Gaspard ran a finger along the dining table. It came up free of dust.

“I know you’re here,” Gaspard cried out. Such a shout risked attracting monsters, but here at the end, Gaspard found he did not care. He stood in the philosopher’s home – the lair of the seventh and last great liar – and all evidence indicated he still lived. Still retained his faculties. Gaspard had to face him -to see what such a liar looked like with his own eyes, to hear him defend his heresy in his own words.

A short time after Gaspard’s shout, the object of his hunt appeared. The philosopher himself tottered into view, his belly still rounded by gluttony, still wearing a fine silk robe and still adorned in jewelry, with his glittering hands raised. He regarded Gaspard with an equal mix of fear and concern.

“If it is food or wealth you seek, by all means, take what you can carry,” the philosopher said. “I have enough to spare. There is no need for violence.”

Gaspard pointed his drawn sword at the philosophers heart. The once-wealthy man took a step back.

“I’m here for you,” Gaspard said. “Only you.”

To his credit, the philosopher did not flee. He was not a coward in addition to his many other flaws. Gaspard would have chased him wherever he ran regardless. He desired a reckoning, and he would have it.

“Ah. May I ask you what I have done to offend?”

“Don’t play ignorant. I know what you did,” Gaspard said. “You and your conspirators. You knew the Moon was rising.”

For a moment the philosopher seemed baffled. He composed himself, knowing better than to show vulnerability to a man with a sword. He lowered his raised hands and folded them behind his back.

“And what would you have had me do?” He said. The philosopher never bothered denying Gaspard’s accusation. The righteous rage in Gaspard’s eyes made it clear he was certain of the philosopher’s involvement. Now all he could do was argue that it was a matter of responsibility, rather than guilt.

“What would I have- I would have had you be honest,” Gaspard protested. “Tell the truth to innocent people, let them live their last days in peace instead of panic!”

“I believe you place too much value on honesty,” the philosopher said. “And place far too much faith in humanity.”

Careful not to make any sudden movements, the philosopher took hold of a chair and sat down. He gestured that Gaspard should sit as well, though his armed guest refused.

“May I ask that you at the very least discard your weapon?” The philosopher requested. “I have found that having a weapon already in hand makes men more prone to aggression.”

After a long moment of consideration, Gaspard put the blade aside, resting it on a nearby table and stepping away from the blade. The philosopher was no unhinged beast -just an old fool in a robe too loose to be hiding any weapons.

“You speak of conspirators. Then the others-”

“Dead. To the last man.”

“By your hand, or by the Moon?”

“By the Moon. Save for the first, the one who revealed your indiscretion. I cannot claim sole credit for his death, but I played a part.”

“Ah. And I doubt this mob gave him much time to explain his choices before they tore him apart?”

“Do you believe there is any explanation that justifies your cruelty?”

“If I did not, I would not have undertaken it,” the philosopher said. “You speak of living in peace, sir, but who defines that peace? Faced with the inevitability of death, would the farmer continue to collect his crop? Would the doctor continue to treat the sick?”

The philosopher paused, as if anticipating a response, and received none. He took Gaspard’s silence as a moment of consideration and pressed on.

“Our ‘lie’, as you call it, kept society functioning in months where it would have otherwise fallen into anarchy and disarray,” the philosopher said. “Whatever suffering you believe our actions caused, consider how many more would suffer from starvation or violence? We kept the mechanism that is society functioning.”

“Yes, how very noble of you to ensure that the systems that made you rich and powerful continued to function,” Gaspard said.

“You view this situation from the outside, hunter, and I cannot begrudge you your anger. But understand my perspective. This position of wealth and power that you so resent has afforded me ample opportunity to see the best and worst of humanity. Society requires guiding hands to avoid inevitable collapse. Man is not a noble creature.”

Gaspard stayed motionless and silent. The philosopher once again incorrectly interpreted this as a sign of a willingness to hear more.

“He is not inclined to share what he has won without incentive-”

Gaspard recalled the farmer, who had offered him food and safety, asking nothing in return but company.

“-Nor is he to act nobly unless threat of persecution for ignoble deeds is present.”

Gaspard recalled the widow, who had confessed her sins without need, prompted only by her own guilt.

“Man undertakes labor solely in consideration of his own profit-”

Gaspard recalled the doctor, undergoing dangerous research in the vain hope of a cure they would never benefit from.

“-and rarely takes risk on behalf of another unless they believe they stand to gain.”

Gaspard recalled the red-haired woman, who had dragged his bloodied body to safety through monster-infested streets, not even leaving her name, much less the expectation of thanks.

“I have seen this all and know it to be true. The choices I made were not noble, I admit, but they were necessary. I assure you, hunter, that in my position-”

Gaspard’s fist clenched so tight his knuckles cracked.

“Any man would have done the same.”

The first blow to the philosopher’s face threw him from his chair. His seat toppled backwards, as did the man who sat in it, his nose trailing a streak of blood through the air as he plummeted.

Gaspard fell upon him with a predatory pounce, his fists taking the place of fangs as he mauled the philosopher with savage fury. Muffled cries for mercy became choked, bloody gurgles as blow after blow rained down on the philosopher’s head. With every impact, Gaspard considered his sword, resting mere feet away. It would have been swifter. It would have been cleaner. But Gaspard did not want this to be swift or clean. He wanted to feel every impact, and let the satisfying pressure of every blow rumble through his aching arms. That pressure he felt faded after the first dull, bony crack rang out from beneath Gaspard’s fists.

The pleading cries had become dull grunts of pain, and now they became silence. Gaspard did not stop. He did not hesitate for a moment. Not until he felt the first shards of bone and broken teeth began to stab into his knuckles, the fragmented splinters of a skull taking one last stab at Gaspard as their jagged edges threatened to pierce his gloves.

Taking a deep breath for what felt like the first time in days, Gaspard stood and stepped away from his bloody work. Anything recognizable as a face had been crushed into nothingness, lost in a sea of gore that grew even larger as Gaspard stood and stared.

As an afterthought, Gaspard looked down to his gloves. They were stained a deep, muddy red, and a single sliver of skull was embedded in one of the knuckles. With a slow, steady motion, Gaspard pulled the crimson gloves off. Underneath, his hands were clean.