chancellor shook his head. “I actually like what he's done. The platform fosters a healthy environment for debate. It’s a rare quality to find—an environment where people could be themselves, given they have good reasoning behind their words. It leads to wisdom.”

The King of Admari scoffed. “Well, that wisdom is going to cost us a lot of money. And everything else, even. They’d fold us, dead! They never had enough! They’d apparently rather talk through paper rather than listen to their King, those freaks. Someone needs to get that Hero under control.”

“This wisdom was what allowed us to repel the demonic invasion for four hundred years,” the Chancellor shrugged. “I believe it’s prudent to not hate something you don’t understand.”

“What are you trying to say, fish-bait?”

“Gentlemen,” the High Priestess interrupted, “there is no need for that. We are civilized people here, please.”

The King of Admari was about to snap back at her, but he hesitated. “Apologies.”

“Not to me, Milord.”

He groaned, then turned to the Chancellor. “My bad.”

“All is forgiven.”

“And what about you—why are you here instead of that young King?” the High Priestess asked the Diutsicus representative.

She was right. Representing the Land of Diutiscus wasn’t King von Wehrmann—instead, it was a tall, lanky middle-aged man with cropped hair and a wide, uncanny smile. “Please pardon the rudeness,” he replied with one hand on his chest, followed by a small bow. “I am General Adelman. I represent the Land of Diutiscus today due to … ah, domestic circumstances with our Young Highness.”

Maximillius knew that Adelman skipped over von Wehrmann entirely—but Adelman was a General. A general of the army in the Land of Diutiscus was no mere title: it was reserved only for the best warriors, the brightest, the strongest … the most dangerous.

It was no real secret to anyone with a working pair of eyes that the Diutiscan military did not like their new king. For what reasons exactly, Maximillius couldn’t tell for sure. It was probably the youth. The recklessness. The blood link with old royalty without any of the legacy.

The closeness to the Hero. The fact that he only got his post thanks to the Hero meddling in the Kingdom’s internal affairs.

His agreeable personality. His bias towards his sister, a royalty who stripped her own titles and rejected her birthright. Or, worse yet, both siblings’ clear and unabashed adoration for the Hero.

Maximillius could name numerous reasons why the Diutiscan military would dislike their own king, but he was not really in the place to speculate at the moment. Something far more pressing had to be addressed in this meeting, and if nothing else, he knew that at least the General should be competent enough to join the discussion and bring the results back to his homeland. If he were up to any good, he would report it to his King; otherwise, Goddess knows what he’d do with the information he’d have when he leaves the room.

Above all else, the other kings didn’t seem to mind the presence of the General there despite the fact that he was technically an outsider. Everybody probably decided on their own not to be involved with internal Diutiscan problems.

Maximillius sighed. Whatever.

“What about you, Your Excellency?” he asked. “What’s your position on this?”

The High Priestess softly shook her head. “Me? I have no position but the Goddess’ own. What She says, I do.”

“And has She said anything?”

“She sent Hero Tanaka here to help us balance Her existence with the darkness the world resents. Until She says otherwise, what the Hero says or does that She has not explicitly told me against, I will consider Her will.”

The King of Admari scoffed, again. “So you’re on his side?”

“I’m on the Goddess’ side.”

“Bah, same difference!”

The High Priestess went quiet. There was really no telling her real emotion with her eyes covered by those bandages under her veil. The Kingdom of Admari wasn’t a particularly religious one—in fact, only Lenamontis here formally adopted the Teachings as its formal religion—but had this meeting been any more formal, Maximillius was sure that what the King did wouldn’t have flown.

Well. Once again, nothing that concerned him. The issue really began after that, truly.

“I assume you have all heard of the indenture system?” Maximillius asked. An odd sense of discomfort washed over the room.

“Yes,” the Chancellor answered. “Certain regions in Heliodorus have begun applying a similar system, but it’s still restricted to areas with minimal slave use. We agreed it’s the best way to measure, slowly and with minimal disruption, how the system would affect us.”

“A few of my territories also asked to apply the system,” the King of Admari added. He bitterly curled his lip. “All rejected. They were going to entirely wreck our economy. I have no idea what they were thinking.”

“I have heard of it, but yet to see my territory attempt it,” the Shogun said. “To begin with, we don’t have a slave problem. I see no merit in heeding such an outrageous academic experiment.”

“Well?” the King of Admari turned his attention to Maximillius. “Why did you ask? What’s your idea about the thing?”

“Oh, I just want to say that a few of my territories actually applied the system,” Maximillius shrugged. “And I have to say, the results are impressive.”

The Chancellor raised his eyebrows, while the King of Admari frowned. “How so?” the Chancellor asked.

“No notable reduction in produce. Higher general life satisfaction. Wait, let me remember the reports a little more, uh … something about a stronger community bond. When it was first tested in Constantius, it was a great success. Other nobles who read Hero Tanaka’s papers also began applying the system, and since their territories all seemed to have different specialties, I approved. All showed similarly promising results.”

The King of Admari groaned. “Are you seriously considering abolishing slavery in your kingdom?”

“I see only the future. If the future says slavery should be abolished, then it will be.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“Then it won’t.” Maximillius shrugged again. “It’s really that simple.”

“If it is a great success, as you claimed,” the Chancellor cautiously started, “then why is it not implemented nationwide yet? What’s stopping you?”

“And why gather us?” the High Priestess finished. Maximillius sighed.

“My concern lies … not with the indentured dukedoms,” he answered, slowly, carefully. “But it’s really the opposite—my concern lies with the non-indentured territories.”

That actually managed to snag everyone’s attention. Maximillius silently bit his own tongue.

“As I mentioned, indentured areas experienced no notable sign of reduction in produce. They also displayed higher general satisfaction … and what do people do when they’re happy?”

The Shogun sipped his tea once more. “They celebrate.”

“Precisely.” Maximillius took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “They celebrate. They talk. They really dangled on that they were living in lavish gold if they built good relationships with their masters, because the indenture guaranteed their lives. But this can only happen in indentured areas. In other words….”

“… those outside the areas desired the same,” the High Priestess concluded. “So they envied the indentured areas, but they can’t turn against their brothers, no … they turn against the powers that be. Their dukes, I presume?”

Maximillius nodded. “Cases of strikes, vocal protests, and slave escapades exploded. Everybody wanted indenture. However, the areas that didn’t sign up for indenture did so for a good reason—they’re all agricultural areas in heavy need of a lot of manpower. Slaves literally made up the entire backbone of their trade. They couldn’t afford making themselves unable to purchase more slaves. The indenture would probably stupefy their entire territory.”

The King of Admari sighed loudly. “So now you’re stuck with increasingly restless slaves in places where they’re most needed.”

“And as you can guess, the dukes weren’t happy about it. They’ve been pushing for a national bill that would force all dukedoms to assist in pursuing escaped slaves—even if the dukedom acknowledges indentured servitude.” Maximillius grinned in pain, as if someone had just kicked his shin. “They’re asking me to make the slaves, and people who were against slavery, betray each other.”

“And what did you do?”

“What choice did I have? No country could survive having no means to trade for food and produce, and most of the dukedoms that complained were agricultural. I passed the bill just a week ago.”

Out of nowhere, the King of Admari actually laughed, followed by an enigmatic grin by General Adelman. “You mad lad! Is that why you gathered us here today?”

With a heavy head, Maximillius nodded. “I need a way to calm everyone down. The great relationship that’s been built between masters and indentured servants is cracking—the public sentiment now is that they had no choice but to betray the slaves, and the slaves do not take upon that kindly.”

“Why not just subjugate them? You have the military advantage.”

“I don’t want to give them incentive,” Maximillius groaned. “I’ve been listening to their chatter. They’ve been using their tribal language to hide their conversations, and they’re planning something big, something to launch simultaneously everywhere in the kingdom. So far, they’re still fractured about it. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“That’s enough reason!”

“That’s a way to give them martyrs. If I kill the wrong slaves, it will only make them all unite under the same banner of martyrdom. They’re already goods, they’ve got nothing left to lose. People with nothing to lose aren’t afraid to die. People who aren’t afraid to die would do things unthinkable to those who still want to live.”

A long silence.

Then, after that silence, General Adelman finally spoke up. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, Your Highness. But you desire a way to curb the slaves’ morale without hurting your resources or status quo. Did I get that right?”

Maximillius frowned. “Yes, that is correct.”

General Adelman’s enigmatic smile grew wider still. “Then, I believe the Land of Diutiscus has a solution for you.”

“Oh—I’d very much like to not involve external forces, thank you.”

“Oh, no! Absolutely not, Your Highness,” General Adelman raised both hands as if to signal surrender. “I would not dare! No, our solution involves nothing external at all. It is simply … a tradition, so to speak; one that we have had since the olden days that I think may be of help with your present situation.”

Maximillius was yet to stop frowning—but he’s listening. “I’m listening.”

General Adelman relaxed both his arms once more. “It is a tradition we call Crypteia,” he explained. “It’s Heliodorian for ‘The Hidden’.”

The Chancellor frowned along. “I have never heard of this.”

“Most certainly, Your Highness—this tradition began in Diutiscus and always has been Diutiscan culture; they simply used Heliodorian because that was the language the originators were raised on,” the General politely bowed, slightly.

“So what’s this … ‘The Hidden’?” Maximillius asked.

“It is a form of early training for our youth,” the General said. “Both the nobles and the soldiers’ young’uns participate in this. After basic training to make sure they were capable of simple combat, wielding weapons, and generally surviving the elements, they would all be put into service for a one-year run as Crypteia.”

He stopped, making sure everyone was listening. After he was sure, he continued.

“The young Crypteia would be stripped of everything—they would be thrown naked into the residential areas where the slaves live, armed only with a knife. They have three objectives: they must not be caught, they must not die, and they must fight strong slaves who could fight back to the death. The strength of a slave here is measured on how effective they were as a person—for example, exceedingly clever slaves could make the criteria.”

Silence gripped the room. Maximillius softly shook his head. “And you’re saying … they do this for one year?”

“Yes. One year of culling the slaves from their strongest, bravest, and brightest—all results of their kills to be showcased in broad daylight, even if their fights aren’t. At first, there would be anger, probably riots. But let it happen again, and again, and again, and the anger would slowly shed, losing its skin through eventuality, finally revealing nothing left but terror. As long as the Crypteia remained hidden, they would be unstoppable. They would break the slaves’ spirit, one slave at a time, without ever hurting the wrong slaves. They would not leave behind martyrs—only unfortunate dead bodies.”

The King of Admari wolf-whistled. “Impressive. Preparing the young to kill while also keeping the slaves in line, huh?”

“Precisely, Your Highness. That’s why they kill only the strongest. If they fail, they die. If they do not survive, they die. Otherwise, they succeed, live to see another day, and stop the slaves from getting too bold, all in one go.”

Maximillius was, for a lack of better words, speechless.

They made their children do that in Diutiscus?

He was not free of a similar sin. The very proof was his own Manus Dextra Regis Lenamontis, Right Hand of the King of Lenamontis—Charlotte de Constantia. Charlotte was a sweet child, only fifteen years of age, who had had to grow eyes behind her head and learn to fight threats, both human and inhuman, as she learned to walk. She had had to spill blood because her refusal to do that would spell not only her death, but also the annihilation of everything that was important to her.

She was a child, but circumstances forced her to be a soldier as fast as she could be—because there’s no telling when her father would fall, burdening her with a responsibility way beyond her age. She knew that. She understood that.

She was not supposed to, but she understood that.

All this because she inherited a land that marked the difference between demonic and human territories—a land they had to defend at all costs.

Oh, and also because she was the Hero’s lover. It was exactly why Maximillius leveraged her for her talents.

Maximillius was not free of a similar sin, but he had always managed to find a way to push it to the back of his mind. Charlotte proved to be a brilliant Manus Dextra. She was pragmatic, almost terrifyingly so, and she understood the nature of relationships based on cold-blooded transaction. But, being raised alongside soldiers, she also learned to trust—she learned to let her life be in the hands of others, and consciously so, because she understood that she must select who she could trust to begin with. She knew when she should rely on which kind of relationship.

She learned to separate her human relationships based on this. She understood the difference, and she understood why it was important to mark this difference.

She was not supposed to, but she understood that.

She was such a brilliant Manus Dextra that it’s easy to forget that she was but a child.

“It’s not a bad idea, methinks,” the King of Admari chimed in. “It probably doesn’t suit your aesthetics, but there’s no denying that it’s an effective way to settle this. Also very efficient, if I may add—training your soldiers while curbing a slave rebellion? Beautifully done, Diutiscan.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

This wasn’t the place to let himself be distracted. Maximillius took a deep breath, trying his best to keep his thoughts in order. It didn’t really work. Charlotte’s face just kept creeping up from the peripheries of his eyesight. “Your Excellency—what do you think, as leader of the Teaching?”

The High Priestess stayed quiet for a while. “I think … it is a circumstance both covered and avoided by the Teaching,” she finally said. “There’s no denying that elements of it go against the Teaching of the Goddess. The violence it imposes upon children that they must actively carry out is, undoubtedly, cruel. The Teaching restricts cruelty. However, there’s also the Clause of necessity … the Clause that allowed specific leniencies upon the Teaching under very specific conditions should it be deemed necessary. It’s the Clause we’ve been hanging on to during most of the War.”

Maximillius clasped his own face. “And do you think this classifies as a necessity, Your Excellency?”

“Rex Lenamontis,” the High Priestess said softly, “I must remind you that I know no better of the circumstances of your nation. Your kingdom is yours, and yours alone. I do not know how your people fare, and no amount of things you tell me will change that. I did not experience what you did. I am not equipped to make decisions for Lenamontis.”

She paused, then pointed, slowly, at Maximillius.

“You are. So, speaking as the High Priestess talking to the King of Lenamontis, I shall return that question to you—do you think it classifies as a necessity?”

Maximillius found himself at a loss.

Does it? It might be the only way to quell the slave rebellion—under this view, doesn’t it mean that it’s necessary? The rebellion would hurt so many innocent people, and as the King of Lenamontis, he had to stop it at all costs.

… at all costs.

Did he? What if there are costs he shouldn’t ever pay?

Such as this?

What he would be ordering, should he agree to the idea, was nothing short of an assassination order of the most massive nature. Something closer to a massacre, if he were to fear the worst. He would be killing his own people—slaves, even, the very people he wanted to liberate.

Is this the right way forward?

But if he didn’t kill these specific slaves, they’d rebel, right? The chatter was too specific and close to the slave culture that it couldn’t have been anybody else but them. The chatter was also closely monitored by aides that he could trust. The rebellion was happening, no doubt about it—it’s just a matter of when.

That would make their deaths a necessity, right?

For the sake of the greater good, the happiness of the many, the longevity of the Kingdom—just a few slaves should die. They probably wouldn’t even need a whole year’s operation like the typical Diutiscus custom. As long as they struck right into the heart of the slaves’ organization, they would cripple the entire structure. Clean and simple.

They probably wouldn’t even need to keep the Crypteia-like custom around for long.

Just a few slaves. Slaves die every day, what’s an extra few going to change?

With just a few more slaves’ deaths, he could prevent an all-out war. He could continue planning to phase slavery out with Charlotte without having to worry about a sudden uprising.

It’s just a temporary measure. It shouldn’t hurt, right?

Maximillius paused.

Since when do you think like this?

He was by no means not calloused. He knew very well what it took to survive the politics of the castle. He understood what it meant to be sworn in as the King—to, as he said during oath, obtain power invested in Him, above His Throne and under His Crown.

The oath was a reminder that he would no longer just be sitting on any chair—he would be sitting on the throne, wherever he sat down. He was to serve as King, wherever he would be.

The oath was a reminder that he would no longer be naked—he would always carry with him the crown, whatever he wore. He was to serve as King, whatever he would do.

The oath was a reminder, a binding chain, that reminded him of how grave his circumstances were: that he was to be no longer free. Where he would rest, he would find himself atop the Throne; and where he would rise, he would find himself wearing the Crown. He would sit upon responsibilities and bear upon his head the burdens of his people.

To survive this, he had to be nothing short of cruel. He had to survive assassinations, assume the worst in people, prepare every day that one of the attempts at his life would succeed while going about as if none ever would. But no matter how cold his heart had grown, he never, ever, thought of people as just another number.

In fact, he was almost certain it’s the only reason Charlotte still did her best as his Manus Dextra.

And what would agreeing to this offer make him?

The deaths of the few couldn’t ever be a necessity, right?

But what is a necessity?

A necessity is something that must be fulfilled, with no tolerance for other alternatives.

A slave rebellion was coming. It’s inevitable.

The only question was when, and the answer would be when they’ve organized enough.

So, to prevent this civil war, he had to cut them at the organization.

Something that must be fulfilled, with no tolerance for other alternatives.

That would make their deaths a necessity, right?

Maximillius took a deep breath, finding the expectant looks from the rulers around him to showcase just how heavy his decision would be.

I shall return that question to you—do you think it classifies as a necessity?

Slowly, he exhaled.

“Yes,” he finally said. “It is a necessity.”

*