Chapter 3: Survival Game

Kars is a marvel. Regardless of how deep his hatred ran, Kilian was forced to acknowledge that every day in Kars was a day in heaven. Built on top of Lake Scharbuhel, the city’s 1349 square kilometers of land accommodated 3.2 million citizens, about 2% of Orloth’s population. Tourists and citizens alike could find limpid ponds in every street and tall fountains surrounded by lively parks.

 

Known as the City of Crystals, Kars’ domed houses and sky-piercing towers were all built in the same icy-blue, crystalline material: orstalph. And though it sat in the city’s center, a large stream isolated the Palace of Crystals, seat of the Duke of Kars, from the rest of the city. Visitors came and left through flying frigates prepared on either side of the stream, and palm-sized sports cars raced across coiling bridges. Indeed, Kars’ cars could shrink to fit one hand, self-drive, and anticipate all collisions.

 

But none of this could compare to the three platinum orbs that hovered in the city’s sky to manage its climate.

 

The three orbs browsed the minds of the 3.2 million citizens and maintained the climate preferred by the majority. If the many wanted summer, then summer reigned. If they wished for winter, winter followed, and if driven by madness they asked for a combination between both, then they still had it. Usually, Kars lay in an eternal spring. And as he sat on his room’s balcony—watching drone squadrons patrol the sky to release nanomachines and eliminate all viruses or problematic bacteria—Kilian silently cursed Klaus’ abilities.

 

There was only one city throughout the Arcadian continent where a commoner could freely argue a case against an aristocrat: Kars. After spending 16 months within its walls, Kilian fell in love with this land. Aristocrats threaded carefully, slavery neared abolition and what few slaves remained enjoyed better lives than commoners in other grand cities. The poverty rate was below 1%, and the words “Treat Evil With Justice” shone above the execution platform where Klaus beheaded his tyrannical father.

 

And to those millions of commoners, Klaus was the greatest hero of all times, the harsh but fair god that saved them all from ruin. Often they attempted to erect statues in his name, but were always rejected. Across the rest of the duchy, the situation was mostly the same.

 

The sun’s rays shafted through the sky, and an alarm chimed at Kilian’s bedside.

 

“We will hold today’s lesson in the garden,” Klaus’ voice echoed and, without delay, Kilian left his room. He didn’t have to touch the door handle. From light to door, everything in that room followed Kilian’s brainwaves.

 

“Greetings, Junior Duke,” dozens of maids lined up in the hall and bowed at Kilian’s passage. Although Klaus equipped the castle with a self-cleaning mechanism, they still needed hands for some mundane task. It also left jobs for those with no other options. And while Kilian could simply use a teleportation circle, Klaus forbade it. “Crossing the palace on foot is good for self-discipline,” he often said. And while Kilian never shied from hard labor, having to cross two hours’ worth of stairs every morning wasn’t discipline, it was bullshit.

 

Stepping into the garden, Kilian caught Klaus pruning a bonsai tree as he did every Thursday. But contrary to the usual scenery, a man kneeled beside him, handcuffed and sweating like pig iron.

 

“Welcome, Kilian,” Klaus said and snapped his fingers. The man’s cuffs crumbled, and like a blood-frenzied war fiend, he lunged at Kilian. Unprepared for the twist, Kilian recoiled. The assailant threw wild swings at his face, but all failed to connect. Yet, he didn’t stop, and as if hungering for Kilian’s life, pressed onward.

 

Never in his existence did Kilian face such an opponent, and while his foe pressed on him, he trembled, not out of fear, but with pure rage. Pivoting on the right, Kilian let the swing go wide, and kicked into the right side of his opponent’s knee. The bone cracked, and thrown off-balance, he tumbled on his side.

 

“Aargh!” The assailant groaned, but with billowing rage Kilian seized his healthy leg, and snapped it without a second thought. Clutching at his broken legs, the defeated howled in pain. But while the broken bones wracked him from the inside, Kilian mounted him, and punched all teeth out of his mouth.

 

Battered and bloodied, he could only lay there, pummeled by Kilian’s rage until his last breath left him. And still, Kilian didn’t stop. They had neither grievance nor enmity, so why did he attack him? Why? Why? Why?

 

It wasn’t fair! He couldn’t accept it, so he punched till that man’s face became a wretched sack of gore, punched till all trace of who he used to be vanished, punched, punched and punched!

 

Meanwhile, Klaus stood on the side, tending to the bonsai tree. And when Kilian’s rage could no longer power him, his ducal father turned to face the result.

 

“I give you a D. You used way too much strength to kill the man. Although guilty of murder he was just a jeweler with no martial training. If you need to exhaust your breath on the likes of him, how do you handle an ambush?” Klaus asked in an apathetic tone. Only now did Kilian snap out of his feral state and witness the result of his rage. Appalled, he sprang back, and lowered his eyes on his bloodied hands. This was his first kill, a man he knew nothing of but battered to death like some blood worshipping barbarian.

 

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When did he become so vicious?

 

“Learning to dehumanize your foes is critical for your survival. Just like him, I told him that if he killed you, his sentence would change from flaying to life imprisonment. And look at how well he adapted?” Klaus stepped toward Kilian and whispered in his ear. Vines sprouted from the ground, wrapping the fallen’s corpse before grinding him to dust.

 

“From now on, you will practice your killing arts on death row inmates. We will start with one per month, then two, three, four, thirty—until you can kill without second thoughts, we will continue. On top of your studies, I will also prepare assassins to hunt you day and night. And I do not doubt that my many enemies won’t let you rest, either. Try not to die,” Klaus whispered in his absentminded son’s ears. 

 

“Now come, you have someone to meet.” Pulling Kilian by his wrist, Klaus led him back into the castle. And as they crossed its icy-blue walls, Kilian’s mind lingered on his kill’s bleeding face, then like a glass mirror, the face shattered, and Kilian yanked his hand out of Klaus’ grasp. The duke smiled but said nothing.

 

Together, they reached the greeting hall. From the entrance to the main seat, portraits of Kars’ past 60 dukes hung on the walls. Custom required that at Klaus’ death, Kilian drew and added his portrait to the hall’s walls—he wouldn’t. Best burn them all to spare the walls more abuse. In any case, they didn’t have much room left.

 

Upon the two’s entrance, the eight noblemen and women awaiting in the hall bowed in greetings. On the scene, only one grabbed Kilian’s attention: a 13 years old girl with the blue eyes and curly black hair of the von Karstens.

 

While the house’s lasses typically couldn’t hold his gaze, this one was hard to ignore. Like a masterfully carved doll, she would have looked flawless if not for her pale-white skin that screamed vampire vibes. And while Kilian wondered if her tiny lips hid fangs, the girl’s large eyes blinked at him.

 

“Kilian, Anke. Anke, Kilian. Future wife, future husband. I hope you two get along,”  Klaus made the presentations, then motioned for the seven kin to clear the hall. They did so without delay.

 

Alone, the two faced one another for three long minutes before Anke broke the silence.

 

“When uncle said you were a bit unstable, I didn’t believe him, but you do look like someone about to murder millions.” At first taken aback by the words, Kilian glanced at his bloodied hands and realized they were reasonable.

 

“Well said, but it’s hard to take you seriously when you, yourself, look like a bloodsucking lolita. Anyone ever asked you if you were afraid of sunlight?” Kilian countered, making Anke’s large eyes narrow at him.

 

“My skin is snow white.”

 

“No, it’s chalk. Don’t fetishize ghosthood.”

 

Struck hard by Kilian’s words, Anke staggered and balled up her fists. Where did this hateful creature come from, and how could her beloved uncle ask her to marry him? As if seeing through her thoughts, Kilian nodded in approval.

 

“I know what you’re thinking—Oh my god, he’s too good for me—and you’re absolutely correct, so this marriage...will never happen,” Kilian said, spun and left.

 

On that day, as she stared at his distant back with indignation teeming in her heart, Anke swore to make him grovel at her feet—she never could.

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