Rory stood at the center of town, impatiently tapping his foot against the ground. He looked around; the town was bustling, men carrying various goods to be sold, wives buying food stock for dinner, children playing. It was the perfect time, if only they came. He glanced down at Chronos—they should be here by now.

He sighed and reached down into one of his pockets, feeling a rough piece of parchment. He looked up at the sky. This changed everything. He'd been honest; a good boy. He didn't have the time right now, though. So he'd have some drastic measures. Even if it ruined a few people's lives. It was no justice, and he knew it. He'd wrangled with the idea for hours, now. If human lives can be put upon a scale and weighed, then surely this was for the best. If not... well, if there was a hell, he was going to it.

Finally, they came—the infamous group of Aklan immigrants. They swaggered their way down the cobblestone roads that lead into the marketplace at the center. At every step, people recoiled from them, forming a sort of fearful bubble. It reminded Rory of a magnet repelling charged particles. They wore shabby clothes and had dirty, greasy hair; very stereotypic. They did bad things. Rory reached down to touch the letter again. If he didn't have the resolve to do this, then how could he even think of winning a war?

Rory took a deep breath, and walked forward towards them. He felt someone try to pull him away, away from the danger, but he shrugged him off and continued on.

"Get outta our way, kid," one of them sneered.

Rory ignored him and began his proclamation. "Subjects of the Vyncis! Hear, hear! Hear me!"

Murmurs erupted throughout the growing crowd; who was this kid, and who did he think he is?

"Who am I, you wonder?" He took his cap off and wore his cloak; his best one, a regal purple with gold lining. "I am Rory Vyncis! No doubt you recognize me now! I am here to announce a change and lay down justice." He took a deep breath. "I am reinstating the draft! We are officially at war with Aklan!"

Murmurs transitioned into shouts; some of joy, some of anger, some of confusion.

"And! And!" Rory continued. He pointed at the Aklan settlers. "I have important information regarding them!" He turned to the crowd and took the parchment out of his pocket, holding it up for all to see. "They are spies! Spies from Aklan! Have you never wondered why they act so brutishly? Why they beat, they rob, they vandalize? This is why! They are agents, agents from Aklan!" He flaunted the letter. "See! I found this at their home; instructions from an Aklan spymaster. See the signature! They are traitors! Undeserving of your hospitality!" He turned back towards the settlers. "And the punishment for treason is death."

One of the Aklan rolled his eyes. "Oh? You'll send your little troops after us? Noble scum."

Rory's eyes hardened. "No. I shall kill you, personally."

The crowd silenced at once; this sheltered, city kid is going to do what?

Rory began to pull out weapon. Was it sword, crafted from the finest gold? A saber, from Eastern steel? A crossbow, made by the best engineers? No, it was a pitchfork; the humble, rusted tool that all farmers knew well. Rory had pilfered it from the old lady's farm, though he planned to return it.

"Run if you wish, Aklan spies."

They laughed. "If you seek death, you shall find death. Come, noble brat. Our fists have been inactive for too long."

The biggest came walking towards Rory, who steeled himself. His brushed his fingers over Chronos' main button. He watched the big man walk, closer and closer. He watched his fist pull back and then swing towards him. And he pressed the button.

The crowd felt a shiver go through them. The next thing they saw was the Aklan man, on the ground, and Rory, on top of him, holding a pitchfork that impaled his neck.

Rory felt the blood, the warm blood, pour over him. He felt it cover his hands, cover his face, cover his cloak. He didn't try to clean it off. The blood had stained him, and it would never go away. Suddenly, he flew, stabbing another Aklan immigrant, and then another, using the element of surprise to make up for his lack of time-stopping ability. They were all dead, now.

Rory turned to stare back at the crowd. "I will not make you shed any blood that I am not willing to! I will not make you kill any who I am not willing to! Aklan has betrayed our good interests, and the taint in our honor can only be filled with their blood. Come, who here shall fight for your home, your wives, your children? Know that you will not fight alone! I shall be there, right next to you, fighting in the dirt and blood!"

The crowd was silent at first. Then, Rory could hear a quiet chanting. Soon, it grew louder, and louder. Now, there was no man, no woman, no child whose lips did not follow.

"Vyncis! Vyncis!"

Rory looked around, and smiled. It was a bittersweet smile. He looked down once more at the parchment. He read the contents. And finally, he read the forged signature. He held his hands up and watched the blood drip down. He turned towards the bodies. If a hell exists, then I am going to it.

Rory was walking back the manor. He had taken a bath after the execution and then returned to the farmhouse, but the Roniceri were already gone. He sighed and looked at his hands; the multitudinous seas incarnadine. They were clean, now. Clean and yet dirty.

He opened the door and began to walk in, light spilling out into the darkness. He looked down, slipping his shoes off, when suddenly, he toppled over, feeling a sharp pain from his left cheek. He groaned and looked up at the perpetrator, though he already had an idea, which is why he had not activated Chronos; someone who actually wanted to murder him would choose a more effective attack. A masked face looked down at him.

"Friendly welcome," he murmured.

"What the hell were you doing?"

"Just went for a walk."

"A walk that took more than an hour?"

"Ah, sorry. It was secret administrative business."

"Stop lying, asshole."

"Such foul language—"

He got another slap. "I know where you were. The whole town knows."

Rory sighed. "I needed a spark."

"Why didn't you have us do it!?"

"You're children. I can't order children to murder someone."

"I am no more a child than you are!"

Rory shook his head. "Still. There is a great deal of difference in ordering yourself to do something and ordering someone else."

"We all know how to kill," she said, lifting Rory by his cloak.

"Still—"

"Still, my ass. Damn it, stop trying to be nice."

"I'm not being nice."

"You've always tried that. Sacrifice yourself, even if you do more harm than good. What if you died? What then? Who the hell is going to lead them, then? Did you ever think about that? Even at the orphanage, you always helped out, and at the end... at the end..."

Rory shook himself free. He stared at her. "That's where you're wrong. Everything, everything always had a separate purpose. I'm a terrible person. A terrible person. A terrible damn person. I helped out at the orphanage to gain allies. I executed—no, murdered—those Aklans because I needed support. They weren't going to follow some brat from the city. I needed a way to show that I'm more. I needed a scapegoat to focus their hatred. And it was perfect." He reached down into his pockets and drew out the letter. "Do you know what this is? Do you!? It's a fucking lie! They couldn't even read! I forged it! I lied, I lied and murdered people for my own goals. I'm not some goddamn saint."

"What about that time with the jail!? Your leg!?"

He turned around briskly and began to walk off. "Even a broken clock strikes twice a day. I'm just another nobleman, now. Another lying, oppressive, aristocratic asshole. And that's how it's going to be. If I have not the resolve to be evil, then I do not deserve to rule.”

--

I should have more time now. I did submit something to the competition; if you wish to read, you can find it here.