A PERFECT PREPERATION (4)
Germain had a newspaper folded in the pocket of his coat—purchased days ago, on his way from the Aquatic Blue station, before any of this had begun. He'd been in Loliwe for a week prior to this meeting with his perpetual fiancée, and while part of him had intended to examine the architectural integrity of Nairobi's buildings (as he did in every major city), something else had occupied his thoughts instead.
'Life is like a game,' he mused, eyes scanning words he'd already read twice. 'A game with certain rules. Chess. Checkers. Go. Shogi. Snakes and ladders. Even a simple game of darts. I'd like to believe that, at the very least, understanding the game allows one to maneuver across the board effectively.'
At the House of Scarlet, that was how they operated. By being demonstrably the best. By understanding their own flaws and those of their opponents. By preparing for the moment when talk ended and steel began.
'But merely practicing to be the greatest takes more than heart and determination. The mindset to think ahead—to plan a course of action before the first piece moves—that is more important still. For that, you need a brain that thinks in four dimensions. One that can plot and calculate every move your opponent will make, every rule they might break. Those people go on to make the rules. They render the rest of us as mere pawns in their games.'
'Whether you're a king, a queen, a bishop, a pawn, a knight, or a rook—you can't move until the player tells you to.'
"Well," Rika's voice cut through his reverie, sharp as a blade, "you were bound to find out at some point."
But it wasn't her voice he heard.
It was Blake's.
"What is the meaning of this?" Germain's own voice echoed in memory, colder than it had been in years. "When you called and asked me to take leave of my duties, I assumed you were planning something like this. But the environmental factors forced me to reconsider."
"Of course they did." Blake had sat across from him in what was once the cathedral, bamboo fan waving lazily. "Why would you suspect a former monk of anything nefarious?"
"I trusted you because you were the one who helped in his defeat." A pause. "Or so I'd like to say. But you weren't helping to kill him, were you?"
The realization had come years too late.
Blake—last name unknown, background deliberately obscured. The Vatican's files spoke of genius. Of wild inventions that had revolutionized sorcery. He was responsible for modernizing the Land of the East Sun. For creating techniques still used today. Honestly, if he wanted to, he could take over the system with his mind alone.
But his background as a monk had solidified certain morals.
"You're not taking this as seriously as you should," Germain had pressed. "With a single word, I could have you arrested and—"
"And have the village struck down with me?" Blake's laugh was soft, genuine. "No, you won't. You've grown attached to this place. As you should. There really are some great people here."
The way he'd looked out the window when he said that—gazing at the village below, at the people going about their lives, unaware of the conversation shaping their fates—had made Germain believe him. Believe in his cause.
He truly was doing something for the sake of the world.
Germain could see it in everything Blake had built. The people saved from suffering. The hope cultivated in barren soil. He couldn't even be angry.
'While I pride myself on being a master of the game of life,' Germain admitted silently, 'that mastery came at the cost of my involvement in it. What is the point of learning chess if you never play?'
Blake played. Had mastered the game to a universal level. And Germain could see now—could trace the lines backward—that most of what had transpired in the weeks following his arrival at the village had been, if not orchestrated, then certainly catalyzed by that man.
Akame's journey. Gil's growth. Catherine's awakening. All of it.
When Germain had confronted him, the anger had faded almost immediately. Blake barely spoke, and yet it felt as though he'd already won.
There was hatred, yes. A hatred that burned on a limited but seemingly everlasting supply of oxygen. Germain hated Saikyo Akame. Truly, deeply hated him.
But Blake, somehow, had made that hatred seem... irrelevant to the grand scheme.
"It's true," Blake had said a few days before Germain's departure for Nairobi. They stood in the grand cathedral—or what had once been a cathedral, now converted into housing and workshops. "The only reason I aligned with all of you back then was to seal Akame-kun somewhere safe. Help him lay low."
He'd paused, something like regret flickering across his features.
"Although that was a very rash decision. The seal I placed on him became... permanent. Something I couldn't remove within the allocated time."
Germain had said nothing.
"Back then, I was bold. Rash. I truly believed my inventions could save everyone." A sad smile. "My prediction was false. But now—there's something more I'm working on. Something that requires Akame's help."
"For what?"
"The creation of an ideal world." Blake met his eyes. "One that looks exactly like where we stand."
Germain had been skeptical. Of course he had. "You truly believe that's possible? How many people have believed the same and failed?"
"Who knows how many?" Blake shrugged. "But in the end, the only thing I can do is try."
He'd smiled then—that infuriating, knowing smile.
"You're free to try and stop him. To kill him. To execute him. Honestly, I don't expect you to do anything else." A pause. "But I also wish for you to sympathize with my cause."
'Sympathize?' The word had lodged in Germain's chest like a thorn. 'With others? How could I possibly do that? I barely live in the same world as any of you.'
He believed himself a high and mighty being. Above such things.
Akame had his convictions. Germain had his.
And Akame's path—that path would likely lead their world into eternal hell.
'I can't follow Blake's vision,' Germain had concluded. 'I'm simply unable to see the world as he does.'
But Blake...
Blake was always a step ahead.
Ahead of him. Ahead of everyone.
The memory faded.
Germain looked up from his newspaper.
Rika sat across from him, staring with icy conviction. Her eyes felt like they might burn through his skin, leave their imprint on his very soul.
He folded the paper carefully, placed it on the edge of the table.
"I suppose we should talk before the food arrives," he said.
"Oh, so now you feel the need to validate my existence?" Her voice could have cut glass.
"No." He met her gaze evenly. "I was just thinking of something else. Something prior."
Midland.
His home. Riddled with war and famine. People died daily. Terrible things happened—things he'd seen, things he'd done.
To visit a calm village in the middle of nowhere. To see it prosper, to watch children play without fear, to breathe air that didn't smell of smoke and blood—
It had melted his heart.
'An ideal world,' he thought. 'I suppose that is something I should strive for.'
The admission felt foreign. Uncomfortable. Like wearing someone else's clothes.
'But I can't. I can't bring myself to do that until I...'
He met Rika's eyes again.
'Until I face him one last time.'
WHAT IS THIS? HAS HE BEGUN TO WAVER FROM PURE AGGRESSION?
TO BE CONTINUED....