The Assassin's Seven Principles of Manipulation

Chapter 270: Chapter 265 — Malach

As the silence stretched on, one of the generals finally broke it. He was taller than the rest, though still several heads shorter than Malach. Even so, the intensity in his eyes and the aura he carried spoke of his formidable strength.

This was Gordon Sarakhel, the second strongest cadet in the entire northern house, respected by all and second only to Malach himself.

The moment he spoke, the others instinctively turned toward him, listening attentively.

”My lord... I believe we overestimated the Lightning Prince. There’s no need to waste any more time. You must allow me to move. I’ll cripple their fortress within the hour.”

He lifted his chin slightly, as though to lend more weight to his words.

Slowly, Malach finally looked away from the war table and settled his gaze on Gordon.

The second strongest cadet immediately went rigid.

”I must?”

Malach’s voice was gentle, almost benevolent in the silent room, yet those who heard it felt a chill crawl down their spines.

Realizing his mistake, Gordon hastily bent into a full ninety-degree bow, his forehead nearly touching the war table.

”I-I beg your forgiveness, my lord! I-I spoke out of turn! Please forgive me!”

His entire body trembled as though he had just been plunged into icy water.

”Spoke out of turn, hm...” Malach murmured. ”What a fascinating excuse.”

He fell silent for a brief moment before continuing.

”So your mouth moved before your mind did. Curious... is that truly possible? The brain is the most complex organ in the human body. An extraordinary machine capable of processing billions of thoughts before even a single vein in your body can twitch. An ascendant brain is said to perform manifold that amount. Yet you’re telling me... you failed to think before speaking.”

He tilted his head slightly.

”Hmm... is that really so, Gordon?”

The color drained from Gordon’s face. Then, a moment later, he slammed his forehead against the war table.

”P-please... forgive me, my lord!”

Malach simply regarded him in silence, his expression unchanged.

The rest of the generals swallowed hard beneath the oppressive atmosphere. None of them even dared breathe too loudly, lest that suffocating pressure shift its focus toward them.

Some moments later, however, a benevolent smile spread across Malach’s face. Then he placed a reassuring hand on Gordon’s shoulder and slowly raised his head.

”It’s alright. We’re all human. We all make mistakes. Don’t we?”

”Y-yes.”

Malach looked Gordon straight in the eyes, but the latter instinctively lowered his gaze.

Then Malach frowned, quietly observing Gordon’s trembling figure.

”Hm.” Malach frowned. ”Is something wrong? You’re trembling.”

”I-it’s nothing.”

”Nonsense.” Malach smiled at the others. ”He must be cold. Bring him a few sweaters. We can’t have him catching a chill.”

”Y-yes, Prime.”

Moments later, Gordon stood silently among the others, wrapped in several thick fur sweaters. Barely a few seconds had passed before beads of sweat began gathering on his forehead from the stifling heat.

Several of the generals stole glances at him, struggling to suppress their laughter, though pity still lingered in their eyes.

With Malach’s gaze returning to the war table, silence settled over the room once more. However, none of them knew that Malach himself was quietly holding back a frown.

’He’s not as I expected.’

The first thing Malach had noticed when he met Zephyrion had been his eyes. Cold. Calm. The eyes of someone who thought. Yet it appeared he had severely overestimated the Lightning Prince’s capabilities.

This move had been carefully planned from the very beginning. He had planted several enchantments on the crate through his cadets, ensuring they would willingly carry it into their own fortress.

It was, in essence, a Trojan horse.

Though the severity of his cadets’ injuries had come as a surprise, it still fell within the range of expected outcomes. That was precisely why he had used Tier Three cadets in the first place.

Yet not only had Zephyrion failed to suspect anything, he had practically handed them the perfect opportunity to carry out their plan.

It was entirely different from the impression the Lightning Prince had given him.

’First impressions can be wrong.’

Such mistakes were rare for Malach... but not impossible.

Malach stared at the war table for several more seconds before finally lifting his eyes.

”Despite our enemy’s apparent stupidity, we will not lower our guard. Jogo.”

One of the generals, a burly cadet with bushy brows and intense eyes, fisted his chest. The sound rang through the war room like iron striking iron.

”Yes, Prime!”

”You will lead tonight’s assault. Ignore everything else and proceed directly to their Bastion Core. Cripple the fortress. Is that understood?”

”Yes, Prime!”

The other generals looked at the grinning Jogo with undisguised envy, Gordon more than anyone. Jogo was the fourth strongest cadet in the northern house and commander of the Striker Unit.

None of them doubted his ability.

However, being entrusted with something as important as crippling an entire fortress was sure to earn him a significant amount of Temper Points. Points they all wanted.

”In the meantime, I want every development reported to me. No matter how trivial it may appear.”

”Yes, Prime!”

After sweeping his gaze across each of the generals one last time, Malach gave a faint nod and left the war room.

Only after the doors closed behind him did the generals quietly let out the breaths they had been holding. Their eyes drifted toward the bright-eyed Jogo.

How lucky.

Then they shifted to the cold-eyed Gordon.

How unlucky.

Not for even a moment did any of them entertain the possibility of failure.

To them, the southern fortress had already fallen.

...

Though reluctant at first, the cadets of the southern house soon found themselves warming to their Prime’s latest order. The resource crate was dragged into the mess hall, and before long, the months of discipline Zephyrion had instilled into them seemed to melt away.

What had begun as a modest, almost restrained celebration quickly snowballed into a full-blown party. With Draven at the helm, riling everyone up with his boisterous shouts and dragging cadets into one game after another, the mess hall soon descended into cheerful chaos as laughter, jokes, and loud voices filled every corner.

The commotion grew so loud that it spilled beyond the fortress walls.

At Zephyrion’s command, the patrols around the fortress had been more than doubled. However, even those unfortunate enough to be assigned to them didn’t seem particularly focused on their duties, stealing envious glances toward the fortress and wondering if they had sinned in their past lives to be this unlucky.

In any case, the southern house was buzzing with excitement.

And in the middle of it all sat Zephyrion, as calm as a still lake, as though everything unfolding around him was perfectly ordinary.

Well... not entirely.

A deep frown rested on his face as he subtly edged his chair farther away, trying to escape Fiona, who remained stubbornly insistent on feeding him.

Aside from that, however, all seemed well.