"The truth? Oh, by the gods, Ser Lucien, have pity on an old man! Can you not speak more plainly?" Ser Wilder's composure finally shattered.
"I have only one last question," Ian said, ignoring the plea. He returned to an old, critical point. "Are you certain you saw three black dragons when you fought the Ghosts of Whitewalls?"
"Why do you bring this up again?" Wilder sounded as if he had been asked this a thousand times. He raised his hand in an oath.
"I swear on my honor, what I saw was a black dragon on a red field! They have all asked me, and I have told them a thousand times! A black dragon! I am sure it was a black dragon!" Wilder's voice rose to a roar by the end, his frustration boiling over.
"And I remember it was night when you fought this knight?"
"Did that Black Falcon mercenary you recruited tell you this?"
"That is not important. What is important is the light. Was it bright? Your battle took place inside a house, was the light bright in there?"
"The light?" Wilder fell back into the memory. "The whole village was burning. But the house where we fought... it was backlit. It was pitch black inside." He then added defensively, "But my eyesight is very good. I can see things in the dark."
"You can see things, yes, but you cannot see color," Ian said, smiling and shaking his head. "It is impossible. In the dark, the human eye relies on different cells to see. These cells can distinguish light from shadow, but not color."
"It can't?" Wilder looked as if he was hearing this for the first time in his life.
"No. I am very sure of it, Ser Wilder. If the room was as dark as you say, it would be impossible for you to distinguish colors. So why are you so certain that what you saw was a black dragon, and not some other color?"
"I... I..." Wilder's own certainty began to crumble. "I don't know," he said twice, then defended himself again, his voice firm despite his confusion. "But I remember it so clearly! Black dragon on a red field! I remember it!"
"A red field?" Ian seized on the new detail. "So you also saw the red background?"
"Yes!" Ser Wilder suddenly grew excited. "The red field! That's what I saw before I chased him into the house. The light was bright then, from the fires outside. I could not have been mistaken about that!"
He shouted the words as if he had finally found the perfect evidence to defend his honor. "Anyone who has studied heraldry knows it! A black dragon on a red field is the sigil of House Blackfyre!"
"But," Ian said, his voice calm and deliberate, "you cut the man's surcoat after you entered the dark house. Didn't you see the coat of arms on his breastplate then? What did you see before you entered the house?"
The simple question landed like a physical blow.
Wilder's mouth fell open. He stood there, stunned. "I saw..."
"The red you saw," Ian explained gently, "came from his surcoat. The man was wearing a red surcoat that day, was he not?"
"No," Wilder whispered, his eyes wide with dawning horror. "He was wearing a white surcoat. But his chest... it was stained completely red with his blood."
"Your familiarity with heraldry has engraved the arms of House Targaryen and House Blackfyre deep into your mind," Ian concluded for him. "So when you saw the three-headed dragon on his breastplate in the dark, you subconsciously took the blood on his surcoat as the background color. Your first instinct, your only thought, was that you were seeing a black dragon."
"Oh, by the seven hells!" Wilder gasped, stumbling back a step. "That is so... ridiculous. Father Above, forgive me." He finally understood.
"And if your initial judgment was an illusion," Ian continued, placing a reassuring hand on the old knight's shoulder, "then where did all this talk of Blackfyre treasure come from?"
"Alright," Ian said, his voice now firm and commanding. "Now the truth is revealed. It is time we made the men who made a fool of you pay the price."
Time had passed. It was now the sixth day since Ian had arrived in this world of ice and fire, and the third day he had stayed at Ser Willy Ward's manor.
Finally having a private courtyard where he would not be disturbed, Ian began his own special training under Rohr's guidance. Though his initial performance was a mess, his excellent base stats allowed him to progress at a speed that astonished even his seasoned instructor.
In addition, the net Ian had cast at the Crossroads Inn had yielded another catch the previous night.
[Your subordinate has successfully killed a player. You gain 2 points and an additional 1 point of Mental Strength.]
Because a subordinate made the kill, the rewards were halved. And it seemed the player had already spent their initial points, as there were none to capture. The harvest was better than nothing.
After the update, Ian's profile page read:
[Ian]
Strength: 26
Agility: 24
Mental Strength: 3
Skills: Basic Etiquette, Basic Literacy (Common Tongue), Advanced Swordsmanship, Advanced Horsemanship, Intermediate Lance Arts
Attribute Points: 0
Skill Points: 0
Points: 19
In just five days, Ian had now been responsible for the elimination of four players.
Of course, the players who hadn't met Ian were not faring much better. As they gradually completed their initial journeys and began to encounter one another, the game's brutal design began to take its toll. The fourth day had been a turning point. The system report on the third night showed 96 survivors. By the fourth, that number had dropped to 92. Last night, it was updated again to 86.
Ian predicted this first meat grinder phase would only end after the player count fell below 70, or perhaps even less than half the starting number.
Then, those who had successfully hunted other players would get a brief period of development. Those who still had no points would be forced to live in constant panic, haunted by the looming threat of the monthly leaderboard's execution mechanism.
After breakfast, Ian followed Rohr into the courtyard, preparing to start the day's training.
However, before they could officially begin, Bronn, who had been watching them for two days, spoke up from where he was leaning against a post.
"How about you start with the basics first? Your forms aren't wrong, but your execution is... rough. Like a man who was once a good swordsman but hasn't touched a blade in years."
He squinted. "Hm. Damn it, what nonsense am I talking? You look like you haven't been weaned yet. How could you be rusty?" He shook his head again, dismissing his own idea.
Ian stared at him, unimpressed. "I think you should show a bit more respect to your employer."
---
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