The Hundred Reigns Chapter 130: The Overlord of Crime (14)

Verney scowled, his soulless gaze reflecting in his wine glass. “And you see no other way?”

“I need real proof to give the sisters if you want to lull them into a false sense of security,” Simon replied, the wind blowing against the window outside. “Either I take Bert down, or I’ll need your leverage on Chrom Cruak.”

“I see.” Verney sipped his wine, which finally confirmed to Simon that, yes, he was still human enough to enjoy a drink. “Chrom is too valuable to compromise, not to mention occupied with his hunt for the Scorpion. Losing Bert will be a shame, a real loss… but he is hardly free of sin. Maybe it is time to deliver him his due punishment for his many crimes.”

While Verney still tried to feign being a tragic hero on the wrong side, the fact remained he had given Simon leave to slay an ally, even if it was a glorified fetch. The ease with which he agreed to it suggested he could replace Bert easily enough.

At least Chrom Cruak would hopefully meet the wrong lich at the wrong time and get taken off the board.

“What can you tell me about him?” Simon inquired.

“If I told you too much, the strings would be too obvious,” Verney replied with a sinister smile. “It will have to be a real struggle. You should be able to handle him, though I wouldn’t lower your guard if I were you. He is quite the cunning foe when cornered, and he will be fighting for his life.”

“I will keep that in mind.” Simon would have hoped for more information on how to kill Ludwig Bert, but he was content with receiving Verney’s blessing for the operation. “I’ve secured additional support for the plan too.”

“So I’ve heard.” Verney frowned. “Be careful. Vouivre is more amenable than her father, but that’s not saying much. She is untrustworthy, as are all of her kind.”

Says the pot calling the kettle black. “With luck, she and the sisters will kill each other.”

“With luck. I will call for a meeting when we are ready to move. I have received new information I must examine more closely.” Count Verney rose to look through his castle hall’s window. “Might I ask a personal question before you depart?”

Simon frowned. “Go on.”

“You are familiar with Lord Maublanc Paimon, are you not?” Verney played with his glass. “Do you know how he and your father met? The real story?”

What an odd inquiry… Was he looking for ways to blackmail the Commander?

“I only know the official tale and what his daughter, Anna, told me,” Simon admitted. Verney briefly looked over his shoulder when he mentioned her, perhaps recognizing it. “House Magnos was a minor family in the Berwick Islands and Lord Maublanc was one of my father’s lowborn retainers. They were extremely close, and when Father rediscovered the lost Commander Crestone, Maublanc was the first to swear fealty to him as his future king. They formed a blood pact, promising that they would fight together until they could unify the Berwick Islands and remain forever loyal to one another.”

“I see… so they did share blood? That wasn’t a fabrication?”

“Blood-brothers have a long history on the Berwick Islands. It usually involves slashing and pressing palms together, or drinking a mix of both their blood in a cup, depending on the local tradition.” Simon shifted in his seat. “Why the question?”

“I simply found it strange why your father showered so many gifts on the man, only to saddle him with a dungeon hidden in his basement,” Verney replied with a small smirk. “Thank you for entertaining my curiosity.”

He’s not telling me everything, Simon easily figured out. What was he planning to do with Paimon? Did he think exchanging blood had turned Lord Maublanc into a potential Zodiac host or the like?

Simon kept those suspicions to himself and departed Verney’s castle through the Attic doorway. He returned to his office in Valne, closed the door shut behind him, and then spotted a familiar stalker in the shadows.

“So?” Velvet asked.

“He doesn’t suspect a thing,” Simon replied. “I have his blessing to kill Bert.”

“Unsurprising. If he created one Bert, he can always make more.” She walked up to him and sat on his desk. “You’re very brave to meet with Vouivre directly. Weren’t you afraid she would catch a whiff of your true identity?”

Simon smiled back at her. “I fear nothing.”

“Which I find attractive.” She tossed him a small teleportation gem. “Use this once you’ve dealt with Bert. Bring me his head with you.”

“Will it be a trap, or a good surprise?” Simon mused.

“That depends on you,” Velvet replied as she left through the door, which led into his office’s corridor once more. “Don’t disappoint me.”

“I won’t,” Simon replied as she left, having already plotted her demise. He noted Silk hadn’t come to visit him since his meeting with the sisters at their ruined castle. She’s wary and suspicious of me. I’m sure the others are too, to a degree.

He had walked a thin line so far, giving just enough information to each side so they would think he was working for them while keeping sensitive intel—like the sisters being the true Prince or their claim that Verney was a closeted cultist—to himself. He had no doubt that his house of lies would crumble eventually; he just had to ensure it didn’t collapse ahead of schedule.

These vipers would ideally all be dead soon, starting with Bert. Simon intended to visit him as soon as he finished one last spellcasting test. He walked down some stairs to the basement, where Belzemine waited for him next to a test imp bound to a chair.

“About time!” The imp complained, Simon’s Devil Brands glowing on his face. “This elf is so cold and dead inside, I would rather rape a fish!”

“This will be our last session together if it all goes well,” Simon replied, turning to his assistant. “Have you finished your task, Agnes?”

“Yes.” She presented him with a scroll recording various notes from prior experiments on the Devil Brands. “It should work, but only Your Majesty can confirm it.”

“Let’s do that then,” Simon read after reviewing the notes. He raised his hand and tested his new spell one last time on the imp. “Ruin.”

“Again? Where’s the new mat–” The demon’s eyes went white and his words were muffled into silence the moment the magic took hold of him. Black, putrid sores burgeoned all over his skin, and drooling saliva dripped down his lips as he began to thrash against his bindings. Insanity had taken hold of his mind. “Rah!”

“Blind, Silence, Poison, Disease, and Madness,” Belzemine confirmed after a cursory examination. “All five ailments have been inflicted with a hundred percent rate.”

“But it still has to be a single target,” Simon noted. His prototype ‘mass’ version of the spell only had a twenty-five percent success rate per individual ailment. “Do you think I could create a version capable of inflicting Sleep and Paralysis too?”

“Not without increasing the tier by one or two,” Belzemine replied, much to Simon’s chagrin. “Creating variants focusing only on mental or physical ailments would be easier, at the risk of making the spell useless against a foe with broad resistances and immunities.”

In general, ailments were divided into two categories: physical ailments that targeted the body, like Poison, and mental ailments that focused on the mind like Charm. Some blurred the line depending on how they were administered though. Simon’s Blind curse worked more like an illusion that prevented the afflicted from seeing rather than physically damaging the eyes, which had allowed him to bypass Alphonse’s Holy Fortitude.

Simon was noheless pleased with the final result. Ruin would either completely disarm or penalize its victims, and its single-target nature gave it more range than Countdown.

“Alright, I’ll have you do research on a multi-buff spell next then,” Simon decided, “Right after another test.”

For the second spell, Simon focused on the bond he shared with the imp through the Devil Brands. He had theorized that if someone like Casval-Nodens could send attacks through Shabram to affect him, then the reverse was probably true: specific Soul spells could target his branded minions through their bonds.

Including self-destruction ones.

“Pandemic Bomb,” Simon cast.

His magic carried through the brands, affecting the imp’s vile spirit as if he had cast the spell directly on himself. The miasma coursing through his body began to mutate him, his very soul turning into an incubation chamber for something far worse, his blood boiling into poison ready to burst out of his veins.

The imp exploded into a shower of buzzing gore and noxious fumes.

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A swarm of buzzing, undead black flies erupted from the corpse, each of the gluttonous demonic vermin droning as they came alive showered in miasma. Each flap of their wings sent poisonous dust floating into the air until the entire basement was flooded with toxins.

“Complete success,” Simon told Belzemine proudly, the elf being shielded by her Brand of Gluttony.

Pandemic Bomb was a Soul and Ailment-aligned adaptation of the fire-aligned Immolation self-destruction spell, whose effect caused the caster’s spirit to incubate malevolent death flies; wicked undead bugs that spread poison wherever they went. Once the eggs had absorbed all the caster’s mana, they would then hatch and burst out of the body in a hungry swarm. The stronger the caster, the more numerous and the bigger the flies. This ought to make any place where he detonated a minion… uninhabitable.

One of Simon’s Titles should let him survive self-destruction spells, but he was wary of testing it on himself since it might end his reign. Still, it would make for a nice parting gift to anyone managing to slay him.

All the pieces are almost in place now, Simon thought with gleeful anticipation. Soon.

—------

“Greetings, Lord Goldenhell,” Ludwig Bert said with a pleasant smile as a fetch escorted Simon out of the Attic doorway, “It is a pleasure to welcome you to my humble estate.”

“Strange choice of decoration,” Simon noted. The ornate hall he had walked into was covered in garish wallpaper representing white ponies impaled on yellow pillars with ribbons on a red background. “What is this supposed to represent?”

“Have you never seen a carousel before?” Bert took Simon’s frown as a firm ‘no.’ “It is true they’re not common outside of Muse. They are an amusing device where people ride mechanical horses on a spinning platform. The commonfolk love them.”

“What a strange device,” Simon replied. He was a bit curious about them, even if their utility seemed dubious. “Are we in Muse?”

“We are.” Bert pointed at the nearest window. “You can see the Crafter’s Tower from here, if you would like to take a look.”

Simon approached the glass and looked through it. A morning fog obscured most of the countryside beyond the estate’s curated garden and stone wall, but he spotted a golden needle shimmering in the distance. It pierced the horizon and reached all the way to the heavens like the Lighthouse, yet seemed to flicker in and out of existence the longer Simon stared at it.

“Impressive construction, isn’t it?” Bert asked. “Its surface reflects light with an advanced form of camouflage, so no one is ever certain how high it truly reaches.”

“It’s an impressive building,” Simon conceded. He hoped to approach it more closely so he could see its full splendor one day, hopefully without getting sniped by whoever murdered his father several times. “Have we managed to infiltrate it?”

“Alas, no. The Crafter rigorously defends their privacy and never allows non-apprentices to linger long.” Bert stared at the tower wistfully. “I’ve had the pleasure of visiting it twice in my life on business-related matters. Even the most advanced pieces of machinery on both the western and eastern continents are but paltry imitations compared to the wonders inside.”

“Interesting,” Simon said, recalling that Bert arranged the Automaton Crestone’s acquisition on Borsh’s behalf. “How do you arrange such visits?”

“With a lure, Your Majesty.” Bert invited Simon to follow him past the next door. “I was hoping you would help me build the next.”

Bert guided him into a small, windowless room more akin to a toymaker’s lair than a crafter’s workshop. The wallpaper here represented stars on a black night sky, while a false wooden crescent moon hung from the ceiling by strings. Stuffed dolls rested in a corner near a wooden worktable on which sat pieces of strange machinery.

“The Crafter has little need for money anymore, so the only way to arrange a meeting is to organize a trade,” Bert explained. “They are especially interested in pre-Doom devices. Considering your unusual crafting expertise, I wondered if you could either repair or at least identify this device’s purpose.”

“Maybe. My crafting Perks focus on miasma-powered cursed items or soul-infused ones.” Simon put his hands behind his back. “I do have a question before I proceed.”

“Yes, what is it?”

Simon met his host’s gaze. “Where’s the real Bert?”

The ‘Ludwig Bert’ in front of him feigned confusion. “I’m sorry, I do not understand.”

“You’re either an imposter or a body double.” Simon had immediately noticed the absence of the Dark in the figure in front of him, unlike the real Ludwig Bert. It was the main reason why Simon hadn’t begun flinging spells at him the moment he stepped through the Attic door. “I would like to deal with the real one before I do any real work.”

“Oh.” The double smiled. “That won’t be possible.”

He flashed a poisoned dagger from beneath his clothes right as the toy room’s door shut on its own.

Simon quickly repelled the impostor into the nearest wall with a Chaos Wave, his Fiendmask disappearing to reveal the Overlord armor hidden underneath. The impact splattered the fake and shattered its body to the noise of cracking wood. Holes opened up in the ceiling and flooded the room with grey gas nearly immediately.

Petrification ailment negated by Unyielding Essence.

Simon pulverized the door with a Hellfire spell, causing the gas to harmlessly disperse through the hole, and then went to check on ‘Bert.’ The blast had torn the body double apart in two, revealing innards of sawdust and cloves bound by a disturbingly realistic shell of human skin. The eyes had turned into glass, and the hair was a wig.

“A pity,” Bert’s voice came out of the walls. Simon looked at its source and spotted a mechanical device akin to a trumpet in a corner of the ceiling. “That was one of my favorite skinsuits you just ruined, Your Majesty.”

“You were warned,” Simon guessed, his fist clenching in annoyance. He wasn’t all that surprised considering the number of traitors in this organization, but it still frustrated him. “By whom? Verney? Silk?”

“The side who doesn’t trust you, I would assume.” A piano echoed through the mechanical contraption, the melody wild and frantic. “If it's any comfort, I suggested that we kill you the moment you showed up at our doorstep. You are too dangerous to let live.”

“You should have followed through with that first instinct,” Simon replied coldly as he felt the haunting melody trying—and failing—to worm its way into his mind. “You would have died quicker.”

“Tall boast,” Bert replied with a low, mocking chuckle. “Come find me at the theater then, if you can back it up. I set a stage just for you.”

Madness and Berserk negated by Indomitable Crown.

To his slight surprise, the room outside the trapped workshop had changed into what appeared to be a windowless museum wing. A dozen or so wax replicas of various individuals, including Balzam Magnos and the Prophetess Pharis herself, filled the room.

Did he cast a spatial distortion spell? Simon wondered as he immediately melted the wax statues with Hellfire rather than take any risks. True enough, his father’s representation shrieked in pain and attempted to rush him, only to transform into a melted puddle before he could get anywhere close. Or can the rooms move around?

Rooms on both sides of the gallery opened up, and whirring figures of clockwork, wood, and metal dressed like gaudy footsmen rushed in. Most came in with sabers, but a handful of them carried the strange metal tube weapons Renal had used against him in Cocagne. Those soon fired a volley of fiery projectiles across the gallery.

Simon quickly put on a Ring of Cursed Flame from his inventory to shrug off the barrage, then blasted the swordsmen approaching him with Mindflayer. He sensed no mind nor spirit within these machines, and so summoned his morning star to his hand to smash their empty skulls in melee.

Mindless constructs, immune to ailments and mental attacks… coincidence, or preparation? Simon was certain this was almost certainly the latter, especially when the music resonating through the room began to change to a slower lullaby. He has done his research, and he’s studying me even now.

Sleep negated by Unyielding Essence.

Simon smashed five of the automata to pieces in a single swing, but more rushed to take their place. He repelled them with Chaos Wave, then shocked them with Hellthunder.

“Immune to ailments…” Bert’s complained over the music, changing the tune to some kind of frantic melody. “To debuffs too?”

This time, the cursed song began to affect Simon. An invisible weight smothered his power and turned the thunderstorm crackling out of his fingers into harmless sparks.

Magic sharply decreased!

“Ah, so there are cracks in your armor, Overlord Simon…” Bert chuckled. “Good to know.”

Simon grunted in frustration and simply abandoned magic for melee, each blow of his morning star smashing automatons apart. The sisters had clearly understated the danger Bert represented, between all the debuffs and puppet army. Did they hope that they would kill each other?

Simon sensed an attempt at mental contact at the edge of his mind. “Your Majesty?” Shabram called out to him through telepathy. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“I’m busy right now, Shabram,” Simon replied as he smashed an automaton with his morning star. “What is it?”

“I am sorry, I have received some information I thought you should be informed of with haste. It has come to my attention that Lady Anna Paimon has gone missing.”

Her words shocked Simon so much that it allowed one of the automatons to slip past his guard and stab him in the chest. The blade shattered against his armor due to failing to get past Unyielding Essence, and Simon pounded it into the ground.

“Explain yourself,” Simon commanded Shabram as he stood alone, surrounded by molten wax and broken clockwork.

“My spy isn’t certain what happened,” she admitted, “Her maids simply found her bedchambers empty in the morning and no one has been able to track her down. Not even divinations show anything, which suggests a kidnapping. Her father is mobilizing all of his contacts to find her without making it public knowledge.”

That… that never happened before in any prior reign. Either Anna married Thalas—to Simon’s chagrin—and ended up evacuating to Frightwall when her side lost the Berwick Islands, or she sat out the war due to her father’s neutrality. Why would she vanish now?

Because I sent the Cobweb to investigate Castle Carcas, Simon realized, his hand gripping his mace tightly. Verney was interested in her, not her father.

But why? Why Anna? Did he find out about Simon’s affection for her and intend to use her as a hostage, or was this unrelated? Did it have something to do with his strange quest for a wife?

If Verney had her… if he had Anna…

“Investigate,” Simon furiously ordered Shabram as he focused on the music, eventually noticing it grew stronger behind a wall opposite to the gallery. “Leave no stone unturned. This is a priority.”

Bert would tell him where Anna was, and then he would die.

Simon’s morning star smashed through the wall with inhuman strength befitting more of a cave troll than a man. Pieces of clockwork and ropes snapped along with the stone, revealing mechanisms embedded into the mansion’s very structure. This entire estate was a toybox.

The hole opened into a dimly lit theater whose seats were all occupied by skinless, flayed corpses coated in wax. Iron maidens bound by chains hung over the stage, alongside polished mirrors. A single figure played on a piano in the center like a musician giving a concert, and it reeked of the Dark.

Simon would have blasted them with a spell if his magic hadn’t been so debuffed, so he simply walked up to the stage with murder on his mind.

“As far as I remember,” the figure spoke with Ludwig Bert’s voice, “I have always been fascinated by human innards.”

The creature playing the piano was no human, but an uncanny mannequin of smooth, polished wood. Its fingers were knives, its joints black spheres, and its spine a chain. It was tall and lean, with arms longer than the legs. Simon spotted an empty, flayed human skin on the instrument’s lid, left hanging like a coat waiting for its owner to slip back on.

“I’ve always been amazed by how you people can fit so much inside a single skin.” The monstrous doll rose from his seat, revealing a noseless, earless face with a ghastly grin of human teeth and black buttons for eyes. A clock embedded in its chest ticked like a heart. “I wonder how yours will feel on me, Overlord.”

“The only thing you’ll feel is my boot pressing on your skull,” Simon replied, his morning star raised, “Let’s dance.”