"My King, I have a request for you."

  An old farmer knelt in a magnificent throne room. It was not nearly as large as Nero's, yet it compensated for its lack in size with overwhelming opulence.

  Everywhere, golden objects stood or hung in dazzling abundance. The walls were adorned with breathtaking paintings, undoubtedly crafted by a masterful artist.

  At the far end of the room, two thrones rested atop a grand pedestal. Seated on one was a man of middle age, his full brown beard neatly groomed, and his light blue eyes gleaming with intelligence. Upon his head rested a splendid golden crown, its elongated peaks adorned with embedded crimson jewels. Despite the grandeur surrounding him, the king's face carried an air of warmth and kindness. Beside him, seated on a slightly lower throne, was a beautiful woman of similar age.

  Her golden hair shimmered beneath the delicate diadem she wore. These were the King and Queen of one of the greatest kingdoms in the world, Scur. Their influence was vast, and their relationships with other royal families were impeccable.

  "How may I help you, citizen?" the King asked kindly, his deep voice resonating through the chamber.

  The old man suddenly burst into tears. "Your Majesty, my land yields almost no harvest anymore. After decades of use, the soil has become hard and barren. I can no longer feed my two daughters..."

  The King patiently waited for the man to regain his composure. Then, with genuine concern in his voice, he asked, "How can we help you?"

  The farmer sniffled. "All I need is a little money to purchase new land. I swear by the Sun God, I will repay you by working that land and providing food for others!"

  That was an outrageous display of audacity. He was merely a farmer of the kingdom, tasked with providing food for the land, yet he painted himself as some kind of saint—selfless and noble—simply for doing his duty!

  But the king didn't seem to take offense; he merely let out a quiet sigh. "Very well. I shall grant you enough gold to purchase new land for yourself. Lancet," he looked at an old man, standing in the back of the room, "Please bring this man enough gold to buy a new Farm for himself and his daughters."

  The man called Lancet immediately obeyed. After he left for a few moments, he came back with a heavy sack. You could distinctly hear the sound of coins clinking together. He gave the sack to the old man.

  "Thank you, King! Your generosity knows no bounds. Truly, you are a man of great kindness—that is why we all hold you in such high regard!"

  The farmer, overwhelmed with gratitude, bowed repeatedly, showering the King with thanks. The king merely waved his hand, signaling him to leave. However, the man hesitated.

  "Is there something else?" the King asked, his brows furrowing slightly.

  The old farmer dared to push his luck. "Your Majesty, I am old. I can no longer work the fields alone, and the Sun God only gave me two daughters. I must beg for your generosity once more—I need funds to hire help. Just enough for a few slaves!"

  The King's expression darkened. He gazed at the farmer intently. "Very well, we will grant you one slave—but no more!"

  Yet, the farmer did not leave. Instead, fresh tears welled up in his eyes. "How could one slave possibly be enough? I need at least four!"

  At this, all warmth drained from the King's face. He slowly rose from his throne and strode toward the kneeling farmer. The old man looked up at him hopefully, believing his request might be granted. But the King knelt before him and spoke in a low, measured voice:

  "You foolish man. Who do you think I am? Your servant? Your vassal? You dare come into my palace and seek aid—I grant it. Then you plead for slaves—I grant you one. But your greed is boundless. Did you truly believe you could manipulate me so easily? With your little tears?"

  The farmer trembled at these words. "No... no. Forgive me! One slave is enough—thank you, Your Majesty!"

  "Oh no," the King said, his voice laced with cold amusement. "I will not give you a slave."

  The old farmer looked up in horror. "But, Your Majesty... what about my daughters?"

  The King smiled gently. "Do not worry. I will ensure they receive plenty of gold."

  Relief washed over the farmer's face. "Thank you, thank you!"

  The King chuckled. "Why do you thank me? I am only giving them the money I will receive when I sell you as a slave."

  The farmer turned deathly pale. "W-what are you saying, Majesty? I do not wish to be a slave!"

  "You should have thought of that before you let your greed consume you," the King replied. Then, turning to his guards, he ordered, "Take him to the nearest slave market. Whatever price you fetch for him, add thirty gold coins and give it to his daughters. Bring them to the palace—they cannot be expected to handle such wealth on their own. They would be stabbed and robbed in an instant!"

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  The guards obeyed immediately, dragging the old man away as he cried out in despair. The King sank back onto his throne and waved for the next person to enter.

  The King was a dangerous man. He was kind enough to be loved by his people, yet ruthless enough to be feared by his enemies. He ruled with an iron fist, yet his interpersonal skills were so refined that people saw him as generous and merciful.

  He would ensure that the farmer's story spread far and wide—twisted, exaggerated beyond recognition, until it seemed as though the man had gravely insulted him.

  The people would believe the punishment was justified, especially after he took in the farmer's daughters. And should anyone dare to tell the truth, their words would be dismissed as slander.

  That day, dozens more seekers came to him, requesting aid or wisdom. When the final man left, the King's mask of benevolence faded, replaced by cold indifference. He rose from his throne and turned to his queen.

  "Come, my darling. Let us retire to our chambers."

  The Queen said nothing, merely rising and following her husband out of the throne room.

  The guards in the chamber began to relax. Some people took their seats, while others formed small groups and brought out dice to play games.

  They had the night shift; none would swap with them until morning, so they made themselves comfortable.

  There were exactly thirty-three guards in the throne room—yet not a single one noticed the creature lurking in the farthest, darkest corner.

  Draped in black, its eyes as void-like as a starless night, the figure remained utterly still.

  It was, of course, none other than General Fril. He had deliberately changed the color of his eyes—a simple trick, but effective in preventing their usual yellow glow from giving away his presence.

  Fril was no white Polykenas, capable of bending and manipulating his surroundings, but he possessed absolute control over his own body. His senses were sharpened to such an extreme that he could perceive every sound, every movement, and every scent within the room.

  His eyes flickered from guard to guard, filled with calculating intelligence.

  Fril was not the only assassin in the Polykenas army, but he was undoubtedly the strongest and most cunning of them.

  He knew precisely when to strike and when to bide his time. Unlike others of his kind, he wielded an immense self-control that set him apart. The urge for destruction lay buried deep within him, as it did in all Polykenas, yet he was second only to Xersies in his ability to restrain it. Fril was Xersies' greatest threat before the Duce found them, and Xersies knew it.

  Ramor, Shire, and Ester were all stronger than Fril, but they lacked his motivation and cunning.

  Fril did not act recklessly—he studied his targets, struck only when victory was certain, and withdrew the moment a battle turned against him. Xersies found this terrifying. A hidden dagger was far deadlier than a brandished sword. Knowledge was one of the three greatest weapons in war, alongside power and intelligence. Know your enemy and yourself, and you will never lose.

  But no one knew Fril. He had appeared out of nowhere. At first, no one even realized he existed—until dozens of Polykenas started dying mysteriously.

  When he clawed his way up the hierarchy, challenging Shire, he was finally discovered.

  Shire defeated him forty-three times, yet Fril always returned. He learned, adapted, and finally managed to wound Shire badly. Xersies saw the threat Fril posed and took measures to suppress him.

  Then Fril did something Xersies had never anticipated—he attacked him directly! Xersies had expected him to target Ramor or perhaps Ester, but Fril seemed to neither fear nor respect strength.

  Their battle raged on for over a hundred rounds. Again and again, Xersies emerged victorious, forcing Fril to retreat. Yet, with each clash, Xersies could feel Fril adapting—countering his attacks with increasing precision. He considered seeking out Ramor, only to discover that Ramor himself had been ambushed and was gravely injured.

  Their relentless struggle only came to an end when Nero arrived in their dimension and took his place as their leader. When choosing his generals, Nero handpicked Ramor, Ester, Xersies, and Shire. Initially, he had only intended to name four. However, it was Xersies himself who suggested Fril.

  No one understood the capabilities of this cunning Polykenas better than Xersies, and above all else, his duty was to advise his Duce wisely.