"So tell me now." Rika's voice cut through the garden's ambient murmur like a blade through silk. "What exactly gave you the great idea of calling me for a meeting now, of all times?"
She got straight to the point. No preamble. No polite deflection.
'If I give him fewer chances to think,' she calculated, 'if I overwhelm him with questions before he can formulate escapes—he'll slip. Sooner or later, he'll slip.'
"Is it not lovely for two bound by the rings of destiny to be together?" Germain's lips curved into something that might have passed for a smile on a less perceptive observer. "Does there have to be a reason?"
"There's always a reason." Rika leaned forward, her eyes boring into his. "So why don't we cut the cheap bullshit and get directly to the serious aspect?"
Germain leaned back in his chair, the picture of relaxed composure. "If you doubt me so much, then why don't you give me a basic rundown of what you believe my intentions are?"
Damn it.
He'd gone for that move. The oldest trick in the diplomatic playbook. When you don't want to reveal your own hand, ask your opponent to reveal theirs first.
'He's trying to see what I know,' Rika realized. 'What I don't know. He's gauging whether he can siphon information from me—a facial tic, a sigh, a micro-expression. Anything could be defeat.'
Germain stared at her, equally still, equally calculating.
0-0. The game had barely begun.
'At its core,' Germain mused, his golden eyes never leaving hers, 'this is a battle of recent information. We're both trying to understand how the other's thinking might play into the larger strategy.'
Let me put it simply:
In recent days, discourse had exploded over what the government should do with Saikyo Akame. Every news outlet, every social media platform, every corner of public consciousness seemed fixated on the question. This had led multiple parties—including the Five Swords—to wonder what the Vatican's true intentions were.
'The public is misguided,' Rika thought, her mind working in parallel tracks even as she maintained eye contact. 'They actually believe the Vatican let Akame live for some reason. Meanwhile, those with actual brain cells realize the Vatican is trying to hide something. They want him dead before he can speak.'
From her observations of public platforms—'Y' (as the locals called YouTube), Instagram, Facebook, news threads across the digital landscape—she'd noticed a pattern. Public opinion was always swayed by the majority. Always moved in herds.
'Group ideology,' Germain labeled it silently. 'World-builder syndrome. A phenomenon where one or two dominant personalities influence everyone else's thinking. It explains mob psychology perfectly.'
Both were correct in their assessments. Fragment energy, after all, was emotional by nature—fueled by either intensely positive or intensely negative feelings.
'And while this might sound paranoid,' Rika continued her internal thread, 'fragment energy can be transferred from person to person, emotion intact. We've seen it interact with technology before. It's not a stretch to assume the Vatican is using this to their advantage.'
The mechanics of fragment energy had always been poorly understood by the general public. Most believed it was simply "magic"—a vague, mystical force that allowed sorcerers to perform extraordinary feats. They didn't understand its emotional foundation. Didn't grasp that fragments resonated with feeling, amplified sentiment, created feedback loops between the user and the used.
But the Vatican understood.
Of course they understood.
In the weeks following Akame's capture, algorithms across every major platform had shifted. Not obviously—nothing so crude as a direct censorship campaign. Instead, engagement metrics subtly favored content that framed Akame as irredeemable. As a monster beyond salvation. As someone whose death was not just justified, but necessary.
Comments sections filled with rage. Share counts climbed for videos detailing his crimes. Posts questioning the narrative were buried—not deleted, just... deprioritized. Shown to fewer eyes. Drowned in the algorithmic tide.
Was fragment energy involved? Impossible to prove. But Rika had seen the way crowds moved. Had felt that strange weight in the air when public sentiment turned. It felt almost... channeled.
And if the Vatican could channel that—could weaponize the very emotions that powered sorcery itself—
Then this "trial" was already decided.
Before a single word had been spoken.
The timing was too perfect. The discourse too coordinated. If the public outcry demanded Akame's death, then death would happen—swiftly, cleanly, with the full weight of "popular opinion" behind it. That was exactly what Germain and the Count Saints wanted. And if the Five Swords interfered afterward?
'Traitors.' The word tasted bitter. 'We'd be labeled traitors.'
Rika's thinking crystallized: they would sway the public further. Not everyone believed everything they read online, of course—but enough did. Enough to matter. Enough to tip scales.
SOMETHING'S OFF.
She couldn't place it. Couldn't articulate it. But something was definitely off about Germain tonight. He seemed to be after something different. Something beyond simple political maneuvering.
'But still,' she pressed herself, 'I have to say something. This silence can't stretch forever.'
(She'd been quiet for approximately sixty seconds. An eternity in conversational terms.)
'Has she nothing to say?' Germain's expression remained placid, but internally, satisfaction bloomed. 'It would appear this is a game I'm bound to win regardless.'
Say something.
Say something. Anything.
Don't let this bastard win.
"I know you're here because of Akame's arrest." The words tumbled out, sharp and accusatory.
"Well, it is my job." Germain yawned—actually yawned, the gesture deliberately insulting. "Besides, all the Count Saints have been summoned here."
"Really?" Rika leaned against the table, shifting her weight, changing angles. "Let's both be honest, Germain. About your true feelings."
"?"
"I know you're here because you're jealous." She let the words hang, watching his face like a hawk. "You're afraid I might fall in love with him again."
Germain's expression shifted.
Not subtly. Not diplomatically. It transformed—the calm, nonchalant mask cracking to reveal something raw underneath.
Something made of pure...
DISGUST.
For one fleeting moment, the vampire lord looked genuinely repulsed.
1-0
TO BE CONTINUED!