Basilisk knelt before the Council of Imperial Adjudicators. The council chamber was styled as an old-fashioned court, clad in wood lacquered by the tears of punishment. Men and women in resplendent clothing sat around him in a circle, reading his crimes, slowly adding more nails to his coffin.
Throughout the whole ordeal, he maintained his composure. Even a slight sign of resentment could cost him dearly. There was nothing to be done but to play along.
"For your sins against the empire's safety and prosperity," the male adjudicator intoned in a dignified voice, "you shall be stripped of your title as Lord and drink of the Chalice of Punishment."
It took all he had not to grit his teeth and growl in anger. This was as close as it could get to the worst-case scenario.
"I understand, Your Honor," he replied calmly. "I have failed in my duties as Lord. On this day, I reforge my loyalty and erase my ignoble tendencies, so that whether or not I reclaim my mantle, I can serve Her Majesty the Empress with utmost dignity and patriotism."
"Very well, Harold Maskaart," the man said, putting the book down and straightening his back. "Step forward."
Two pedestals rose out of the floor right before him. The one on the left shone with a sinister red light and carried a black chalice. Within the chalice was a sickly-green liquid. The one on the right shone with a soft blue light and carried atop it a white chalice with golden fluid within.
With all his will, he got up and stepped toward the platform on the left.
"Accept your punishment," the council chanted.
He picked up the cup.
He drank it in one fell swoop, and it took all his willpower not to throw it up immediately. The liquid vanished from within his stomach and flowed into his soul. With terror, he watched his fourth star dissipate. A storm of ether raged in his soul, harming and regressing every ability he had by a whole stage. Watching so many years of work vanish before his eyes was worse than even the soul pain he was experiencing.
Around a minute later, the storm ebbed, and his soul quieted. Ethereal scars were scattered throughout his spirit, and even as he waited, he felt more power leak out of everything that remained.
"You may step before the Chalice of Redemption."
He turned to the blue pedestal. Urgently, he grasped the white cup and downed it swiftly. The cup poured into his soul, sealing most of the remaining wounds and restoring balance.
"Remember this day, Harold Maskaart," the man said again. "Never err again."
With a subtle glint of cunning in his eyes, he raised his head and gave his response. "May the empress's glory illuminate my path."
He turned around and walked out of the chamber. His soul burned with the echoes of agony. Only three stars shone within. This would set him back further than he'd ever been set back before.
But that didn't mean he was just any ordinary three-star.
He had had years to prepare for a possibility like this, and during that time, he had prepared numerous contingencies.
Just you wait, Madame, he thought. I'll pay you back for this one.
***
Mark sat on a fancy couch in an opulent living room, with Nahar lounging across the table.
The two men drank alcohol and sat in silence, waiting for the news.
Nahar raised a large cigar and puffed a cloud of smoke.
The doors opened in the next moment, and a tired Basilisk walked into the apartment. "Hello, boys!" he greeted cheerily. "It appears I get to live another day."
"As a cripple, it seems," noted Nahar, snorting and shooting the man a pitying glance.
"No, not quite," Basilisk said. "My soul stabilized properly, and with a bit of treatment, I should be able to keep gathering without any major problems."
"Hmph," Nahar spat. "Devil's luck."
Basilisk walked over to the table and sat right beside Mark. "So... Things have changed a bit, huh?"
In the blink of an eye, Mark summoned his giant sword and pressed it to Basilisk's neck, holding it with one hand while sipping scotch.
And Nahar was just filthy rich. It was hard to sell that as some sort of great obstacle. Sure, some vultures might try to swoop in and sell him on a bad deal, but the empire wasn't some barbaric land. Might didn't really make right. Sure, might made notable adjustments to right, but it didn't free people from consequences.
Trying to make it seem like they were in a tight spot was a misstep by Basilisk that showed how desperate the man was.
But he wasn't done yet. "And then we have those two."
Mark and Nahar froze at that and glanced at each other.
Those two—Firrita and Kaefalge—were trouble. Whatever they were, they couldn't be allowed to roam freely in society.
Nahar had overseen their torture for a long time, and now, he wanted nothing more but to get rid of them.
But Mark wasn't going to allow that.
Technically, as a part of his "deal," he had no responsibility to babysit those two. He was supposed to free them and let them go do as they pleased. But he couldn't just let them go knowing damn well Nahar would most likely go after them to tie up loose ends.
Thus, the two young men found themselves in a deadlock.
It wasn't a situation they could postpone indefinitely. One day, the disagreement would come to a head. And when it did, things could turn ugly.
Basilisk suddenly grinned widely. "You know, I heard something very interesting during the trial."
The tone of his voice made the two young men freeze. They recognized it immediately—that was the way Basilisk spoke when he was sure he had them in the palm of his hand.
"I was informed that my negligent management had allowed a certain... square-eyed bodysnatcher to escape from one of my mining expeditions and sneak into society."
In the next moment, Mark once again held a sword to Basilisk's neck, and Nahar pointed a spear of blood at his heart.
But the former Lord simply grinned harder. "Before you kill me, I'll have you know that a certain acquaintance of mine is prepared to send a report to the authorities the moment he learns of my death. Now, given that I, as Lord, got such harsh treatment for letting one of those things roam around, I wonder what might happen to you if the empress learned that you were harboring two of them."
"Mark!" Nahar spat. "Come to your senses and kill those two already!"
"I can't," he said, staring daggers at the young master. "If you haven't noticed"—he glared with his square-pupil eyes—"I have something of a connection to them."
"You'll also be killed unless you get rid of them."
"Then I am doomed to die," Mark asserted.
"Now, now," Basilisk waved. "Let's relax for a moment, okay? Things don't need to be like that between us. We could all just be friends!"
Mark glared at him. "I swear I'll kill you one day."
"But until that day"—he got off the couch—"you should probably take my offer. We don't have to slaughter each other like rabid dogs! Say, Mark... Are you... 'allowed' to keep supervising those two?"
Mark winced. "Probably. I'm supposed to let them go eventually, but there is no hard time limit for when."
"Wonderful! How about this: Mark keeps those two under his watch, and Nahar promises not to kill them. We have plenty of time to think of a permanent solution. And until then, I will do my best not to rat you guys out while teaching you how to become true businessmen and rise above the common rabble once and for all!"
Mark growled in resentment as he finally lowered his sword and spat on the ground. "You said you have to go into exile. For how long?"
"Until I get back up to four stars, of course."
"And where are you gonna go? Out of the country?" Mark glared at him. "I can't go anywhere where I can't send money back to my family."
Basilisk grinned at that. "Oh, don't worry. We're not even going to leave the empire—well... technically. We're just going to return to my homeland, a place that might as well be a paradise for ambitious three-stars."
"And where is that?"
"Canada," the man said. "Well, nobody calls it that anymore. I believe that, nowadays...
"... we refer to it as the Northern Belt."