Hey! It's been so, so long since I worked on this book (which I'm extremely sorry for). I had to reread chapters to remember everything. And now I'm just left with wanting to change things because I feel I could've written previous things better. But I'll hold back on doing that until I'm officially done this book xD

Anyway, here's the long-awaited chapter! I'm praying it turned out all right (it seriously has been so long since I wrote these characters and this world). I wish I can guarantee frequent updates but I'm busy with work so I'll try my best.

Vote and Comment! <3

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DAY 39-8: GREED

"Was it wise making Leda a promise you can't keep?"

Blades clash, emitting sparks. Ro can hardly defend himself against the flurry of attacks. Nixon smirks as he advances with effortless strikes.

"I'm the one who taught you everything you know." He parries Ro's sword effortlessly, voice slippery and slow, like venom. "Your movements." Clank. "Thoughts and petty strategies." Clang. "Perseverance in the face of overwhelming strength." In the blink of an eye, the edge of his blade is at Ro's throat, and he stares down at him, void of emotion. "I engrained it all into you and your brothers from an early age. You cannot win, Your Highness. Not against me."

Even at the mercy of his enemy—knowing full well the wrong word, the slightest movement, can cost him a severed head—Ro's gaze burns. "For what reason, Jack Nixon? What reason could you have for betraying your own nation?"

The admiral's lips quirk up at the mention. "It truly is scary how fearless you are in the face of death. Even that glare is akin to your father's. This disease that's plagued our nation has proven just how feeble and powerless we are; how little man can do in the face of tragedy. It's impossible to save them, Your Highness, yet here you are attempting to protect them anyway."

"I have a duty to my people."

"Your duty is fruitless." The blade pierces his skin, forcing Ro to recede a step and a thin line of red to roll down his neck. Nixon simpers. "You were a mere babe then, weren't you? Too young to grasp the truth of our kingdom's—your own family's—sin. How pitiful. If you were aware, you'd let our people rot like they're supposed to."

"The truth?" Ro echoes in an attempt to digest the cryptic words.

Nixon bares his teeth, growling in newfound anger. "It does not matter to your father how many hundreds—how many thousands—he sacrifices. Compared to the lives that ruthless man has forsaken in the name of war, the Queen of Hearts is a saint."

"The King of Spades is the proudest hero of Edaps."

"A tyrant can be painted a champion—a victim, a villain—if those in power decree it. History can be written and rewritten, reproduced, and endlessly brainwashed into the frail populace." As he speaks, Nixon's icy tone sends chills down Ro's spine. "You were not there, Ronan III. You haven't the slightest clue how many bodies, how many promises, how much innocence was sacrificed to gain the peace you've ignorantly lived in these last twenty years. The fact that I will never again see my wife and son. All of it, now buried in the history that man has fabricated."

Despite his anguish, Nox laughs. And laughs. And laughs.

"And look at that man now! Hero? Warrior? Savage? He's a weakling who can't fight a mere sickness. Who'll lose his wife and children—his entire nation, and eventually himself, tucked away in the comfort of his bed. The irony is smothering. Just as he's taken everything from me, I'll return the favour tenfold. Starting with your miserable existence!"

In one swift movement, Nixon readjusts his grip on the blade and swings it with inane force. It slices Ro's chest. Bright, crimson blood sprays into the air and hits the ground. Red soaks his torn garments, from his shoulder to his abdomen and surrounding areas. Nevertheless, Ro doesn't budge an inch. He doesn't have to.

Nixon, who should've celebrated his success, trembles. His single working eye darts to the ground, where his now severed arm and weapon lie in a pool of his own blood. It happened in a split second. The reason Ro didn't dodge, why he accepted the agonizing blow regardless of the chance he'll face death. It was to take advantage of Nixon's overconfidence then rob him of his arm in the same breath. There should've been no chance for victory, and yet, effortlessly, he created one.

As awareness of his failure dawns upon Nixon, the excruciating pain punches him anew. His scream catches. Vision blurred, he clutches his shoulder desperately, intensely, which does little to stop the blood gushing from what remained from his dominant arm.

"What are you waiting for, Jack Nixon?" Disregarding the splattered blood across his ashen cheeks, Ro's yellow eyes glow with a savage fire. "This 'miserable existence' is still alive."

Nixon's instincts, polished over decades of service, can only scream for him to retreat.

Despite assailed by his own unimaginable torment, Ro advances, clenching his sword. "You betrayed your nation. Your honour. Your king. Accepted the hand of a Blood Red Witch—slaughtered and trampled upon numerous innocent lives—to run from a past born of ignorance. How does it feel standing atop of their fallen corpses? Pleasant, I take it? Euphoric, I assume?"

Nixon stumbles over the sprawled unconscious body of a Number. He crashes to the ground.

Chin high, malice suffocating, Ro's anguished search for answers is buried. He has no choice but to discard it. Try as he might, he has to accept the cruel truth in front of him. It's because it's the truth, he has the obligation to face it head-on.

Even if it means accepting the true colours of this mentor figure in his life.

"Leda and Orian travelled to this dark, Heart abyss—experienced nameless fear and horror—for mine and my people's sakes, and are grappling to stay alive as we speak. Under no circumstances will I lose them. Under no circumstances will I fail to protect them. Call my sense of duty fruitless all you'd like. Call me ignorant and naive. While you live in a past built from fabrications, I've no choice but to live in the present, carrying the wills of those who've died, and are suffering as we speak. There is no greater gift that I can provide them than by slaying the one responsible."

"You cannot harm a soul." Nixon finds his voice, his haughty smirk. "You, who looks down on Hearts and their blatant disregard of killing, who treasures the lives of every single Spade, no matter how scummy. For I am a Spade too, am I not? Aren't I also included in your 'nation'? If you rob me of my life, you're no better than that fiend you call a father. Who didn't think twice to sacrifice his fellow Spades, young or old, male or female, in the name of war. Who, if he were in your shoes now, would never have gone to great lengths to rescue his nation from ruin. If you mean to 'protect' all Spades, surely you won't forsake me."

"Is what denotes a nation those who share ancestors? History? Language? Culture? During our training, you taught my brothers and I that it was the love, devotion, and sense of attachment to your homeland and citizens. And what of you, who's sold all of that to Straeh? You're a subject of the Queen of Hearts. I've no need to forsake you, you've done it yourself."

Despite cornered, despite having lost his chance at victory, Nixon cackles.

"This is why I say you're naive." Ro assumes it's due to the blood loss beginning to get its wear, but Nixon's light tone is hoarse. "For generations, Spades have carried numerous burdens on their shoulders. They required the power to follow through with their large sense of responsibility. That's why the fairies granted Spades with super-strength. But Hearts are free. From responsibility, sorrow, pain, grief. What's wrong with idolizing that? Your family, friends, people. When you return to Edaps, they will all be dead."

Ro's squeezes the hilt of his sword. He grinds his back molars. "Shut your mouth."

"All alone, year after year, you've travelled near and far, searching desperately for a way to save them." Irrespective of the threat, he monologues onward, faux concern wicked in his ears. "One by one you've watched your beloved citizens, retainers, friends and family weaken and weaken, and your treasured nation, crumble. You've tended to their every need, listened to their final words, dug their graves. Lied to those outside the capital begging and begging to not be abandoned, feigned strong and donned a superficial spell. How many tears have you shed in private? How many prayers have you performed, asking, pleading for no more to leave you behind? It breaks my heart, Ronan III. A prince you may be, but nobody should have to burden such excruciating grief on their own."

"I said to be quiet!" He seizes a fistful of his collar, burying the tip of his blade overtop Nixon's heart. "All of this—it's all— If not for you—"

"Leda and Orian are ignorant travellers who showed up out of the blue, bright-eyed and seeking adventure. You lied to them, didn't you? You ran away, just like I did."

"I didn't—"

"The sole reason you accepted their gamble and tagged along on this journey, wasn't because you honestly believed your 'nation' could be saved. It's because you couldn't bear to be in Edaps when they all finally perished and abandoned you. You travelled into Straeh, enemy territory, worn down and incapacitated as you were, to die."

Ro's fingers quiver. He wills himself to stab him, put an end to his blubbering, but his strength from earlier is gone. Not with the waterworks he curses, now relentlessly flowing from his eyelids.

Nixon hacks up fresh blood. It dribbles down his mouth chin. Slowly but surely, his gaze loses its livelihood.

"By falling at the hands of a Heart, nobody would suspect an intentional suicide. You wouldn't have to sully your pride as a prince, or your father's name. But they brought you back into this hell. They forced you to live, with no choice but to once again bear that massive burden. You scorn them, don't you? For not allowing you to finally be free from your duty. For leaving you no alternative but to return to our homeland, when you're well-aware your family members and citizens are rotting, unrecognizable corpses by now.

"Although you feign resilient... although you look down upon the path I've chosen... the truth is we're the same, Ronan III. We both accepted the madness of the Red Witch over our cruel obligation to our nation. We both sought out Straeh as our solutions. You can't even impale me—the direct cause—because you can't withstand giving me freedom while you must remain shackled to the agonizing present, braving the harrowing reality of Edaps' demise, yourself."

His frail chortles are hardly audible.

"...If a Heart's curse is madness, ours is our insatiable greed. Try and save every last one of them all you'd like. Your greed will come back to bite you. I'll... be seeing you and your father in hell, brat."