The dawn sky wasn't gold. It was the color of a bruised plum, dark purple and cold.
I wasn't walking to a boardroom. I was being dragged to the Cathedral Square in chains that hummed with a headache-inducing frequency. They were "Null-Cuffs," designed to block mana flow. To anyone else, they were restraints. To me, they felt like a firewall blocking my internet connection.
[WARNING: External Connectivity Severed.]
[Mana Access: 0%.]
[Physical Form: Unstable. Please contact support.]
"Move, heretic," a Paladin grunted, shoving me forward with the pommel of his sword.
I stumbled, my boots scraping against the cobblestones. My knees felt like jelly—literally. Without mana to reinforce my structure, my bones were turning into soft cartilage. If I didn't get out of these cuffs in the next ten minutes, I was going to melt into a puddle of blue goo right in front of the entire city.
"You have a terrible customer service voice," I muttered, spitting out a glob of saliva that was a little too viscous.
We entered the square.
I expected a mob of angry peasants with pitchforks. That’s the standard IPO for a public execution. But what I saw was... confusion.
Thousands of people were packed into the plaza. But they weren't chanting "Death to the Duke." Half of them were holding half-eaten loaves of bread—bread made from the grain I had shipped from the North. They looked at me with a mix of fear and gratitude.
Market confusion. I could work with that.
At the center of the square stood a massive wooden platform. And standing on top of it, bathed in a spotlight of holy magic that seemed to come from nowhere, was High Inquisitor Malakor.
He looked radiant. He looked terrifying. He looked like a man who had finally balanced his books.
"Behold!" Malakor’s voice boomed, amplified by the acoustics of the square. "The Wolf in Duke’s clothing! The Merchant of Lies!"
I was shoved up the stairs. My legs were shaking, not from fear, but because my thigh muscles were losing cohesion. I collapsed onto my knees at the center of the platform.
In the VIP box, overlooking the square, sat Empress Isabella. She was wearing black. A mourning dress? Or a poker face? She caught my eye. She didn't smile. She just tapped her finger against her lips.
Wait, her gesture said.
"This creature," Malakor announced, walking toward me. He didn't draw a sword. He held a simple scroll—my death warrant. "Caused the explosion that shook our city! He traffics in the dark arts! He uses the dead as labor! He bribes the heavens!"
He stopped in front of me. The crowd was silent.
"Do you deny it, Arthur Vane?" Malakor whispered. "Or should I say... Thing?"
I looked up at him. The Null-Cuffs were burning my wrists.
"I deny nothing," I rasped. My voice sounded wet. "I created jobs. I fed the hungry. I increased the Empire's GDP by 4% in a single quarter. If that’s heresy, then heaven is bad for business."
A ripple of murmurs went through the crowd.
"Efficiency," Malakor spat the word like a curse. "You think you can optimize the soul? You think you can quantify God?"
He raised his hands to the sky. The clouds swirled violently.
"The System does not tolerate glitches. And you, monster, are a fatal error."
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.