Chapter 17

To Outwit the Witter

For the near week that Sylas awaited the Baron’s return, he calibrated all the information they managed to squeeze out of the man and took time planning the course of action. Baron was a very guarded man, his squealing in front of the Prince notwithstanding, with an unbendable character. It was also unlikely that Sylas could convince the man that he was the Prophet, especially since the circumstances weren’t nearly as dire and strained as with Valen’s.

That being said, Sylas knew he couldn’t be just about anybody. He had to be someone of certain repute, certain standing, for the Baron to take him seriously. This was… an issue. He hadn’t a clue on who he could impersonate, or which persona he could fabricate out of thin air that would work. Luckily for him, it wasn’t all do-or-die—he could do it for as many times as he needed to get it right.

He once again snuck into the Baron’s chambers on the day of the man’s return and, just like before, the man walked in with his family before kicking them out, immediately heading over to the booze only to find that it was missing.

“Looking for this?” that was also when Sylas stepped out, holding the small bottle—now wholly empty—and smiling gingerly at the man. The Baron, just like the last time, immediately withdrew his sword and took a stance toward Sylas, ready to chop and stab at a moment’s notice.

“Who are you?! How did you get in here?!” Cyrs immediately fired off the questions in a low growl.

“Who I am is unimportant,” Sylas settled on first trying the ‘mystique angle’. “What I know, however, is.”

“…” the Baron’s brows scrounged up, a flicker in his eyes shining.

“Not just that,” Sylas’ smile widened as he fiddled with the bottle. “Beyond just knowing you were partially behind the invasion. The humiliation by the Queen who wanted what didn’t belong to her, becoming an outcast, a laughing stock among other nobles, being sent to this godforsaken place… all the way to the offer of gold that would have tempted a saint. Why wouldn’t you, then, accept it?”

“W-who are you?!” the Baron repeated once again, though this time with far more terror in his now-trembling voice. “How… how do you know that? You shouldn’t know that! Nobody knows that!”

"I see and hear and witness and behold things beyond any and all sights," Sylas' choice of language wasn't random—but purposeful. Baron likely wouldn't listen to someone using slang, but he was far more likely to pay attention to someone spewing words like his life depended on just how many he can squeeze out to form a sentence. "I am in the walls, in the halls, in the chambers, in all the secret passages that lead to even darker secrets. And just like the shadow before me who contracted you to end this castle… I am here to offer you redemption, Baron Cyrs. If you reject it, today is the day you shall die. If you accept it, however, though the road shall be long and weary, at the end of it… you will find your salvation.”

“… why should I trust you?” the Baron growled. “I could just kill you. Right here and now.”

“… you could,” Sylas smiled once again. “But I cannot die. I am eternal. Accept the chance at redemption, young Baron.” Sylas said despite the Baron being thrice his age here, and over twenty years older even back on Earth. “If you raise that sword and swing it through my neck, you’ll have not saved yourself and your family—just doomed them.”

“Humph! You think you can blackmail me?!”

“I am not,” noticing that it wasn’t working, Sylas decided to soften the approach. “I am just looking at a man in pain, one full of regrets. Few men died defending these halls, Baron. And though their lives will forever remain as the weight of your soul, it could have been worse. And so long as you save thrice the number you doomed, that weight shall be balanced-out.” He just started throwing random mantras at the Baron, trying to see if anything would stick.

“Do you know what I think?” Ah, it didn’t work… "I think you are a mere charlatan! Or a ghost sent by the shadow to tempt me! I bent once… but I shall not bend again!" Cyrs roared and lunged forward, easily piercing Sylas' heart—largely because the latter didn't even bother dodging since there was a chance the stab might just inflict a heavy wound rather than kill him almost immediately. Still smiling, as though there wasn't a sword sticking out of his chest, Sylas glanced down at the blade and back at the Baron, tilting his head and speaking just before the darkness took over him.

“Shit, I thought this crap would be easier…”

You have died.

‘New Dawn’ save point initialized.

Waking up from what felt like a mini powernap, Sylas felt eerily refreshed. Dying was almost like a good night’s sleep for him since it reset not just the day and everyone’s memories, but also his own state of both body and mind. Sighing at the thought, he patiently waited for the Prince to return to the library so he can, for the fourth time, hoodwink the young man into believing the beggar-looking sod was a Prophet. Inevitably, he landed back in the fancy room with the fancy feast and fell into thought.

The greatest key to the Baron’s mistrust was Sylas’ fabricated identity—it was simply too vague, as in, Sylas could have been just about anybody from the Baron’s perspective. A lot of the further mistrust was built upon that one fact. Though the ‘mystique’ angle didn’t work, that didn’t mean it was a helpless and hopeless endeavor.

What the Baron feared the most, in the end, was his plans being uncovered and him and his family being punished for it. So long as he believed that Sylas’ character, whoever he fabricates, dying was a solution to that fear, he will never buy into whatever story Sylas’ is selling. In a way, Sylas realized, he had to rope in Valen. Perhaps not directly, but he needed the Baron to know that the Sixth Prince was in the castle before their confrontation began.

This wasn't to say he'd have the two meet beforehand—that would be too risky as the Baron could simply spill out the story out of personal fear. Then again, even seeing the Prince might elicit him to do just that.

“Valen,” Sylas suddenly looked toward the young man. “As I am not well-versed in mortal matters, could you elaborate for me the relationship between the Royal Family and the Noble Families?”

“Hmm,” Valen thought for a moment before replying. “It’s heavily subordinate, but also just as heavily loyalty-based. The truth is, everyone both fears and respects my Father, the King—but, all the same, they are loyal to the throne, not whoever sits on it. If, tomorrow, the King decided to take the Kingdom’s treasury and waste it all visiting every whorehouse on the peninsula, there’s no doubt in my mind that the Nobility would rebel. This is also the circumstance behind my fate—unlike my Father, my Eldest Brother isn’t as universally respected and feared. There’s a fairly large chasm in the support of who sits on the throne, but not the throne itself.”

Sylas listened carefully but noted no significant information that could help him. The truth was that the Baron's loyalties meant nothing to Sylas. The man had distinct hate of the Royal Family, and whether that extended toward the Kingdom itself was a moot point. It was, however, also true that the man bore distinct regret over his actions. Oh? Is there a play there to be had?

Glancing at the Prince who merely smiled back, unsure as to why the Prophet was staring at him so… oddly, Sylas nodded inwardly—there was a play, there.

“God has a mission for you, Valen,” Sylas immediately spat out.

“O-oh? He… He does?” Valen swallowed a mouthful and straightened his back.

“Hm,” Sylas nodded. “In five days, God wants you to dress as though you’ve been beaten and stabbed and bitten all across your body… except for your head. You make sure that your head is in perfect condition. Then, God wants you to go near the main gate and broom about for a few hours."

“…” Valen’s expression went blank for a moment, as did his mind, trying to process what Sylas just said.

“I know that it sounds strange,” Sylas added. “But God works in mysterious ways.” He borrowed the oh-so-famous saying from Earth and injected it here.

“God… works in mysterious ways,” Valen had to agree with that sentiment, and nod once again at the Prophet’s inexhaustible wisdom. "Yes, he truly does. Very well. If God wants me to do that, I shall, even if I don't understand it."

“Good,” Sylas nodded and smiled at the Prince, thanking his lucky stars the young man was as naïve and easily manipulated as he was. Otherwise, Sylas might genuinely have had to struggle to get to his current position.

The plan was for the Baron to spot the Prince and recognize him—in a way. He'd likely think it was just a mirage or something since he still believes that the Sixth Prince is dead. Nonetheless, that was more than enough. Sylas would then use that mirage, that 'ghost' that the Baron had seen, and vaguely imply that there's a connection there. He can't be explicit, however, since the Baron will eventually realize that the Sixth Prince is, in fact, in the castle, and he might start asking questions then.

Though this might work, Sylas realized, it was too short-sighted. The façade would break down as soon as the Baron started asking questions. Should I just outright say that I’m with the Prince and then promise to keep the dark secrets or whatever as, well, secrets? No, wait, won’t he just chop my head off again? Ah, we’ll see.

To outwit someone like the Baron was difficult—this was also why Sylas never bothered trying to con people like him. Not only was the chance of the con low, the effort involved usually outweighed the benefits, especially when there were much easier targets just waiting for him to approach them.

The difference now, however, was that his failure didn’t mean anything—he could just try over and over again, gaining just a bit of extra information with each new attempt that makes the next one that much easier. All of this culminating into the final run, one in which everything goes smoothly. That was the plan, anyway.

“Good thing my plans can fail and I’ll be fine,” he chuckled, remembering just how often he had to improvise on foot since his ‘meticulous plans’ would fall apart almost always.

“Did you say something?” Sylas had forgotten that the Prince was still in the room and was looking at him curiously.

“My thoughts escaped my lips,” Sylas fancied ‘I spoke without thinking’ and coughed awkwardly. “I should really get some rest…”

“Ah, yes, of course!” Valen immediately shot up to his feet, picking up on the message. “I shall be in the library if you need me. Sleep well!”

Though he had no intention of doing so when he told the Prince, as soon as he was left alone, he did feel tiredness washing over him. He snuggled into the bed and under the thick layer of blankets, closed his eyes, and drifted away. It was a dreamless sleep and one that was quite-so-rudely interrupted by a high-pitched scream that seemingly echoed throughout the castle. Beyond someone screaming so loudly, what was extremely strange about the scream… is that it never happened before.

“Something’s changed,” Sylas concluded, immediately rushing out of the room and toward the source of the scream, wanting to know just what the hell happened.