Demonic Conqueror [LitRPG, Isekai, Progression]

Mercifully, Voice-In-The-Sky reached its time limit soon after. The deity's presence quietly vanished from Simon's mind, offering a stilted farewell and little else, seeming afraid of making things worse.

And then it was just him again. Heroic Valor too, but that was still just him.

Simon knew he was imperfect. There was a mountain of empirical evidence pointing to that. However, it hardly made him the worst person in the world, and some of his faults could be turned into strengths under the right circumstances. He was aware of his flaws, and he accepted them.

Or at least...he thought he did.

Voice-In-The-Sky said that nearly all transmigrators have a decent rapport with Heroic Valor, he noted, feeling oddly numb. Even if someone is conflicted about what to do, Heroic Valor's judgement is derived from their personal worldview. There's a limit to how harsh it's going to be.

Unless a person truly disliked who they were, yet were still committed to indulging in all the parts of themselves that they considered deficient. A shining pillar of cognitive dissonance, so willfully ignorant of his own emotions that his conscience hijacked a system Trait and started arguing with himself.

Is that what I am? How long have I been this way? How long have I been repressing my misgivings to the point where they've festered at the bottom of my subconscious?

It was almost like he was so efficient at compartmentalization that he could induce an out-of-body experience simply by chanting a mantra.

Simon laughed, the noise forcibly expelled from his lungs. So...what? Am I supposed to realize the 'error of my ways'? Be more cautious, have more empathy? As if that would be as easy as flipping a damn switch.

In truth, he still didn't regret anything. Too much progress had been made for him to start second-guessing himself at the eleventh hour. How would exercising self-restraint have helped him or anyone else? Every life taken, every drop of blood spilled – he would do it all again in a heartbeat.

Heroic Valor had been afraid of that.

'Someone like yourself is much more proficient at threats and deceit than forging sincere connections with others.'

'Intent matters. Each purposeful decision made is a building block added to your soul, fixed and permanent. Your reasoning shapes the foundation of who you are.'

'The problem isn't the choices you've made, or erring on the darker side of a moral gray – the problem is *you*, Simon. Your atrophied heart will lead you astray one day. Until you recognize that, the problem will always be you.'

His actions might be necessary and justifiable, but no one could tear out a man's throat and not be changed by it. Just a month ago, the closest he'd gotten to a real fight was breaking someone's arm in a schoolyard scuffle. It would be weirder if killing dozens of people since then hadn't gotten to him in some way.

Although if anything, it hadn't gotten to him enough. The rate at which he'd grown accustomed to violence was nothing to applaud. Simon had leapfrogged from murder to murder, the scope of his bloodshed gradually escalating, each success merely emboldening him further. Unburdened by the shackles of regret or remorse, he was free to be whoever and whatever a world like Valtia would allow.

All while Heroic Valor watched on, observing a car crash in slow motion.

Simon glanced at Alain's memorial headstone, resting serenely at the other end of the room. As far as champions of the people went, the transmigrator could admit that he wasn't in the same tier as Marlene's golden boy, who had seemingly been the whole package. Virtuous, and kind, and with true strength of character–

And dead. Can't gloss over that little detail. Dead, because when push came to shove, Alain couldn't ignore the plight of a stranger he'd never met.

Of the two of them, only one was on the cusp of saving Valtia, and it wasn't the man who everyone had actually liked.

You must find all this hilarious, Simon thought, directing his attention to Heroic Valor. I know you do, because I would too. Though I guess you aren't technically alive...more like the ghost of my past sins, haunting me like it's Christmas and we're standing over Tiny Tim's grave. Bit of a tortured metaphor, but Alain's memorial is close enough to count.

Silence.

What? Nothing to say? C'mon, I left the door wide open – there's gotta be some zingers you're dying to use. You could mention that my parents would find me unrecognizable compared to what I used to be. Oh, or that despite condemning Marlene for the Last Resort, I'm now contemplating measures that are far worse.

Silence.

FUCKING SAY SOMETHING, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!

"Simon?"

The transmigrator flinched so hard that he tweaked his neck. Exhaling, he turned to see Katarina standing by the doorway, a visibly concerned expression on her face.

"Are you well?" she asked, slowly creeping inside, as if approaching a wounded animal. "I wanted to confer with you about our next steps moving forward. The Last Resort is pure lunacy – I'm more willing to cooperate with your plan after hearing what the Hurricane's only alternative is."

Simon nodded. The motion felt forced. Everything felt forced right now. "Glad that you've come around. All you need to do is distract some guards when I tell you. Rest is up to me."

"Good. That's, that's good."

She paused. "You...didn't answer me when I asked if you are well."

His verbal filter, already on life support, promptly curled up and died. "No, Kat. I'm not well. Doesn't matter. Won't affect the mission. I have my priorities in order."

"That's not what I was–"

The Arcane Rogue cut herself off, switching gears mid-sentence. "You know, I never did properly thank you for helping locate my father's cure. While Lady Victoria was the one who delivered it to me, none of this would have been possible without you. It wasn't the path I expected to travel, but it brought me where I needed to be nonetheless."

"What's it like having a parent that understands you?"

Katarina's mouth fell open. It took her a few seconds to respond. "Um. I...huh? It's nice, I suppose? What are you getting at?"

Simon lamented that he wasn't in the right mood to chuckle at the look on her face. "It's something I've wondered. My parents loved me, I'm certain of that much, but they didn't really understand me. Can't blame them there. Apparently, even I don't understand me."

A pause. "Also, you're welcome," he added. "Forgot that part."

Kat took a seat nearby, as if she was settling in for the long haul. "Forgive me if I misspeak, but they would be proud of what you've accomplished. I'm...assuming they were human? And that you were originally human as well? If people can mutate into Fell creatures, then you need not have always been a Demon."

"Yup. Human born and raised. Got the arm as a souvenir from meeting another Demon. He wasn't too happy how the arrangement played out."

In spite of her evident curiosity, Katarina admirably stayed on task. "So you've managed to remember more of your past? Back in Caelryn, you said that you could recall your parents, at the very least. How they were..."

"Murdered by apathy?" Simon finished. "You could strip my soul from my body, carve my brain out from my skull, and I would still remember that."

With an air of trepidation, Kat sat up straighter. "If it is a story you'd like to share, then I am here to listen."

He wouldn't like to, actually – but considering that shoving aside those thoughts had gone fantastically so far, maybe it was time he tried a different tactic.

"My parents were...successful," Simon began. "Not wealthy as the nobility, not even close, but they had little reason to ever fear for their next meal. I have to mention this first before anything else, because it provides context for the choices they made. They could've coasted for the rest of their lives, and no one would have judged them for it."

Lawyers as a general profession didn't exist in Valtia, and the transmigrator was still Sworn to Secrecy, so he would have to get creative with his retelling. "My mother arbitrated disputes between people. Specifically, she would argue whether someone was guilty of having committed a grievous offense deserving of punishment."

Katarina arched an eyebrow. "That's a rather specialized profession. It pays?"

If you're on Earth, then sure. "She made it work. Her expertise was highly sought-after. If she had stayed in her lane, not rocked the boat, our family would have lived comfortably."

Simon hesitated as the memories found purchase in his mind, like serrated daggers plunging deeper with every word he spoke. He pressed on regardless.

"Problem is, I learned most of my habits from her. She didn't know when to quit either."

--

"I regret to inform you that your parents have passed away."

One phone call. One sentence. That was all it took to irrevocably alter the trajectory of a life.

A car crash, he was told, over a long and fraught conversation. A tragic accident, he was told, again and again and again.

His parents had been together when it happened, traveling with one of his mother's clients to a work meeting. The three of them were cruising down an interstate highway when another vehicle slammed into them at double the recommended speed limit.

There were no survivors.

Well, except for the other driver. He was so inebriated that it was a wonder he could breathe, let alone steer a wheel, but somehow he was the one who walked away from the crash relatively unscathed. Once he sobered up and realized what he'd done, he promptly took his own life, unable to deal with the consequences of single-handedly orphaning a child.

In the end, there were still no survivors. The fourth casualty just took a bit longer to sort itself out.

Simon was twelve years old at the time. Up until that moment, his primary concerns had been about finishing homework and watching TV shows. The former cut into the latter, yet he was diligent about sticking to a schedule that maximized his Netflix quota without neglecting his schooling.

Over the course of that day, his concerns vastly expanded.

Funeral. Inheritance. Foster care. Counseling. Trust fund. Plans to be made, both in the short-term and long-term.

Every bit of news was delivered alongside people's 'heartfelt' condolences. Most of them doled it out in a bland, perfunctory manner, no better than the empty platitudes you would find on the back of a store-bought card. Some people did make a good effort of it...but even they were missing that intrinsic, familial warmth that he'd come to take for granted.

The warmth he would never experience again.

After the barrage of phone calls finally tapered off, Simon went to his room and closed the door. He sat perfectly still, a statue in human form, and waited for the tears to start flowing down his face.

They never did – and not for a lack of trying. He pushed until he'd nearly popped a blood vessel, dug fingernails into his skin to elicit a pain response. Didn't matter. His eyes were dry as a desert.

It's not right, he had thought. People were supposed to cry after losing someone. That was how you showed your love for them. His parents were already better than he deserved – surely they'd earned this much. Just a single drop would suffice.

Nothing. An omnipresent numbness had seeped into him, like a cold noose strangling his heart.

Once more, he was forced to accept that something was truly wrong with him.

If his parents had been alive, they would have told him otherwise. They would have explained how people respond to grief in different ways. They would have alternated between emotional support and logical assertions, using arguments they knew he would listen to.

They would have done many things, if they hadn't bled out on the side of a road.

That mental image would become a frequent visitor in Simon's nightmares – the closest thing he had to a companion.

--

Two Years After The Accident

"When are you going to stop pretending?" Simon asked his foster mother.

The woman's painted-on smile twitched, but stayed firm. "Not the nicest thing to say, dearie. I thought we'd been making strides recently?"

Simon's face remained blank as he stared at the pale imitation of what he'd once had. "No, I just got quieter and you liked me better that way. Was waiting for you to drop the act. Now I'm tired of waiting."

"If I've done something to upset you, we can discuss it over–"

"You aren't getting any of my inheritance."

Her features tensed like a coiled spring. "Simon! I would never even dream of attempting such a thing."

"You're a terrible actor," he noted. "It's kind of impressive that you've made it this far."

It was hard to tell who the biggest idiot among them was. Her, for thinking that she could fool him with a performance worse than his grade school theater class. His case worker, for believing that this thieving snake was mother material. Or Simon himself, for refusing to see the signs for well over a year, doing his best to 'give her a chance'.

Her husband wasn't in the running. He'd done the smart thing and emotionally disconnected from his marriage long before Simon was ever in the picture.

I know what a happy home feels like, and this isn't it.

The woman's hand trembled as she suppressed the urge to slap him. Hadn't happened yet, which was unfortunate. Would've expedited matters if Simon had a prominent red mark on his face to present to his case worker.

"You're being very unfair right now," she said, with a tone so calm that it was a gentle nudge away from exploding. "I've given you no reason to believe that I intend to steal from you."

"You keep your diary in the bedside nightstand. Second drawer from the top."

Simon waited a moment for his statement to register. "Even if I hadn't gone snooping, it's obvious. I see how your face brightens whenever the topic comes up. It honestly looks really similar to the villains on those soap operas you can't stop watching. The irony of which seems to be lost on y–"

"Stop staring at me like that!" she shrieked, her facade of civility crumbling to dust.

Heard that one before. And not just from her. Simon was always staring, always assessing, always asking uncomfortable questions. It had routinely disturbed the people he'd met these last two years. Probably scared off some prospective foster parents.

He knew that, yet it didn't prevent him from staring. Simon would stop assessing people when the world started making sense again.

"I don't understand your plan," he confessed. "Did you think that I would hand over my inheritance if you pretended to be nice? That you'd get me to sign some documents just from feeding me three square meals a day? It's not even that much money."

The woman practically sneered at him. "Don't be so modest. Your mom was a hotshot lawyer – made the news. Her salary, plus the life insurance payouts, is more than I would make in a decade."

A relaxed smile crept onto Simon's face. Finally, both of their true selves were out in the open.

"Even if you were somehow able to convince me, I can't sign anything until I'm eighteen," he pointed out. "That's four more years of...this. Seems like a lot of hassle."

"I'll manage. I'm good at keeping the peace."

'Peace' wasn't how Simon would have described the air-conditioned coffin that was this household...but he could already tell his arguments would fall on deaf ears. Despite everything he'd said, his foster mother wasn't taking him seriously. She didn't truly consider him a threat to whatever inane scheme she'd devised.

That was fine by him. He had come to appreciate the upsides of being underestimated.

Funny thing about staring at people so often – you picked up on certain details they would rather stay hidden. As an outside observer in this farce of a family, Simon had pieced together a puzzle that was beautiful in its simplicity.

The boy straightened his posture and widened his smile. The woman recoiled, as if preparing to dodge a punch, but she needn't have worried. He had no intention of resorting to physical violence.

Words hurt much worse.

"Your husband is sleeping with your sister."

--

After Simon dropped a thermonuclear drama-bomb on his first foster home, he spent the next few years bouncing around from family to family.

None of them fit. It was a revolving door of awkward talks and relieved farewells. Eventually he landed with a discreet older couple who dispensed with any pretense of love, agreeing to house him until he became of age. A son on paperwork, yet a tenant in reality.

He thanked them for it. No one could replace his parents, and he preferred that they didn't try.

From a distance, Simon also observed the other kids being put through the foster care process. To his amazement, some of them managed to integrate into their new homes. They had their own trials to overcome, of course, but at the end of that bumpy road was the familial warmth he still craved every single day.

How? Why them, and not him? His first foster mother was an outlier; most people weren't so awful as that. Statistically speaking, he should've met someone he could connect with by now, at least a little bit.

Unless...

Ah, he realized. It's me.

Not the various parent candidates he'd met. Not the foster system itself. He was the problem. Too cold, too strange, too detached. Unable to recognize or respond to outpourings of affection.

What other conclusion could he have reached? Numbers didn't lie. If other kids were finding families, and he was failing, then by process of elimination, he was the confounding variable in that equation.

Some people had a face that only a mother could love. Did he have a personality that only his real parents could tolerate?

The thought snuck into his mind one day. Subtle, but insistent.

And without anyone to tell him otherwise, he began to believe it.

--

Four Years After The Accident

Simon hadn't expected the call to go through.

He'd been on the phone for hours and hours, from sun-up to sundown. 'Your call is important to us, please hold' was now permanently etched onto his psyche. The phone line's busy jingle would be looping in his head for a full year, minimum.

Yet somehow, persistence had won the day. Maybe a bored secretary was taking pity on him. Either that, or they were worried that he would spend all of tomorrow calling them as well.

It was a valid fear.

"You have reached the office of Senator Wilson Shaw," a voice droned, the man sounding half-asleep. "We appreciate your patience. May I inquire as to who I'm speaking with?"

"This is Simon."

There was a short intake of breath on the other end. Brief, nearly imperceptible. "And how may I help you today, Simon?"

They didn't ask for his last name. Was it because they didn't care to, or because they didn't need to? That there was only one 'Simon' who would be reaching out like this, and Shaw's office had been prepped ahead of time, just in case?

He would've bet his entire inheritance on the latter.

"I've thought of something that might be of interest to Senator Shaw," Simon began, with a casual demeanor that made his blood boil. "You're aware of the company Onward And Upward – commonly known as O&U Inc, yes? They're incorporated in your state."

"Yes," the secretary promptly replied. The mild waver in his voice had disappeared. "Everyone's heard of O&U here."

An honest answer. From what Simon had researched, O&U's yearly revenue carried the state on its back.

"Right, right." Though no one could see him, the boy pushed a disarming smile onto his face. He'd read that adjusting your facial expressions made it easier to control your tone of voice. "Then you should also be aware of the legal action that was brought against them several years ago. If it made the news nationwide, then it must've been the talk of the town locally."

There it was – a slight pause before the secretary responded, only noticeable because Simon was looking for it. "You have no idea," the man chuckled. "That gave us enough water cooler gossip to last us for weeks. Thankfully, it all simmered down pretty quickly."

"Huh, really? An extra-spicy scandal like that? I figured it would've kept the desk jockeys entertained for a while."

"Well, the charges against O&U were dropped. We ran out of things to talk about."

"Not even how the prosecutor attached to the case was brutally murdered?"

This time, the pause lasted a solid four seconds, stretching on until the secretary felt compelled to break it. "I have no idea what you're referring to," he stated, any semblance of mirth fleeing him in a hurry.

"Then allow me to refresh your memory." Simon's smile grew so wide that it ached. "Four years ago. One car demolishing another. The lawyer set to prosecute O&U, my mother, was killed before the case could ever go to trial. She was murdered along with my father...and the whistleblower who had agreed to testify."

"That was a tragic acci–"

Like a hammer, Simon smashed his fist on the table in front of him. It was loud enough to be heard over the phone, and hard enough that he could already feel a bruise forming on his hand. "You have no earthly idea how sick I am of that phrase."

The boy derived a savage sort of pleasure from the stunned silence he'd inflicted. Breathing in, then out, he gripped his phone as if his fingers were wrapped around a neck.

"Here's a fascinating detail I learned recently about the drunk driver who hit them – he wasn't a drunk driver. Not before then. Barely had any history of drinking in general. But for some bizarre reason, on that specific day, he decided to get absolutely shitfaced and make a beeline directly for my parents' car."

Simon opened his mouth in mock astonishment. "And what do you know? Just like magic, the crippling debt he'd racked up suddenly vanished. A bonafide Faustian bargain, there. Kill my parents, kill the whistleblower, kill himself, and his own family gets set for life."

"These theories of yours are wildly accusatory," the secretary threw out. "If you aren't careful, someone could sue you for slander."

"By all means. Take me to court. I would adore the chance to recount everything that mom was going to nail O&U to the wall for. Do you know many people they've killed through negligence – and just from actual killing, to tie up loose ends? What they did to my parents wasn't the first time."

A flash of white-hot hatred surged within him. Mostly for O&U...and while he tried to smother the feeling, some for his mom and dad as well.

They'd been fully aware that Onward and Upward had literal skeletons in its closet. A murder here, an assassination there, all to grease the wheels of industry. The odds of his parents being targeted were low, but not zero.

So why had his mother taken the case like she was some avenging knight from a story? Why had his father encouraged her with starry-eyed admiration instead of curbing her reckless impulses?

Why did they have to take such a massive risk, knowing they might end up leaving him?

The secretary mounted a counter-offense. "Your theory is full of holes. If the law firm your mother worked at had suspected foul play, they would've retaliated."

"Oh, they do suspect. Talked to them myself. They still aren't willing to pursue anything. None of them want to be next in line for an accident."

Bunch of sniveling cowards in finely-tailored suits. Mom deserved better friends.

"I see." The secretary didn't hide the note of relief in his tone. "Hypothetically speaking...even assuming that O&U is involved in shady business practices, don't you think that jumping right to murder as their solution seems rather ill-advised? Especially with a method as unreliable as a car crash."

Simon grimaced. "Don't have hard evidence for this, but I think O&U would've been happy no matter what the outcome was. If the crash kills them? Great, awesome. If it doesn't, that's fine too. They likely expected it to spook the whistleblower, send a message, get them to drop out. Would've probably worked – whistleblowing trials are a nightmare."

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Which was largely why his mother had been so adamant about taking this case. She always did love fighting for the underdog.

"You're still assuming that O&U would be satisfied with financing a publicly visible triple murder," the secretary hummed. "That kind of negative attention isn't what a multinational corporation wants."

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

Simon felt his muscles tensing like corded strings. "At one point, I realized that I couldn't have been the first person to connect these dots. Witness intimidation is a tale as old as time. Assassinations are even older. The news media landscape should've been salivating at the chance to create more...what did you call it? Water cooler gossip. So I looked into things, and as it turned out, that's precisely what they did!"

He lifted his eyebrows. "For about two days. And then – presto! Another magic trick. All the major outlets dropped the story of my parents' murder like a hot potato."

"Because they found no merit to the accusations."

"Since when has that stopped them before? No, this was coordinated. An edict handed down from up-top, by someone with both influence and power."

Simon tapped his fingers on the now-crooked table. "Question – was it worth it?"

"...I have no idea what you're referring to."

"Don't be like that. You've already indulged me for this long so you can extract every morsel of info that I know. Why clam up now? Just because I'm recording our conversation doesn't mean you have to be shy."

A sputtering gasp blasted through the phone. "You've been what?"

"Relax. You haven't said anything directly incriminating – not bad, Senator Shaw should give you a gold star – and even if you had, it wouldn't matter. I contacted every news outlet I could think of before making this call. It went about as well as reaching out to my mom's lawyer friends."

Simon stifled his rage and frustration before it could erupt into a scream. "I'll ask again. When your boss covered everything up, did he think it was worth it? Bribing that many companies must've cost a small fortune. Was it worth keeping your state's cash cow nice and squeaky clean? Did the ledgers at O&U end up balanced? Were my parents' deaths a financially sound venture, you sick, twisted fucks?"

The silence that followed was ten times heavier than the last. It was the uneasy hush of exposing truths that had been shot dead and buried in an unmarked grave. Of unveiling secrets which were hidden less by a grand conspiracy, and more by dozens of people intentionally looking the other way, preserving their treasured status quo by any means necessary.

Just for a moment, Simon thought the secretary might actually crack.

"This has all been very amusing," the man said, in a tone completely lacking inflection. "I believe you've missed your calling as a writer of fanciful, outlandish fiction. Although..."

"Although?"

"If you were so positive that this talk would result in nothing substantial, then why bother? Why spend hours waiting on the phone just to spout unfounded accusations? What was the point of...any of this?"

To lash out. To vent a sliver of the fury stewing within. To ease the utter helplessness he felt, day in and day out. To try and understand a life where his parents had been murdered, and no one seemed to care. To try and comprehend a world where happiness could be torn from you in an instant, and where those who failed were blamed for their supposed weakness by the victors.

But most of all–

"Why bother?" Simon delivered his answer without hesitation. "Because someone has to."

--

Four Years and One Day After The Accident

Simon was taking a walk around the neighborhood to clear his head when a car pulled up next to the sidewalk.

He frowned as it parked nearby, the door opening to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man whose loose attire couldn't hide his sculpted physique. The man gave a cheerful wave, sauntering up to Simon as if they were old friends greeting for the first time in months.

"Hey there." He flashed an easygoing smile. "Beautiful day for a stroll, isn't it? Sun is shining, birds are singing, and the temperature is juuust right. It's missing a gentle breeze to complete the picture, but I guess that would be asking for too much."

"Who are you?" Simon asked. "If you're trying to sell me something, the answer is no."

The man laughed. "Looks like your mom taught you not to talk to strangers. Smart woman."

Alarm bells started ringing inside Simon's head. "I'm leaving. If you follow me, I'll be forced to–"

"You may want to put a pin in that threat. See, my name is Joe – or at least that's the name I'll be giving you. I'm here on behalf of Onward and Upward Incorporated. Boss-man wants to meet with you."

The alarm bells were upgraded to a blaring city-wide alert. "Now I'm definitely leaving."

"Paranoid little fella, aren't you?" Joe laughed again as Simon cautiously backed away, never taking his eyes off the man. "Color me impressed. Most people wouldn't have the balls to refuse a request from the head honcho of a company like O&U."

"I'm just full of surprises." My legs are shorter, and I'm less athletic. He'll catch up to me in a few strides. Need more distance. "Feel free to send your boss my apologies, but sorry, I'm not in the mood to get interrogated by a CEO today."

"Interrogate? Simon, you've got it all wrong. He's not gonna interrogate you."

Joe grinned. "He's going to torture you."

Simon froze mid-step. "...What?"

"It's simple. See, an interrogation is when you need to squeeze info out of a guy. It has a purpose. When you do the same thing, but there's not any real point to it, that's when it's torture. And since there's nothing in your head we need to know, I'm filing this one under 'pointless'."

The explanation failed to stick in Simon's mind. He could feel the layers of his reality being peeled away, as if he'd shifted to a parallel dimension where everything was just slightly out of alignment.

"Is it really that big of a shock?" Joe asked, with an inquisitive tone. "You had to have seen this coming. Reaching out to your mom's law firm, phoning half the news outlets in the country..."

He raised his fist, lifting a finger with each offense. "Contacting Senator Shaw's office was the final straw. Kicked the hornet's nest with that one – I've never seen the boss-man so raging mad before. Do you enjoy placing your hand on hot stoves or something?"

Simon didn't know how to respond. To be honest, he had already accepted that O&U might target him for stirring up this much trouble. Wasn't like they were opposed to using less-than-legal methods to eliminate headaches. Just a cost of doing business, presumably.

But this scenario still exceeded his wildest imagination. Getting grabbed off the street, in broad daylight, by someone openly admitting to everything, was not on the bingo card. Where was the plausible deniability? The veneer of adhering to laws and social norms?

It was too...blatant. Insultingly so.

"Wheels are turning in your head," Joe remarked. "If you've got questions, why not ask? I don't mind answering."

"Your boss didn't think this through," Simon spat. "If the son of a deceased, high-profile prosecutor suddenly vanishes, it'll raise questions. Would be a juicy enough story for someone to investigate."

"It's torture, not murder. You'll be home in time for dinner, and the 'rents won't notice a thing. We're experts at leaving no bruises."

"Don't act like this is normal – like it's a common occurrence."

"What, making problem-people disappear? Happens more often than you'd think. Though to be fair, you're much younger than the folks I usually pay a visit. Most of those cases never make the news either."

Simon resisted the urge to take a swing at him. "My parents did."

"And the guy in charge of them really bungled it. Crashes are unreliable and way too out in the open. Should've just gone with a staged suicide or a home invasion – shit, even a car bomb would've been less messy. No wonder the boss-man wants to vent his frustrations on something."

Joe rolled his eyes. "Personally, I think that tormenting a maladjusted teenager makes for a weird-ass hobby, but what do I know? I'm not a CEO with more money than I'll ever be able to spend. Maybe he ran out of yachts to buy. Guess you're his stress ball for the day."

"Fine." Simon's gaze darted left to right, searching and hoping for someone to pass by. "We're still in public. Would only take one pair of prying eyes to create a witness."

"Nope. There's no one around, and not a camera in sight. Did my prep work before driving here."

"Do you seriously expect me to keep quiet about this? It's just giving me more ammo to–"

"Chill, Simon. You're too high-strung."

Joe shook his head. "Look, you probably won't believe this, but I actually kinda like you. Most kids your age would be pissing their pants by now. The intel report said you've got nerves of steel, and I gotta say, I haven't been disappointed. Out of respect for that, let me offer you some genuine advice."

He dashed forward and slammed his fist into Simon's gut.

It happened so quickly that the pain was delayed by a half-second. Then the lower half of Simon's torso exploded with agony, the sensation dull yet overpowering. He doubled over, breathing heavily as his lungs cried out for air.

"You..." A hacking cough burst from his chest, flecks of spittle dotting the sidewalk. "Why..."

Joe grabbed the boy's hair and tilted his face up. "This'll sound worse than it is, but bear with me here: who exactly do you think you are?"

"...I...what?..."

"The intel report didn't get everything right. It also said that you were chock-full of self-loathing. That you'd posture like a peacock to make yourself seem tough. Typical broken home youth, seen it before."

Joe made a scoffing sound. "But that's not the whole story, is it? You've got a lot of pride in you, kid. You don't have nearly as low of an opinion of yourself as you should."

He released the boy's hair, dusting his hands off on his pants. "So. What do you think is going to happen to me next?"

Everything was moving jarringly fast, but Simon barely managed to parse the meaning of his question. "Happen..." He coughed again, wiping his mouth. "You mean...legally?"

"Yup. I just punched you without cause. That's assault. Two-to-five years in many states." Joe smirked. "Think the charges would stick?"

"No cameras or witnesses." Simon clenched his fist, then thought better and un-clenched it. "Not enough evidence."

"Partial credit. That's an issue for you, sure, but it's not the real reason I don't have anything to worry about."

Joe knelt down to meet Simon at eye-level, arms resting on his knees. "The real reason is because you're nothing."

The word was spoken not as an insult, but as a statement of fact.

"You're young, so I get it," he continued. "You still haven't shaken off that feeling they teach you early on – that everything is run by rules, and if those rules are broken, bad things happen. A part of you still believes that O&U and Senator Shaw will be punished if you can expose their crimes to the public. I get it. I've been where you are."

Joe's grin faded. "But those rules only matter if other people enforce them, and no one's going to bat for you, Simon. Who would? You've got no family, no friends, no connections, and no influence. You're nobody, nothing. Just another faceless rando out of billions. Not worth a second glance."

Simon found it harder to speak than when he'd been punched. "That's...that's what the courts are for. Even if you aren't rich or famous, everyone gets a fair trial, and–"

"Do you honestly think that, or are you just parroting what your lawyer mom fed you?"

That sentence, spoken without a hint of malice, struck Simon like a gunshot.

"It would be ridiculously easy to make you look bad in court," Joe added. "Me, an upstanding citizen, versus the repeat troublemaker who broke another kid's arm and got refunded by multiple foster parents? By the end of it, I'd be able to make them think you assaulted me – and I'm not a CEO or a senator."

The man patted him on the shoulder. "Count your lucky stars. Your mom's death still turns up on the first page of a google search, so you're marginally too noteworthy to kill. That puts you in a better situation than most people who catch the eye of someone above the rules. There's much worse things that can happen to a kid your age. Just take your lumps today, and we'll never have to see each other again."

He smiled once more, wagging his finger as if scolding an unruly child. "Oh, and that recording you made of your call with the senator's office? No putting it online and trying to go viral. While you may not love your current foster parents, they did agree to take you in. Don't let that be a mistake on their part."

The boy said nothing as he allowed himself to be led to where Joe had parked. He justified it as risk mitigation – that attempting to escape would simply make things worse – but in truth, all the fight had gone out of him. He was...tired.

So, so, tired.

Without a word, Simon entered the car.

--

Without a word, the human consciousness named Simon exited the car.

Like an observer from on high, he directed his flesh-and-blood vessel to stand on the neighborhood sidewalk. Its legs trembled as it walked. Lingering pain wracked the body from head-to-toe, but none of that was of concern to the consciousness, who had insulated himself in a protective throne of indifference.

"Alright then," Joe mumbled. He stayed in the driver's seat, only rolling his car window down partway. "That...that was something. 'Nerves of steel' was underselling it, huh?"

The vessel stared, unblinking.

"Christ almighty." Joe's hand inched towards the button that would close the window. "Full disclosure, after that performance, I'll likely be back here in a couple days. You didn't exactly give the boss-man the catharsis he wanted. Pretty sure he was looking for more begging and screaming."

"Understood."

Joe suppressed a shiver. "Simon, where the fuck did this come from? There was nothing like it in your intel report."

The consciousness puppeted his body, pushing its lips into a facsimile of a smile. "I've always had a penchant for observing things," he explained. "I merely pulled the camera a little farther back this time."

It was a magic trick that put all the others to shame. 'You're not here. None of this is happening to you.' Just a few clever phrases, and he became impervious to harm. 'You're not here. This pain is not your own.' Just a minor shift in perspective, and they had lost their power over him. 'You're not here. You're just looking in.'

The world could take everything from him – but in the sanctuary of his mind, he was free.

Joe averted his eyes and drove away in a haste. Simon watched as the car sped through a red light, idly wondering if another crash was about to occur. He would have found the idea amusing if he possessed the capacity for mirth.

Agonized spasms jolted through his vessel, but that was of no consequence. The sensations were detached, muted.

They belonged to someone else.

--

Present Day

Katarina gazed at him with an unfamiliar type of pity.

Rather than judgmental or condescending, it was...commiserating. As if she could understand his pain, even though the two of them had been wounded by different blades. "I'm sorry," she told him.

"For what?" Simon tried to laugh, but no sound came out. "You were hardly responsible for anything that happened to me."

"Just felt like the right thing to say. The ones at fault will never apologize, so I'll do it in their stead."

"...Thanks, Kat. Truly."

That, too, felt like the right thing to say.

A comfortable silence sat between them. Katarina spoke up before it could turn oppressive. "Did they call upon you often?" she asked, her voice gentle.

"Four more times." An involuntary shudder passed through Simon's body. "They wanted to break me. Couldn't. Got bored, moved on."

He'd spent a full year dreading Joe's sixth visit, only for the man to vanish into thin air. There was no further communication from Senator Shaw or O&U, and they didn't appear to be keeping close tabs, either.

It took Simon another year to accept that they'd forgotten him. In a twisted sort of way, the torture had at least made him feel important – like he'd provoked them enough to draw their attention. Now he couldn't even pretend that any of his efforts had ever mattered.

He had been a passing nuisance to them, and nothing more.

The Arcane Rogue bared her teeth. "Who were they? You said that it was a nobleman and the leader of a prominent merchant organization. Give me names. Once we've dealt with Helmund, they can be next."

Simon smiled – the first genuine smile that had come to him since he started his story. Hearing the vengeful, biting anger in Katarina's voice honestly meant the world to him.

Unfortunately, the names he could give didn't exist in this universe, and he was already stretching the limits of Sworn to Secrecy. He couldn't think of a way to divert her attention naturally, so he opted to distract her with something she wouldn't be able to ignore:

The conclusion to his story.

"Before that, let me ask you a question," Simon began. "Which three things killed my parents?"

Katarina took his pop quiz in stride. "The nobleman, the merchant leader, and...apathy. That was what you told me in Caelryn."

"Correct. Now, another question."

He leaned forward, his eyes blazing with intent. "Whose apathy?"

Kat opened and closed her mouth. She'd been about to respond, then seemed to realize that the obvious answer probably wasn't the right one this time.

"Here's something I only learned after digging into medical records years after they died." Simon's chest tightened like a fist gripping his rib cage. "That carriage accident? It didn't kill my parents immediately. Their passenger died on impact, but my mom was just knocked out, and my dad was still conscious. Both severely wounded – yet alive."

Images flashed through his mind. Clinical, uncaring incident reports. Pictures and video footage that he was never supposed to see.

A man crawling on the ground, limbs shattered, leaving a bloody trail in his wake.

"My father managed to exit the vehicle. The carriage." Simon was almost stumbling over his words. "He didn't have any Artifacts to help him." His cell phone had been smashed to pieces, and the car was in such bad shape that he physically couldn't reach the other two. "All he could do was try to hail someone else for help. There were lots of people around." It was an interstate highway that saw a high volume of traffic. "If anyone had stopped to give basic first aid, they would've had a decent shot at stabilizing my mom and dad before they bled out."

The transmigrator laughed. "Seventeen minutes. That was what the autopsy described as the estimated point of no return. Seventeen minutes before my parents became unsalvageable. Seventeen minutes of people passing them by, not stopping, cruising along as usual – disregarding a bloodsoaked man on the side of the road."

Seventeen minutes on a busy highway. How many cars – people – did that equate to?

Simon had never been able to bring himself to do the math on that.

"They couldn't have known that my parents were being targeted by the nobility. To outside observers, it would've just looked like a random car crash – an accident where the victims needed urgent care. All they had to do was trade an hour, maybe a minute of their time, and they could save lives. Low risk, high reward."

I just needed one person to stop. Even if they'd failed, even if my parents had bled out anyway, I just needed one person to try and help.

Just.

One.

"But they didn't. Guess they had things to do, places to be. Saving my mom and dad was too much of an inconvenience. 'Why does it have to be me?' they must have thought. 'Someone else will stop, surely.' Assuage your guilt, keep driving, and then it's out of sight, out of mind."

Simon laughed; an ugly, alien sound that tore from his throat. "My parents may have been attacked by the nobility, but they died because normal people just like them couldn't be bothered."

The transmigrator turned away from Katarina, not wanting to see whatever look was on her face. "You know that I hate the worst of the nobility," he continued. "The tyrants who lord their power over others. I don't feel a shred of guilt when taking their lives."

He imagined that he was staring through a window, gazing out into the bustling city streets below. His right arm Shapeshifted of its own accord, sharp silver claws glinting faintly in the light.

"The thing is...I think a part of me hates the people almost as much. I'll save them, fight for them, risk my life for them – but I shouldn't have to do any of that in the first place. Why do they act like lemmings walking off a cliff, so incapable of changing their own fates? Why is it so rare to find someone actually trying to make a difference?"

Simon shook his head with disgust. "Duke Helmund is nigh-unstoppable, yes, but it's absurd that anyone let it get to this point at all. The nobility isn't to blame for everything wrong with Valtia. If the common people banded together, if they inconvenienced themselves a little bit every day in order to help others, we'd practically be living in a goddamn utopia by now."

A sneer split across his face. "Then again, am I any better? My life was pretty on-rails before I snagged this arm. None of my grandiose plans had any real chance of panning out. Without winning the cosmic lottery, I would just be another faceless nobody in the crowd."

He could remember sitting in Grace's soup kitchen, wondering if he would toil in obscurity for the rest of his days. The thought had felt like death – in that it was inevitable. A core tenet of life that he would be forced to accept.

"Yet somehow, here I am."

The transmigrator stared down at his Demonic limb, marveling at what it represented. "Things are different now. I'm not powerless anymore. It doesn't matter if I deserve this power or not – I have it. I can enforce the rules that should exist in this world. The nobility won't change, the people won't change...but they can still be dragged into the future, kicking and screaming. Someone needs to act. Someone needs to care."

Simon turned to exit the room, not waiting for Kat to pick her jaw up off the floor. "And if others aren't willing to, then I am obligated to do it for them."

He walked with purpose, leaving Alain's memorial behind. There were several hours remaining before he could execute his plan, as the timing would have to be perfect, but that just gave him extra leeway to fine-tune his preparations.

Naturally, he'd scarcely made it halfway down the hall when a voice filled his thoughts.

[Are you certain of this?] Heroic Valor asked. [Truly, fully certain?]

Found your tongue? Bit late, there. You missed your window of opportunity.

[It's never too late to self-reflect. Isn't that what you wish of the people you claim to despise? That they would awaken to an epiphany, mend the error of their ways?]

Don't pull this crap on me. Be straight – do you have an alternative for what I'm planning? Something that would realistically kill Duke Helmund?

[If I did, you would already know of it.]

Then why bother contacting me?

[Because you need to understand what you're getting into. This act may be unavoidable, and there may be no other way – but it will still eat away at your soul, a blackened stain that can never be cleansed.]

[Simon...there's no turning back from something like this.]

He knew.

It didn't matter.

[Wait–]

Simon shoved the unwanted presence from his mind, returning to his preparations. He wouldn't let anyone stop him from doing what was necessary. Not Helmund. Not Marlene. Not the Hurricane. Not Voice-In-The-Sky.

Not even himself.