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Chapter 57: The Scales
Brandon sat in his chair, facing Viscount Teste. His expression wavered with uncertainty, but his mind was a mirror of clarity. It seemed the Ouroboros Society suspected him of ties to "Copper Dragon" Retto and his band—a suspicion that had reached their ears far sooner than he'd anticipated. Though how they’d identified him was a mystery, the fact remained that whispers about him were already spreading.
Brandon knew these malevolent souls sought nothing less than the overthrow of authority—nations, monarchies, governments—all were enemies in their eyes. Their interest in Retto’s group likely stemmed from the influence those wanderers held among the refugee masses gathering the south of Braggs.
A faint smile brushed Brandon's lips. If this was the game they wished to play, then he understood the stakes. The Viscount of Manowell held the weight of Brandon's life in his hands, yet Brandon possessed something far more potent: control over the hearts and minds of the people Ouroboros Society coveted.
Which carried more value? That was debatable. But thanks to his experience with the Amber Sword, Brandon wasn't some greenhorn who wore his cards on his sleeve. He knew his advantage lay in understanding the opponent's hand—and he wouldn’t squander it easily.
With a slight smile, Brandon leaned back, feigning humility. “Very well, you’ve won—or rather, your blade has. Viscount Teste of Manowell, I must admit we’ve never crossed paths before. Yet here we are, and since you insist on linking me to ‘Copper Dragon’ Retto, let us cut to the chase. You want me to join you—but surely your ambitions stretch further than mere recruitment.”
As he spoke, Brandon subtly signaled his summoned creatures, commanding them to take up defensive positions around the room. It was a small gesture, one he knew wouldn’t escape Teste’s notice—but that was precisely the point. There existed a psychic link between Planeswalkers and their summons, allowing Brandon to orchestrate the scene deliberately.
Signals could convey truth or deception—it all depended on how they were interpreted.
At Brandon’s command, two mercenaries standing behind the young noble exchanged glances. They drew their battle-axes and moved silently toward the door, flanking it without a sound. These warriors were not flesh and blood but constructs summoned from cards, embodying the essence of the legendary Rubis Mercenaries. Courage, unity, loyalty, and tactical brilliance coursed through their very being.
Teste rested a hand on the hilt of his rapier, his attention divided between Brandon and the others. When the mercenaries shifted, his eyebrows arched ever so slightly.
So these are the famed Rubis Mercenaries, he thought. No wonder they carved a path through Madara’s armies.
Brandon’s ruse worked like clockwork. Teste fell into the mental trap, growing increasingly convinced that the young man before him was connected to the mercenaries—and possibly even the shadowy figure pulling Retto’s strings.
He wasn’t wrong.
But therein lay the problem: it was merely conjecture. As Teste doubled down on his assumptions, Brandon hadn’t uttered a single word to confirm them. The entire conversation hinged on the unspoken premise that Brandon led Retto’s group.
Had Teste stepped back from his confidence, he would have realized there was no evidence to support his claim. Instead, Brandon skillfully exploited the viscount’s arrogance, turning the tables in their verbal sparring match.
Brandon watched Teste nervously, half-expecting an objection—or worse, a swift thrust of steel. But when Teste relaxed visibly, Brandon exhaled in relief. At least some rumors about the Amber Sword held true.
This viscount was as shrewd and self-assured as they came.
Teste didn’t possess Brandon’s near-supernatural ability to manipulate perceptions, but he smiled nonetheless, his glassy purple eyes gleaming with approval. To him, Brandon’s admission of identity signaled sincerity. The Ouroboros Society was willing to offer generous terms—as long as absolute loyalty followed.
“You’re not entirely mistaken,” Teste said, lowering his sword. “So tell me, what do you think our goals should be?”
Brandon inwardly wiped sweat from his palms. What a slippery bastard. Gripping the armrests of his chair, he replied smoothly, “Anyone in my position would wonder what someone hiding behind the scenes truly wants. Tens of thousands of refugees gather south of Braggs, yet the nobility dawdle. This powder keg is primed to explode.”
“Well said,” Teste praised. “And what of your own desires?”
My desires? Something along the lines of farming and leveling up my base, Brandon thought sarcastically. Not having a ready answer, he deflected cleverly: “Let me ask you instead—what are your goals?”
“What the Ouroboros Society does, I do,” Teste responded with a courteous smile. Few understood the true tenets of the organization behind its serpentine ring, but its name alone inspired dread across the seashores.
The Ouroboros Society was infamous, its atrocities etched into history. To commoners, they were devils incarnate; to nobles, members were imagined as sulfuric specters spitting venom. Their actions defied every traditional bastion of power, embodying raw chaos itself.
Brandon knew this well but pretended only partial comprehension. Chuckling lightly, he said, “In that case, we’re not natural allies. But on this matter, perhaps we can find common ground.”
His words rang hollow, though Teste couldn’t discern it. Turning to the mercenaries, whose stoic expressions betrayed nothing, Teste trusted his sharp eye for detail. If these followers showed no dissent, then perhaps Brandon spoke at least partial truths.
Of course, had Teste known they were mere summons, he might have sought solace in a block of tofu—if such a thing existed in this world.
Still, he pressed, “Explain yourself.”
Brandon recalled a piece of wisdom from his guild leader: The best way to deceive is to make others hear what they wish to believe. While not profound, it resonated given the source—a stunning woman whose insights Brandon respected.
He gathered his thoughts. “Simply put, you oppose this nation, and so do I. But while you are idealists, I am an opportunist. That’s the difference.”
“Idealists…” Teste mused, warming slightly to the term. “Then we truly aren’t alike. Yet I understand your meaning. You seek not to join us but to sway us. However, the Ouroboros Society requires no allies.” His thumb grazed the pommel of his sword. “You speak boldly. Do you not fear death?”
“Your killing me removes but one potential spy from a crumbling state—an insignificant loss. Alive, however, I represent opportunity. Perhaps you’ll gain aid from me, though rest assured, it won’t come free.”
“But know this,” Teste interjected smoothly, “the Ouroboros Society doesn’t rebuild kingdoms atop ruins.”
“Allow me to introduce myself properly,” Brandon countered. “That is precisely my aim. When old systems collapse, new ones rise from their ashes. Such is the cycle of order.”
Lying through his teeth with unwavering composure, Brandon proved himself uniquely gifted.
“How bold,” Teste murmured, clapping slowly. “Eruin teems with factions vying for power, and local lords scheme for autonomy. Yet none expected a mere youth to speak so brazenly. Tell me, what will replace the Colcova family’s centuries-long reign?”
Brandon’s confident smile masked his unease. Teste, blinded by preconceived notions, saw only bravado where there was bluff.
“Gamblers rarely bet with certainty. When rewards are great enough, courage becomes the deciding factor. Risk means little to desperate men.” Brandon quoted a merchant’s proverb, maintaining his façade.
Had Roma been present, she might have agreed instinctively, driven by curiosity rather than reason.
“So we’re wasting our time?” Teste leaned back, arms crossed. By “we,” he meant the Ouroboros Society. Their creed was chaos reborn, yet Brandon challenged him with the cyclical nature of destruction and renewal.
“Would I pursue something without gain?” Brandon retorted.
“When nations fall into civil strife, civilizations decline. Isn’t that your goal?” Brandon struck at the heart of the Ouroboros Society’s philosophy.
Teste’s shifting expression revealed a flicker of recognition. “You seem to know us well.”
“I study both friends and foes,” Brandon replied cryptically.
Sweat beaded on his brow. Success or failure hung in the balance.
For the first time, Viscount Teste of Manowell hesitated, his earlier superiority dissolving. This young man was proving far more complex than anticipated.
He distrusted Brandon’s words but found himself intrigued by his conviction. Hand on his sword, Teste weighed the consequences of letting a potential threat roam free.
Yet what harm could this youth pose?
“One last question,” Teste said suddenly. “Have you been to Usson Castle?”
Brandon’s face paled. His greatest fear was discovery—that the senior member of the Ouroboros Society slain at Usson bore his mark. Though his strength ranked middling within Iron rank, making suspicion unlikely, fate was unpredictable. In his haste, he’d overlooked the serpent ring left behind, leaving traces of his presence.
Before he could finish thinking, Teste’s blade flashed forward, aimed straight at him.
He knows! Panic surged within Brandon. Instinctively activating his charge ability, he suppressed the urge to retaliate. With tenfold speed enhancement, he analyzed the trajectory—few could read a sword’s arc as he did. One glance confirmed Teste’s intent: a test.
True enough, the rapier pierced the chair’s backrest beside him.
Despite himself, Brandon broke into a cold sweat.
“Mid-tier iron-rank,” Teste muttered under his breath, frowning. “Not strong enough to defeat that fool, yet strangely coincidental…”
Only Brandon and Teste grasped the subtext. Brandon remained silent, inwardly cursing Teste’s paranoia.
Retrieving his blade, Teste studied the young man intently. “In the coming days, how much trouble can you cause the nobles of Braggs?”
The question lingered in the air.
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