There is Already a King in This Game

The silence that followed victory was heavier than any defeat. Now powerless, the six former Zinox were shoved with rough indifference into a cage cart of rusted iron. Not long ago, they had been demigods who bent the rules of this reality and toppled monsters; now, they were merely flesh and bone, bound in chains.

As the cart began its jarring, groaning journey over the cobblestone streets of the City of Anomaly, Nicolas braced himself for the worst: jeers, rotten vegetables, a litany of hatred from a populace brainwashed to despise them. But none of it came.

The streets were lined with people, yes. Hundreds of eyes watched them from windows, from the thresholds of shops, and from behind market stalls. But there was no hatred in those eyes. There were no shouts. There was only a profound, unnerving silence. The people weren't seeing the monsters the King had described in his speeches. They were seeing the strange, bright-eyed foreigners who, just days ago, had saved their children from a pack of Tasmanian tigers. The expression on their faces wasn't fear, but confusion. This quiet uncertainty was far more unsettling than organized hatred; it was proof that cracks were forming in the King’s narrative. The Zinox were no longer monsters; they were a question without an answer.

In stark contrast to the city's quiet contemplation, the dungeons beneath the castle reeked of dampness and despair. When the six were roughly hauled from the cart, Hector instinctively moved to shield the still-trembling Maris. Katrina, a defiant fire still burning in her eyes, met the gaze of every soldier, memorizing their faces. Bruno, however, seemed to have completely surrendered; this final betrayal had extinguished the last of his will to fight.

Just as a guard moved to shove them all into a single, large cell, Lucas stepped forward. He pointed at Nicolas with the tip of his sword.

“Not you,” he said, his voice laced with a smug, theatrical amusement. “The King wishes to see you.”

“You’re not taking him anywhere!” Hector lunged forward, but two guards instantly crossed their spears before his chest, stopping him cold.

“Nicolas, whatever they do…” Katrina began to whisper, but Lucas’s patience had worn thin.

“Silence!” he roared. “Prisoners do not give orders.”

Nicolas cast one last look at his friends. He saw a warning in Hector’s eyes and a suppressed, unfamiliar anxiety in Katrina’s. Leaving them to the darkness, he followed Lucas up from the freezing corridors of the dungeon into the warm, opulent halls of the castle. It was like a journey from hell to heaven, but Nicolas wasn't sure which was the more dangerous place.

The King’s study reflected the mind of a scholar, not the power of a monarch. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and the large oaken desk was covered in a complex array of celestial charts, intricate maps, and strange mechanical devices of unknown purpose. The King himself stood with his back to them, looking out a massive window at the city he had built.

“Your Majesty,” Lucas said, bowing respectfully.

“Leave us, Lucas,” the King said without turning. His voice was calm and weary.

When Lucas had exited and the heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, the only sound in the room was the soft crackle of flames in the hearth. The proud, regal mask he wore for his people was gone. In its place was only the deep, profound exhaustion of a man burdened by his years and his choices.

"Your power may have been insignificant compared to the others, but the hope within you is quite fascinating, player."

The casual way the King used the word “player” erased the last shred of doubt in Nicolas’s mind. This man knew everything. He had known from the very beginning.

“Are you…” Nicolas stammered, his breath catching at the sheer impossibility of the idea forming in his mind.

“Yes,” the King said, as if reading his thoughts. “I know of this world’s reality, its mechanics, its every secret. It is my duty as a king to have absolute command of my domain.” The words were spoken with the noble weight of a monarch’s responsibility, but Nicolas could now see the ruthless logic that lay beneath them.

“If you knew the truth,” he asked, his voice trembling slightly, “then why? Why did you tell your people the Zinox were evil? Why did you make them fear us like a plague?”

The King walked to his desk, his fingers tracing the edge of an ancient parchment. “It is simple politics, young man. Fear creates a need for a sanctuary. Give the people a common enemy, and they will bind themselves to you with loyalty. I gave them that sanctuary. I gave them order. I offered them stability in the midst of chaos. It is something your naive acts of heroism could never accomplish.”

“You enslaved people with your own lies,” Nicolas hissed, the pieces clicking into place in his mind. This was the philosophy of a tyrant, not a king. This level of power, this knowledge, this control… it couldn't belong to a simple NPC. “You’re a Zinox, aren’t you?”

The King didn't seem surprised that he had reached this conclusion. A sad, bitter smile touched his lips. He began to walk slowly toward Nicolas.

“If only it were that simple,” he said.

He stopped directly in front of him and raised a hand to his face. He hooked his fingers under the edge of his jaw, just as Gein once had. But this gesture wasn't monstrous; it was tired, almost mournful. It was the movement of a man removing a mask—a heavy burden he had carried for years.

The skin peeled away like parchment, revealing not the King’s face, but one that was older, more intelligent, and so familiar it would haunt Nicolas’s nightmares. It was the face he had seen in the dusty photographs within the OldMind files. The face of the man who walked the fine line between madness and genius, the man even Pazzo had once respected.

He looked directly into Nicolas’s eyes. These were not the eyes of a king, but of a creator.

“I am more than a Zinox, child,” he said, his voice now holding its old, academic tone. “I am the creator of this game.”

“I am Doctor Aris.”