How many times had he perished by flames at this point? Four times, five? Each time worse than the last.
When he found himself facing the Crimson Throne again, Simon could only muster a gaping sense of anguish. He had lost the happiest life he had ever had.
He had lost Anna.
Would she be the same person now that he had turned back time? Would one different word of his, one small choice, put her on a wholly different path? And what had happened to the Anna he had loved? Would her timeline carry on beyond his death, with his fiancée mourning his loss or perishing in the flames of Louis’ madness? Or had she been erased alongside all of that reign’s history?
Did anything he do until the final reign even matter?
This is the eighth of your hundred reigns.
You have earned the title of Simon the Lovestruck.
The Lovestruck: You have found love and lost it; and it won’t be the last time. You can transfer any Ailment you suffer from to anyone you are legally married or engaged to, so they share the pain too.
Of course that cursed throne would find a way to twist the knife in his heart.
Simon was also bothered by what the Green Mother said before his death. Elves and their kind had constantly supported anti-Overlord groups over the centuries and the feud remained strong. Did they truly have a hand in Balzam’s final death? Or something to do with Firewand’s disappearance in the last reign?
These questions haunted him even as he woke up to the sight of his sister shaking him awake.
“Put on your pants and come with me,” Lauriane ordered, dressed for a battle she had long been preparing for. “We don’t have much time.”
Simon stared at her, many conflicting feelings swelling in his heart. “Someone gutted father like a fish, alongside his concubine.”
Lauriane’s eyes widened. “Did you see it?”
“That and… other things.” Simon cleared his throat. “Would you burn the Berwick Islands, Lauriane?”
“What?” Lauriane blinked in surprise, before frowning. “Is that a dream you had?”
“I had… yes,” Simon said. He had learned he could mention previous reigns if he worded them as dreams or prophecies rather than the truth. “I dreamt of airships bearing the War Party’s emblem burning the Berwick Islands. It felt as vivid as my dreams about Father’s death.”
Lauriane briefly pondered his words. Simon knew from other reigns that she actually believed he had a prophetic ability of some sort, so she did give it serious consideration.
“Anna is like family to me, and the Berwick Islands are where my own mother is buried–” If only she knew. ”I don’t think I would have it in me to lead such an attack, unless…”
Everything before a ‘but’ or an ‘unless’ does not count, Simon thought grimly.
“Unless House Paimon acted against our family.” Lauriane’s face seemed carved from a statue. “Blood is blood, Simon. If I had to choose between saving you, or even Thalas or Norbelle, and invading the Berwick Islands… I would not hesitate. Not for a single second.” Lauriane sighed upon seeing Simon’s expression. “I’m sorry. I can tell that’s not the answer you would have liked to hear, but that is how I feel.”
“No, no… I understand.” Simon shook his head. “It was just a dream.”
Lauriane marked a short pause before answering, “I hope it was.”
She must have thought Lord Paimon held me against my will, or Louis hid things from her, Simon told himself. Still, the fact that she could conceive a raid like the one he had witnessed against their own subjects left him uneasy. That was a side of Lauriane he had never seen before, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
Simon promised Lauriane he would join her after getting dressed, then sat on his bed in an attempt to clear his thoughts. He had given himself away by asking for too much in the last reign’s testament and then making Casval his catspaw, which had resulted in Dassein somehow tracking down Vouivre and learning the truth. Would he get away with it if he only asked for legitimization and Anna’s hand while sending the court factions on a wild cockatrice chase? He could do the reign all over again, refine it until he could sit out the inevitable civil war with Anna at his side, watching from the sidelines in peace…
No.
Foreknowledge was useless without the power to protect those he loved.
“I have had enough of dying,” Simon muttered to himself. “Enough is enough.”
He needed more experience and levels, especially if Anna’s theory about the Overlord Class only growing in power if he acted cruelly towards others was correct. Louis’ airship fleet proved that the factions at court had been preparing for war for a while now, and that a conflict was inevitable; a battle he had no hope of surviving without obtaining greater strength.
He needed an Adventurer-type Crestone, and he had a good idea of who could help him in finding one.
This time, Balzam Magnos’ testament neither legitimized nor ennobled Simon. It only mentioned letting him pick a handful of slaves as inheritance, then named Laurent Linconnu as the Overlord’s heir. This would ensure that Simon remained beneath everyone’s notice.
Once everyone was too busy with finding a nonexistent Overlord candidate, Simon discreetly petitioned for an audience with Lady Shabram as part of the investigation of his father’s death, which she granted.
Simon had never visited her office in any previous reigns, and he had to admit it looked a lot less impressive than he would have expected. Certainly, it was a rather spacious room with a manticore fur carpet covering the stone floor, a large work desk with its comfortable leather chest, and a sofa, but the only noteworthy pieces of furniture were the vast bookshelves taking up most of the walls and a black piano tucked into a corner. The office lacked any windows and only had one entrance, likely to prevent easy access to the collected information within.
“Greetings, Lord Simon,” Lady Shabram courteously greeted him once he arrived, the door audibly locking on its own once he walked in. He guessed her office was likely the most secure room in the entire castle. “I’m told you had information that could help us elucidate His Majesty’s death?”
Simon skipped the pleasantries. “You know, don’t you?”
She feigned ignorance. “Would we be having this conversation if I knew who had slain your father?”
“No need to play coy. You must have known the moment divination spells failed to affect me, which was likely the very first thing you did when you saw Father’s corpse in his bed. Am I wrong?”
Simon had purposefully avoided falsifying his stats with Anathemic Secrecy II to check his theory, so anyone trying to use divination on him would come up with a blank. The fact Shabram held his gaze, her demure expression turning into a calculating gaze, confirmed his suspicions.
She knew.
She knew, and she had known in all the previous reigns too, yet she never said anything about it.
“So you did forge the testament,” Lady Shabram said, her expression giving nothing away. “Did you kill him? Your father?”
“No,” Simon replied.
“Yet the Crimson Throne still chose you.” Shabram sat behind her desk, legs crossed. “Do you know who killed your father then?”
“No, and I hoped you could enlighten me on that front.”
Lady Shabram quickly dashed that hope. “I have my suspicions, but nothing conclusive. His Majesty had so many enemies in this castle that I wonder if they all somehow worked together to coordinate his assassination. Given his power, multiple parties must have worked in concert in order to bring him down.”
“I…” Simon cleared his throat. “I think an elf or dryad might have been involved.”
“Is that so?” Lady Shabram nodded. “I’ve also had the suspicion that Illusea managed to plant a spy in our inner circle somehow. They always knew too much in spite of our countermeasures to block the Oracle.”
Simon squinted in disbelief. “You’re not even asking how I would know that?”
“Why would I?” she asked playfully. “I was explicitly ordered by your father to take anything you would say to me at face value and act accordingly, should you show up with the Overlord Class. It is proof you are the strongest.”
“The… strongest?”
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“His strongest child. The most ruthless and capable. The one worthy to sit on the Crimson Throne and to carry the Overlord's grand quest for world domination.” Lady Shabram scoffed. “Do you think all these disputes at court happened by accident? Your father could have easily resolved them, yet he intentionally let those grudges fester. Why?”
“Divide and conquer?” Simon guessed. That would fit Balzam Magnos’ style. “Factions wasting time fighting each other couldn’t unseat him.”
“That is only half correct; the other was natural selection. He wanted to see which of his children, trueborn or otherwise, would make the cut.” Lady Shambram moved towards a seemingly random bookshelf and began to search through it. “Do you know how Imperial Intelligence works?”
Simon scowled. “Broadly.”
“All information is centralized in my office, often called the Household, which is assisted by a multitude of small organizations like the Topography Office, the Imperial Security Bureau, the Bureau of Statistics, the Naval Intelligence Agency, and a web of agencies so vast you’ve likely never heard of half of them. Among those intelligence services is one we call the Imperial Guard, tasked with the twin purpose of both protecting the royal family and keeping an eye on them.”
The spymistress’ lips stretched into a smile, her hand reaching out for a certain file.
“The division tasked with your surveillance, Simon, is almost as large as all the others combined,” she said. “The office’s very first task, long before I became the Spymaster, was to track you and your mother down. Your father had you under surveillance since almost the day you were born.”
Simon remained quiet as she opened the file and began to read aloud from it.
“On the 8th of Frimaire 386, the child caught a cold. His mother kept him at home all day, serving him potato soup to help him recover.” Lady Shabram flipped to another page. “21st of Germinal 387, the child got into a fight with a girl called Alice at eleven in the morning, throwing mud at her face. His mother scolded him at thirteen in the afternoon and forced him to help the baker down the street carry flour as punishment.”
A shiver ran down Simon’s spine. He recalled that fight, and the aching in his legs after a day of transporting bags too heavy for a young child to carry.
“We had orders to track your family’s movements until you were seven years old, at which point a certain Lorean merchant would make contact with your mother,” Lady Shabram said after closing the book. “We were to seize you at this date and then keep you under strict surveillance during your stay at Castle Frightwall, ensuring you never obtained any Crestone nor made contact with important non-Magnos dignitaries. It was a very confusing order. We had to keep you under constant surveillance and never let you do anything of importance, in spite of the fact you were obviously no threat in the first place.”
Simon’s blood froze in his veins as a terrible possibility crossed his mind. “I was brought here soon before my mother passed away… was that the truth?”
Lady Shabram stared at him uneasily before offering him the file. “The answer is written in this… but you won’t like what you find. In some cases, ignorance is bliss.”
No, it was not. That file felt so terribly heavy in Simon’s hand. It was almost as thick as a grimoire; the records of an entire life written down day by day. It made sense that Balzam Magnos would keep his son under watch after he had slain him so often in previous reigns, though it didn’t explain why he kept Simon alive. What happened to Eleanor proved that the late Overlord had no issues with kinslaying.
Why did Balzam Magnos keep Simon alive if he was such a constant threat to his life? And what did he do to his mother?
“What will Your Majesty do now?” Lady Shabram asked. “Surely not stay and rule, or else you would have announced the truth earlier.”
“I need to go west, to search for an Adventurer-type Vassal Class Crestone or an exp-boosting one.” Simon readied himself to put on the Overlord Class outfit at any sign of danger. “Will you stop me?”
“No.” Lady Shabram smiled demurely. “I can even assist you, if you want to disappear.”
“Why?” Simon couldn’t grasp her reasoning. She had known his identity in multiple past reigns, yet did absolutely nothing with that information. She neither approached him nor revealed the truth to any faction at court. “Is my father commanding you from beyond the grave? Why follow his orders now that he has perished?”
“Would you expect a spymaster to answer such a personal question?” she replied coyly. “My reasons are my own, but you need not concern yourself with them. It is unwise to become an Overlord’s enemy, and I shall not be among that number.”
She knew far more than she let on. Simon would bet his hand on it. Had his father briefed her on some secret plan before his demise?
“I hope you understand that your absence will lead to a civil war,” Lady Shabram warned Simon. “I will do what I can to delay it, but only an Overlord can maintain this empire of fear in one piece. Many will suffer without you.”
Simon scowled in frustration. She was right, but it couldn’t be helped. “I am too weak to change anything right now.”
“Hence why you seek an experience boosting ability, I presume?” Lady Shabram stroked her hair, her eyes assessing the man in front of her. “Have you ever boarded a mana-powered train, Your Majesty?”
“No, I have not.”
“One will depart in three days for Magvolia in the west. You will board it with two slaves of your choice—the retainers your father chose will almost certainly try to contact their families at some point and ruin everything, so it will have to be just slaves—then follow an itinerary I’ll provide you to a port and a ship meant for the western continent. I will arrange everything, including proper documentation and false identities.”
Simon didn’t like the sound of that. “The testament allows me pick five slaves–”
“You will take two,” Lady Shabram cut in sharply. “Too large a group brings too much attention, especially if you intend to take someone like Firewand with you.”
“How did you–” Simon clenched his teeth. He had indeed planned to take Agnes with him this time, both to interrogate her on the elves and test the limits of her sabotaged slave crest. “What do you know about her?”
“Mostly that your father called her his ‘experience turkey.’” Lady Shabram raised an eyebrow in amusement. “I assume you intend to kill her for level-ups once away from prying eyes.”
Simon’s eyes widened in horror as he put two and two together. One could not level up as an Overlord for the same thing twice in a row, but that limitation didn’t extend to lesser Classes. Balzam Magnos would have no doubt designed a way to quickly level-up in others in order to fuel his own Devour Crestone Perk.
Was that why past Overlords had kept such a powerful slave close to them? So they could repeatedly kill her for experience points?
“Apparently not,” Lady Shabram noted upon reading the horror on his face. “A surprising choice, but it is yours. Who else will you take with you?”
Simon pondered his answer. As Shabram said, picking his retainers would no doubt lead to increased scrutiny and cause their families to ask questions. Lorimor wouldn’t be too useful without access to Duchar’s Archive, and this reign would send them to the other side of the world.
There was only one person whose life he wanted to save from execution.
“I will take Firewand and Eole,” Simon decided.
“The kish girl?” It surprised Simon to learn that Shabram apparently knew of her. “She will stand out like a sore thumb, but that can be arranged. My men will come pick you up in three days’ time at night, and you will not tell a word of it to anyone until you return to us.”
Simon scoffed. “What makes you think I will?”
“You are the Overlord. For you, all roads lead back to the Crimson Throne.” Lady Shabram’s smile had such a sharp edge to it. “You will return to rule, and when that day comes, you shall find me at your side.”
That night, Simon retired to his room with books on magical rings he had pilfered from the library—he would end this reign with a Fire Immunity accessory one way or another—and his life story compiled by the intelligence service.
Everything was there, from the third year of his life—likely the moment when the newly built intelligence agency managed to send agents west—to the night before Balzam Magnos’ death. Spies had meticulously noted everything he had ever done, from the maids he kissed to the food he took to the books he read, even the hours at which he took a piss. Whoever read this document would likely know Simon almost as much as he knew himself. To Simon, who had had no contact with his mother in many years, this trove of information might very well be his last connection to his life before Castle Frightwall.
The only day not recorded was the one when the emperor’s agents took him away from his mother. That particular day’s notes had been replaced with a single letter written in a code unknown to him, but his Overlord Class would let him translate it anyway. Simon recognized his father’s handwriting from the Archives’ journals.
Part of him was afraid to read it, because he knew it would hurt; all other mentions of his mother past this letter had been removed to ensure he would have no other choice but to check it. This document contained the truth, and Simon had seen enough of Balzam’s cruelty to fear the worst.
Nonetheless, the faint hope that his mother might have been well, that her death could have been faked or altered, and the urge to find closure proved too strong. Simon mustered his courage and read the letter.
Simon,
If you are reading these pages, then you have slain me somehow, as I expected you to. I have no idea how you managed to do it, having done my best to defang you for years, but that was part of why you were the most worthy and resourceful of my children. You always found a way I couldn’t see coming. You kept my wits sharp.
I have very conflicted feelings about your inheritance, but I suppose this is for the best. Enjoy your power, for you have earned it; our legacy is safe in your capable hands, and in time, all will come to fear your terrible name.
However, the fact that you are here means that in spite of your victory, you must still be animated by pointless sentimentality about your mother—that very same weakness that required her elimination. Or perhaps you are looking for closure. I cannot give you the exact details without triggering the curse that we share, but I will do my best to grant you this small mercy.
Your mother, Destra, was a whore, and not a good one.
I understand this may not sound glamorous, but this is the plain truth. She was a baseborn washerwoman and camp follower who had caught my eye during my campaign against Gargauth, and who traded her favors for a silver coin. That was the price of your conception, and I remember feeling fleeced anyway. There have been dozens like her, so she faded out of my mind almost as soon as she left my tent. I never bothered to learn her name back then, which greatly complicated matters later.
It took me a very, very long time to realize you were my son, and even longer to figure out where you came from. I inherited a wartorn empire, so I wasted years tracking you down while you were still young. You cannot fathom the amount of resources I spent looking for you.
Your mother used her ill-gotten funds to emigrate west near Magvolia long before I conquered it. She found work in an alehouse, doing her best to raise you on her own. One of her clients was a man from Lore who would have taken the both of you to his homeland on the very day I brought you home. He would have married your mother, and the two of them would have raised you with love and kindness, filling your head with tales of chivalry, justice, and other foolishness.
In short, they would have made you weak.
Can you fathom the disgust I felt when I saw you, my very own flesh and blood, carry the banner of the White Unicorn against the proud manticore which has been our emblem for generations? The humiliation this represented for our glorious house?
That was why I had them executed. Your mother and adoptive father both. They were thieves who had conspired to take my child—my property—away from me and paid the price for it.
Oh yes, Simon, your mother did not pass away peacefully as we told you. I was there, and I gave the order. I still have her skull stashed somewhere in Castle Frightwall, if you know where to look.
It is a father’s duty to remove bad influences so that their child can grow into the best version of themselves. You will understand once you become a parent yourself.
It was an act of love.
She suffered. I want you to know that. Your mother suffered, and when she asked me why she had to perish, I said that I had to do it for you. She died thinking you were responsible for her demise.
Does it hurt?
I know it does.
Carry this pain with you into eternity, my favorite son. This is your punishment for the crime of parricide.
With love,
Your father.
Simon stared at the letter with hands trembling with hatred, then tore it to pieces.
PS: for everyone wondering, I put parricide because Balzam is basically blaming Simon for both his death and that of his mother, twisting the knife.
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