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fictionalized2013-06-19 01:35 am
acperience) wrote in fictionalized2013-06-19 01:35 am
fanfic; the resolution of a genius
Title: The Resolution of a Genius
Series: The Legend of the Legendary Heroes
Character(s): Zohra.
Warnings: Death, mild torture.
Summary: For Zohra, true strength was being able to kill his heart. In the end, though, perhaps there was some merit to having a heart after all.
Notes: Whoooo, headcanon.
—
The Resolution of a Genius
—
One of Zohra's earliest memories is him lying in what could barely be called a mattress—he would claim it to be uncomfortable, but it's not as if he's known any better—with his mother softly stroking his hair. He's facing away from her, his eyes closed, mimicking sleep as she and his father speak quietly to one another.
"Do you ever regret giving birth to him?" she asks, her voice said in a way that even Zohra, as a toddler, can detect.
"Hmm?"
"Bringing a child into this world..." Again, she strokes Zohra's hair, her fingers tightening slightly. "They could kill us at any moment. And with us, Zohra... Honestly, what kind of life can we give this child? What future? It might've been kinder to have never let him existed, if he was born only to die."
Her voice grows higher as she speaks, with even Zohra being able to recognize the verbal tears that hide in it. He's drifting asleep at this point, too young to fully understand her words—he can only acknowledge that there's something wrong, and it has to do with him.
But it's fine, he thinks. They're his parents, after all.
They'll sort all of it out for him.
—
What Zohra sees is red.
It's a deep red that flows from his mother and father, as they lie still on the floor. Specks of red (his parents' blood) are splattered on him as he stares at their corpses, his gaze too focused on the sight to pay attention to the two men before them with a bloodied dagger.
And though Zohra should be too young to understand the concept of a death—a concept he shouldn't have to learn for many years—he knows.
His parents are gone.
Dead, dead, dead.
The word repeats itself like a mantra in his head.
And—
"What about the brat?" the first man asks, turning to the noble—the one his parents 'worked' for, Zohra knows. The noble looks at Zohra impassively, as if it isn't a person reflected in his eyes, but rather, some kind of a toy. A toy that he's deciding whether to discard or not.
"You might as well get rid of him too. It's not as if he's of any use to me either."
"Understood."
Their words barely register in Zohra's mind, as he stares again at the corpses of the people he called his parents. The world is still to him, and nothing but his shock exists.
His parents are dead.
—And now it's his turn.
Piercing through the haze, he realizes that the man is lifting his dagger again—and something in Zohra snaps, as he moves, only half-conscious of his actions.
Perhaps it's the surprise of retaliation that catches the man off-guard when Zohra lunges forward and grabs his wrist, as he lets go of the knife without a fight. Without wasting a moment—I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm not gonna die—Zohra reaches for the blade.
And then, his grip firm and his strength fueled by the desperation of a child determined to live, he plunges it into the man's abdomen.
At the age of three, Zohra makes his first kill.
—
"Congrats, kid. Looks like you've got the makings of a killer. Maybe you won't be half as worthless as your parents were."
—
His instructors praise him at the military academy, where he shows signs of promise.
"You'll make a fine soldier one day, Zohra."
Perhaps a strange thing to say to someone who's still young enough where he can barely even read—but he can fight, and that's all that really matters in this country.
He has strength.
He has power.
And perhaps most importantly of all, he has the will to live.
They tell him that he's a genius, that he'll be a great soldier in the future. And really, he knows that they're telling him that he'll be a prodigal murderer, because that's what being a soldier amounts to, isn't it?
But it's fine with him. If learning how to fight, if learning how to kill is the only way he can survive in this world, then he'll do it.
He'll do whatever it takes to live.
(—He'll prove his parents wrong. His future won't end here.)
—
It's been a difficult but satisfying year. Some of his fellow pupils are friends from the academy, some of them he met only at the start of this year—but they're all the same now. Day after day of practice, of training that could kill them at any moment but certainly would if they faltered, and now, they're the same. They've made it to the end. They've worked hard together this past year, they've survived together, and now it's time to pass one, final test before graduation.
It's simple, their teacher tells them. To graduate, all they need to do—
Kill everyone else.
Do that, and they—whoever is the last one standing—have won the right to live.
—
In hindsight, Zohra thinks, the outcome was likely obvious.
From the beginning, he always was the strongest.
—
Training as an assassin is even harder. There is no sense of control—so much is left to luck, and Zohra hates it.
Still, he'd like to think that if he wills himself to live hard enough, it'll influence his survival rates somehow—though poison is a cruel mistress, no matter how many times he's danced with it.
His head swims, his insides feel like they're on fire, he feels as if he's vomited his entire life out and then some, and more than once, he's blacked out, only to awaken with panic and then relief at the revelation that he hadn't died. Still, he makes it through each day, forcing himself to try and get some sleep through his nausea so as to prepare himself for the next round.
He watches as the others around him retch blood or curl up into a ball, as if that would give them any comfort. Most hope for survival, though perhaps some wish for death—a pointless sentiment, Zohra believes. If they were to die—and Zohra has watched many die from this—then it would be a slow and painful death. Poison is a horrible way for a life to end, after all. It doesn't take its victims kindly.
"I can't take this anymore," a friend of his—a fellow survivor from the academy, reunited in their goals of becoming an assassin—says, her voice weak. They've both survived through the day, their faces pale. Zohra half-pays attention to what she says, half-trying not to throw up from the residual nausea that plagues him.
"Yeah?"
"I can't take this anymore," she repeats. "I'd rather just die."
"You sure?" Zohra asks. "You've seen the others."
You've seen how they died.
"I know," she says, a biting edge to her tone as she stares up at him, her legs wrapped around her knees that she hugs to her chest. "But—but damn it, Zohra. You know, right? This is what we're gonna do to other people. What we're going through right now..."
"Well, yeah," Zohra says, shrugging. "There wouldn't be much of a point to this otherwise."
"And you're okay with that?" she asks, her eyes wide. Pleading, almost, though for what, Zohra doesn't know. "How can you be so calm about all of this? How can you—I don't get you, Zohra. I don't get you at all."
Zohra looks at her coolly. "If you weren't prepared to kill others, why did you decide to become an assassin? Hell, why did you even join the military?"
"Because you know as well as I do that there is no other option for an orphan!" Her voice is getting hysterical now, as Zohra winces from the volume. "What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to do...?"
She buries her face into her arms, her words muffled as she speaks. "I don't want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to live. Why is that so much to ask for?"
"But you can't have it both ways. Roland's that kind of country, I mean. If you're gonna stop here..."
He stops as she looks up at him, tears running down her face—but a harsh, bitter smile present as well. "... You're really okay with all of this, aren't you? You don't care at all, do you?"
Again, he shrugs.
"... Heh." She begins to laugh, softly and mirthlessly. Then she shakes her head, before meeting Zohra in the eye. "Congratulations, Zohra."
"Huh?" He blinks.
"I bet you're going to go far," she says, her voice tight while her empty never falters. "You have what it takes."
Another shaky laugh, before she finishes—
"You'll become a perfect little murderer for this country."
—
Zohra hears it from a mutual acquaintance—she dies while on a mission.
She hesitated to kill her target.
And so, she died.
Her life ended so simply like that.
And, Zohra supposes, she got what she wanted. A life where she didn't have to hurt anyone anymore.
As for him—
A few weeks later, he enters the Hidden Elites.
—
"You little—!"
The club hits Zohra in the head—hard enough so that his vision goes white for a moment, and then black, and then finally clears up. It'll be hurting for quite a while, though truth be told, his entire body is hurting enough so that it doesn't make much of a difference anymore.
Everyone was right.
He's a prodigal murderer.
He's a genius.
He went far.
—But they were wrong about one thing.
"How dare you talk back? You have talent, so why won't you listen to us anymore?" A man stands before him. Zohra's head is spinning too hard from the pain (does he have a concussion? He hopes not—) to remember whether it was a noble talking to him, a soldier, or someone else. Ah, well, he supposes it doesn't matter either way. It's someone not worth his time.
His wrists are held up in chains, one of them sprained. He's just glad they didn't break it, at least. That would make it harder to train afterwards if he had to deal with a broken arm. A sprain should heal faster, if nothing else.
He hopes he can get back to training soon. This is a waste of time. How long do they plan on keep him here? he wonders. Hopefully not as long as last time.
It dimly occurs to Zohra that his thoughts are scattered all over the place and he isn't doing a very good job of focusing on reality, but then again, there's nothing in reality that's particularly worth paying attention to right now.
"Are you listening, you little brat!?" The man yells, smashing the club against his head another time. Zohra narrowly manages to avoid biting down on his tongue, instead gritting his teeth as he adjusts to the pain.
"Well..." He begins, his voice shakier than he would've liked it. It's not from fear—really, there's nothing left to fear anymore—but it's just a tad hard to concentrate when he's lost of track of how many wounds they've given him. "I was too busy thinking—seriously, don't you feel bad, beating up a kid like me like this? Geez..."
That one certainly aggravated them—the familiar sensation of the club hitting his head again is a tell-tale sign of that. Vaguely, Zohra realizes that if he keeps provoking them like this, they'll truly kill him. Perhaps he should try and tone it down a bit—but honestly, it's hard, when they simply make it so easy.
"How disappointing." It's a new voice now—or no, not new. Now Zohra remembers—it's the noble that's angry at him this time, and it's a soldier or some such who's been hitting him. He makes a mental note of this. "You have potential, but you insist on wasting it like this."
"... Ha!" Zohra starts to laugh. It's a weak laugh, when his voice barely works and his head won't focus long enough for him to even be able to see clearly, but it's a laugh all the same. "Haha... waste? And tell me—just how am I wasting my potential?"
"Do you know how many missions you've refused to take on the past few months?" The noble's voice is composed, but even in his hazy state, Zohra can detect the annoyance in it. All for the better, he thinks.
"Nope. Lost track."
"You insolent—!"
—Ow, that one definitely hurt.
"You were close, you know," the noble continues. "Had you reached a bit further, you could've been revered as the Greatest Assassin in Roland—but then you had to go and do something as foolish as this."
Zohra manages to look up at that, meeting the noble in the eye. It's an act of defiance—one of the worst kinds.
To show a noble that they aren't above you.
It's the worst insult you can give them, and Zohra knows it—and damn, does it feel good.
He knows just how close he was to obtaining the title.
He knows, because he chose to walk away from it.
"... Right. So—" He takes in a breath, trying to clear his head. "... What exactly is it you want me to do? Go back to being your obedient little dog? I'll do whatever you ask, and you'll give me a mansion and all that crap in return?"
He spits at them—his saliva mixed with blood.
"So basically, you want me to sell my soul for wealth and glory. Sounds like some kinda shitty fairy tale. Thanks, but no thanks."
He's happy where he is—or rather, where he's going.
And even if his path were to end here, even if they were to kill him here—
"... A low-born like you should watch your mouth," the noble warns him, to which Zohra can only wonder what kind of curse must exist for the nobility to be such idiots.
"Is that the worst insult you can come up with? A low-born? Yeah, I was born at the bottom of society. But you know what? I'm not ashamed of my origins."
Commoner or not, he'll die on his own terms, at least. And that's all that truly matters, isn't it?
To live his life how he wants to, and to die that way.
"But what about you, huh? You know... I hear that the higher you are, the harder it is when you fall."
There really, really is nothing left to fear anymore, he thinks.
—
In the end, there is no justice. No hero who will come swooping in to save you.
If you want your life to change, Zohra realizes, you have to do it yourself.
He carefully checks for everything—armour, weapon, a handful of supplies. Just enough to last him until he can find a town outside of Roland to restock. He can't afford to carry much on him—he has to move quickly.
Moonlight streams in through his open window, as he makes one last confirmation. The land outside is as silent as death, but Zohra knows that means nothing. Even as they hide their presences, Zohra can sense them.
"... Looks like they're really serious this time, huh?" He mutters, staring out the window where he can only see darkness, but realizes what lurks within it. "Well, not that they weren't serious all those other times..."
He places one foot on the windowsill, and from there, he can see vague shapes. Probably hundreds, he thinks. For his last battle in this country, there's no way they wouldn't go all out.
There's a pause, before he grins, and then jumps out.
Upon landing, a silhouette moves. Now, under the light of the moon, Zohra faintly recognizes him as a Hidden Elite he's seen around. His name escapes him, though. Not that Zohra especially cares either way, however.
"Zohra Rom," he begins. "Do you intend to betray Roland?"
Zohra laughs. "Please. I betrayed Roland the moment I decided I wouldn't be like the rest of you."
The other party scoffs. "Not like someone actually worth something, you mean?"
"Actually, I meant... hmm, Roland's perfect little murderers, I guess?"
His opponent withdraws a dagger. "Then you can die here. The punishment for—"
"The punishment for treason is death, death to Taboo Breakers, blah, blah, blah," Zohra interrupts. "Come on. You don't think I don't know the laws of Roland like the back of my hand?"
With one swift movement, one of his hidden blades is in his hand, as he brandishes it. "Well, I figured this country wouldn't let me go so easily. I'd be disappointed if it did, y'know? All right, this'll be my final challenge before I find her..."
Shadows move, as several more opponents make themselves visible—and still, more await in the darkness. Zohra can only smile at that.
Some farewell party, huh?
Moonlight glinting off his dagger, he smirks. "Well? If you wanna kill me so badly, then bring it. But you should know—I'm not very a merciful guy? If you don't wanna die yourselves, then run away. Run away now. Though if you all can't even bring me down, then there's no way Roland will let you live for much longer..."
The weak die, and the strong prosper.
—But ultimately, the nobles win either way.
Weak, strong—none of it matters. Even strength will only delay your death for a short while. Zohra knows that even if he'd become the Greatest Assassin in Roland, even if he'd remained loyal, he still would've ended up dying. Perhaps he'd have even been disposed of by now.
Nothing matters to the nobles of this country.
And something like "the right to live" is nothing but an illusion. A false hope.
A commoner, a low-born, a child of slaves like him—he never had any rights in this country.
And like this, he knows he never will.
"So if you wanna survive for even just a bit longer, you'll have to kill me. But I don't have any intention of dying here either, so bring it!"
And with that, it begins.
What will either be the end or the beginning of his life—the last obstacle he must overcome.
He's already decided, though.
I won't falter.
I won't be Roland's tool anymore.
I won't die here.
Because there's a world outside, an entire world outside of the cage that he's been trapped in and built for himself, and like hell if he's going to let anything stop him from seeing it.
I won't die. I won't die. I won't die.
The phrase repeats itself like a mantra in his head.
And—
I'm going to live—
Series: The Legend of the Legendary Heroes
Character(s): Zohra.
Warnings: Death, mild torture.
Summary: For Zohra, true strength was being able to kill his heart. In the end, though, perhaps there was some merit to having a heart after all.
Notes: Whoooo, headcanon.
One of Zohra's earliest memories is him lying in what could barely be called a mattress—he would claim it to be uncomfortable, but it's not as if he's known any better—with his mother softly stroking his hair. He's facing away from her, his eyes closed, mimicking sleep as she and his father speak quietly to one another.
"Do you ever regret giving birth to him?" she asks, her voice said in a way that even Zohra, as a toddler, can detect.
"Hmm?"
"Bringing a child into this world..." Again, she strokes Zohra's hair, her fingers tightening slightly. "They could kill us at any moment. And with us, Zohra... Honestly, what kind of life can we give this child? What future? It might've been kinder to have never let him existed, if he was born only to die."
Her voice grows higher as she speaks, with even Zohra being able to recognize the verbal tears that hide in it. He's drifting asleep at this point, too young to fully understand her words—he can only acknowledge that there's something wrong, and it has to do with him.
But it's fine, he thinks. They're his parents, after all.
They'll sort all of it out for him.
What Zohra sees is red.
It's a deep red that flows from his mother and father, as they lie still on the floor. Specks of red (his parents' blood) are splattered on him as he stares at their corpses, his gaze too focused on the sight to pay attention to the two men before them with a bloodied dagger.
And though Zohra should be too young to understand the concept of a death—a concept he shouldn't have to learn for many years—he knows.
His parents are gone.
Dead, dead, dead.
The word repeats itself like a mantra in his head.
And—
"What about the brat?" the first man asks, turning to the noble—the one his parents 'worked' for, Zohra knows. The noble looks at Zohra impassively, as if it isn't a person reflected in his eyes, but rather, some kind of a toy. A toy that he's deciding whether to discard or not.
"You might as well get rid of him too. It's not as if he's of any use to me either."
"Understood."
Their words barely register in Zohra's mind, as he stares again at the corpses of the people he called his parents. The world is still to him, and nothing but his shock exists.
His parents are dead.
—And now it's his turn.
Piercing through the haze, he realizes that the man is lifting his dagger again—and something in Zohra snaps, as he moves, only half-conscious of his actions.
Perhaps it's the surprise of retaliation that catches the man off-guard when Zohra lunges forward and grabs his wrist, as he lets go of the knife without a fight. Without wasting a moment—I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die, I'm not gonna die—Zohra reaches for the blade.
And then, his grip firm and his strength fueled by the desperation of a child determined to live, he plunges it into the man's abdomen.
At the age of three, Zohra makes his first kill.
"Congrats, kid. Looks like you've got the makings of a killer. Maybe you won't be half as worthless as your parents were."
His instructors praise him at the military academy, where he shows signs of promise.
"You'll make a fine soldier one day, Zohra."
Perhaps a strange thing to say to someone who's still young enough where he can barely even read—but he can fight, and that's all that really matters in this country.
He has strength.
He has power.
And perhaps most importantly of all, he has the will to live.
They tell him that he's a genius, that he'll be a great soldier in the future. And really, he knows that they're telling him that he'll be a prodigal murderer, because that's what being a soldier amounts to, isn't it?
But it's fine with him. If learning how to fight, if learning how to kill is the only way he can survive in this world, then he'll do it.
He'll do whatever it takes to live.
(—He'll prove his parents wrong. His future won't end here.)
It's been a difficult but satisfying year. Some of his fellow pupils are friends from the academy, some of them he met only at the start of this year—but they're all the same now. Day after day of practice, of training that could kill them at any moment but certainly would if they faltered, and now, they're the same. They've made it to the end. They've worked hard together this past year, they've survived together, and now it's time to pass one, final test before graduation.
It's simple, their teacher tells them. To graduate, all they need to do—
Kill everyone else.
Do that, and they—whoever is the last one standing—have won the right to live.
In hindsight, Zohra thinks, the outcome was likely obvious.
From the beginning, he always was the strongest.
Training as an assassin is even harder. There is no sense of control—so much is left to luck, and Zohra hates it.
Still, he'd like to think that if he wills himself to live hard enough, it'll influence his survival rates somehow—though poison is a cruel mistress, no matter how many times he's danced with it.
His head swims, his insides feel like they're on fire, he feels as if he's vomited his entire life out and then some, and more than once, he's blacked out, only to awaken with panic and then relief at the revelation that he hadn't died. Still, he makes it through each day, forcing himself to try and get some sleep through his nausea so as to prepare himself for the next round.
He watches as the others around him retch blood or curl up into a ball, as if that would give them any comfort. Most hope for survival, though perhaps some wish for death—a pointless sentiment, Zohra believes. If they were to die—and Zohra has watched many die from this—then it would be a slow and painful death. Poison is a horrible way for a life to end, after all. It doesn't take its victims kindly.
"I can't take this anymore," a friend of his—a fellow survivor from the academy, reunited in their goals of becoming an assassin—says, her voice weak. They've both survived through the day, their faces pale. Zohra half-pays attention to what she says, half-trying not to throw up from the residual nausea that plagues him.
"Yeah?"
"I can't take this anymore," she repeats. "I'd rather just die."
"You sure?" Zohra asks. "You've seen the others."
You've seen how they died.
"I know," she says, a biting edge to her tone as she stares up at him, her legs wrapped around her knees that she hugs to her chest. "But—but damn it, Zohra. You know, right? This is what we're gonna do to other people. What we're going through right now..."
"Well, yeah," Zohra says, shrugging. "There wouldn't be much of a point to this otherwise."
"And you're okay with that?" she asks, her eyes wide. Pleading, almost, though for what, Zohra doesn't know. "How can you be so calm about all of this? How can you—I don't get you, Zohra. I don't get you at all."
Zohra looks at her coolly. "If you weren't prepared to kill others, why did you decide to become an assassin? Hell, why did you even join the military?"
"Because you know as well as I do that there is no other option for an orphan!" Her voice is getting hysterical now, as Zohra winces from the volume. "What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to do...?"
She buries her face into her arms, her words muffled as she speaks. "I don't want to hurt anyone. I just wanted to live. Why is that so much to ask for?"
"But you can't have it both ways. Roland's that kind of country, I mean. If you're gonna stop here..."
He stops as she looks up at him, tears running down her face—but a harsh, bitter smile present as well. "... You're really okay with all of this, aren't you? You don't care at all, do you?"
Again, he shrugs.
"... Heh." She begins to laugh, softly and mirthlessly. Then she shakes her head, before meeting Zohra in the eye. "Congratulations, Zohra."
"Huh?" He blinks.
"I bet you're going to go far," she says, her voice tight while her empty never falters. "You have what it takes."
Another shaky laugh, before she finishes—
"You'll become a perfect little murderer for this country."
Zohra hears it from a mutual acquaintance—she dies while on a mission.
She hesitated to kill her target.
And so, she died.
Her life ended so simply like that.
And, Zohra supposes, she got what she wanted. A life where she didn't have to hurt anyone anymore.
As for him—
A few weeks later, he enters the Hidden Elites.
"You little—!"
The club hits Zohra in the head—hard enough so that his vision goes white for a moment, and then black, and then finally clears up. It'll be hurting for quite a while, though truth be told, his entire body is hurting enough so that it doesn't make much of a difference anymore.
Everyone was right.
He's a prodigal murderer.
He's a genius.
He went far.
—But they were wrong about one thing.
"How dare you talk back? You have talent, so why won't you listen to us anymore?" A man stands before him. Zohra's head is spinning too hard from the pain (does he have a concussion? He hopes not—) to remember whether it was a noble talking to him, a soldier, or someone else. Ah, well, he supposes it doesn't matter either way. It's someone not worth his time.
His wrists are held up in chains, one of them sprained. He's just glad they didn't break it, at least. That would make it harder to train afterwards if he had to deal with a broken arm. A sprain should heal faster, if nothing else.
He hopes he can get back to training soon. This is a waste of time. How long do they plan on keep him here? he wonders. Hopefully not as long as last time.
It dimly occurs to Zohra that his thoughts are scattered all over the place and he isn't doing a very good job of focusing on reality, but then again, there's nothing in reality that's particularly worth paying attention to right now.
"Are you listening, you little brat!?" The man yells, smashing the club against his head another time. Zohra narrowly manages to avoid biting down on his tongue, instead gritting his teeth as he adjusts to the pain.
"Well..." He begins, his voice shakier than he would've liked it. It's not from fear—really, there's nothing left to fear anymore—but it's just a tad hard to concentrate when he's lost of track of how many wounds they've given him. "I was too busy thinking—seriously, don't you feel bad, beating up a kid like me like this? Geez..."
That one certainly aggravated them—the familiar sensation of the club hitting his head again is a tell-tale sign of that. Vaguely, Zohra realizes that if he keeps provoking them like this, they'll truly kill him. Perhaps he should try and tone it down a bit—but honestly, it's hard, when they simply make it so easy.
"How disappointing." It's a new voice now—or no, not new. Now Zohra remembers—it's the noble that's angry at him this time, and it's a soldier or some such who's been hitting him. He makes a mental note of this. "You have potential, but you insist on wasting it like this."
"... Ha!" Zohra starts to laugh. It's a weak laugh, when his voice barely works and his head won't focus long enough for him to even be able to see clearly, but it's a laugh all the same. "Haha... waste? And tell me—just how am I wasting my potential?"
"Do you know how many missions you've refused to take on the past few months?" The noble's voice is composed, but even in his hazy state, Zohra can detect the annoyance in it. All for the better, he thinks.
"Nope. Lost track."
"You insolent—!"
—Ow, that one definitely hurt.
"You were close, you know," the noble continues. "Had you reached a bit further, you could've been revered as the Greatest Assassin in Roland—but then you had to go and do something as foolish as this."
Zohra manages to look up at that, meeting the noble in the eye. It's an act of defiance—one of the worst kinds.
To show a noble that they aren't above you.
It's the worst insult you can give them, and Zohra knows it—and damn, does it feel good.
He knows just how close he was to obtaining the title.
He knows, because he chose to walk away from it.
"... Right. So—" He takes in a breath, trying to clear his head. "... What exactly is it you want me to do? Go back to being your obedient little dog? I'll do whatever you ask, and you'll give me a mansion and all that crap in return?"
He spits at them—his saliva mixed with blood.
"So basically, you want me to sell my soul for wealth and glory. Sounds like some kinda shitty fairy tale. Thanks, but no thanks."
He's happy where he is—or rather, where he's going.
And even if his path were to end here, even if they were to kill him here—
"... A low-born like you should watch your mouth," the noble warns him, to which Zohra can only wonder what kind of curse must exist for the nobility to be such idiots.
"Is that the worst insult you can come up with? A low-born? Yeah, I was born at the bottom of society. But you know what? I'm not ashamed of my origins."
Commoner or not, he'll die on his own terms, at least. And that's all that truly matters, isn't it?
To live his life how he wants to, and to die that way.
"But what about you, huh? You know... I hear that the higher you are, the harder it is when you fall."
There really, really is nothing left to fear anymore, he thinks.
In the end, there is no justice. No hero who will come swooping in to save you.
If you want your life to change, Zohra realizes, you have to do it yourself.
He carefully checks for everything—armour, weapon, a handful of supplies. Just enough to last him until he can find a town outside of Roland to restock. He can't afford to carry much on him—he has to move quickly.
Moonlight streams in through his open window, as he makes one last confirmation. The land outside is as silent as death, but Zohra knows that means nothing. Even as they hide their presences, Zohra can sense them.
"... Looks like they're really serious this time, huh?" He mutters, staring out the window where he can only see darkness, but realizes what lurks within it. "Well, not that they weren't serious all those other times..."
He places one foot on the windowsill, and from there, he can see vague shapes. Probably hundreds, he thinks. For his last battle in this country, there's no way they wouldn't go all out.
There's a pause, before he grins, and then jumps out.
Upon landing, a silhouette moves. Now, under the light of the moon, Zohra faintly recognizes him as a Hidden Elite he's seen around. His name escapes him, though. Not that Zohra especially cares either way, however.
"Zohra Rom," he begins. "Do you intend to betray Roland?"
Zohra laughs. "Please. I betrayed Roland the moment I decided I wouldn't be like the rest of you."
The other party scoffs. "Not like someone actually worth something, you mean?"
"Actually, I meant... hmm, Roland's perfect little murderers, I guess?"
His opponent withdraws a dagger. "Then you can die here. The punishment for—"
"The punishment for treason is death, death to Taboo Breakers, blah, blah, blah," Zohra interrupts. "Come on. You don't think I don't know the laws of Roland like the back of my hand?"
With one swift movement, one of his hidden blades is in his hand, as he brandishes it. "Well, I figured this country wouldn't let me go so easily. I'd be disappointed if it did, y'know? All right, this'll be my final challenge before I find her..."
Shadows move, as several more opponents make themselves visible—and still, more await in the darkness. Zohra can only smile at that.
Some farewell party, huh?
Moonlight glinting off his dagger, he smirks. "Well? If you wanna kill me so badly, then bring it. But you should know—I'm not very a merciful guy? If you don't wanna die yourselves, then run away. Run away now. Though if you all can't even bring me down, then there's no way Roland will let you live for much longer..."
The weak die, and the strong prosper.
—But ultimately, the nobles win either way.
Weak, strong—none of it matters. Even strength will only delay your death for a short while. Zohra knows that even if he'd become the Greatest Assassin in Roland, even if he'd remained loyal, he still would've ended up dying. Perhaps he'd have even been disposed of by now.
Nothing matters to the nobles of this country.
And something like "the right to live" is nothing but an illusion. A false hope.
A commoner, a low-born, a child of slaves like him—he never had any rights in this country.
And like this, he knows he never will.
"So if you wanna survive for even just a bit longer, you'll have to kill me. But I don't have any intention of dying here either, so bring it!"
And with that, it begins.
What will either be the end or the beginning of his life—the last obstacle he must overcome.
He's already decided, though.
I won't falter.
I won't be Roland's tool anymore.
I won't die here.
Because there's a world outside, an entire world outside of the cage that he's been trapped in and built for himself, and like hell if he's going to let anything stop him from seeing it.
I won't die. I won't die. I won't die.
The phrase repeats itself like a mantra in his head.
And—
I'm going to live—