The Hundred Reigns 84: Mask of the Jester King (2) (Patreon)

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Gargauth left behind more than a castle for his successors. 

A cookbook was the last thing Balzam Magnos must have expected to inherit, but he had apparently grown bored enough over his reigns to examine its content. The unfortunate truth was that since a dragon could eat anything and anyone, the recipes recorded within were rather… disturbing.  

Human Family Pie

Beastmen Meat Platter

Dryad Leaf Salad with Pixie Cheese

Roasted Kish with Pineapples

Boiled Elf Turkey A La Bel’Zemine

A disgusted Simon dared to check the last entry, which confirmed that not only was the name not an accident, but that the level of detail suggested it had taken more than one reign to refine the recipe. It even advised to make the elf cry prior to the execution to better ‘salt the meat.’

The kish part was equally disturbing, since Balzam might have found an… alternative use for Eole than sexual slavery had she been brought to him. Simon couldn’t tell which option would have been worse.

“Did Gargauth leave us with anything other than horrors?” Simon asked after tossing the book aside. The mere idea that his father had gone through all the recipes inside disgusted him almost as much as… well, everything else he knew about the man. 

“Gargauth left behind a full treasury in Frightwall, which greatly helped consolidate public investments after his fall, but his actual hoard was never recovered,” Shabram replied. “I suspect he left it to his heirs.”

That would make sense. Vouivre would need a steady cash flow to fuel her war machine, and last reign confirmed she was at least willing to barter with the Cobweb to buy Eole. The sword she used against Simon in Valne might have come from her father’s inheritance.

Oh well, maybe Louis would find some information on the matter. The Crown Prince had already left the castle for House Forneus to hunt down Casval on Simon’s behalf. Simon had no doubt he would triumph over Vouivre, since he had sent her running in previous reigns, and that it should keep him occupied for a while. The problems would come when he returned triumphant. 

“I have recalled Lord Paimon, Prince Dassein, and other generals to Castle Frightwall at your request,” Shabram informed him. “They should return soon.”

“Good,” Simon replied. This would be the best occasion for discussing Operation Deepground and reorganizing the army to kill the civil war in its crib. “What of the elf conspiracy and the Cobweb?”

“I have summoned the Flauros and the Eligos families to Castle Frightwall, officially at Patriate’s demand, and we will arrest them on arrival. We are otherwise in the process of mass-feeding the Malphas agents in Marthrone to Gourmand, and your chosen replacement for Lord-Treasurer is on her way.” Shabram coughed. “Is Your Majesty certain about stamping out the Cobweb? Our connections with them have proved very useful in both infiltrating the White Unicorn and tracking down the Rogue Crestone.”

“This organization is more trouble than it’s worth,” Simon decided. He was tired of the Prince’s constant betrayals, and he was wary about their hunt for the Zodiac Fiends. “I shall not tolerate any interference at this critical juncture. Wipe them out from Endymion.”

Simon sensed Belzemine’s mental contact through her new Brand of Sloth, which slightly bothered him. He had revealed the truth to the elf after the High Council meeting and sworn her to secrecy. It had also been the chance to test out his new Deceitful Title. 

On the one hand, he managed to remove Belzemine’s old slave marks, likely because they had been applied by another Overlord besides Simon before the Crimson Throne improved upon them. He had the feeling he could probably do the same with Duchar, since he had received his own Brand of Sloth from Balzam Magnos. 

On the other hand, the Deceitful Title otherwise worked as advertised. Simon had tried to remove the brands he gave to Shabram as a test and failed, and not even the contract-breaking dagger they recovered from Patriate Malphas could dispel them; it only made the marks invisible to the naked eye unless Simon chose to reveal them as a twisted prank on the elves. 

Hiding the Devil Brands at least suppressed their effects, which meant that the Greed one remained usable, but it only took a single thought for Simon to reactivate them. They never truly went away. 

The people Simon marked were condemned to bear his brands until death, a realization which made applying them to Belzemine all the harder. Simon was more and more convinced he should dedicate a future reign to healing his elf slave’s spirit, or at least find a way to help her stand on her own two feet rather than constantly rely on the Overlord. 

“What is it?” Simon inquired through telepathy. 

“I have completed a cursory examination of the Mana Sword,” Belzemine replied. “The blade seemingly has been crafted from an alloy of silver, adamantine, and orichalcos laced with a multitude of effects ranging from Anti-Heal to Necrophobia and Damage Transfer disruption. I can attest it was forged by my kind, although I do not sense any trace of the Mana Goddess’ benediction.”

Strange. The benediction supposedly made the blade unique, so much that Patriate and his conspiracy doubted weaker copies could destroy the Overlord Class permanently. “Could this blessing have been spent when it struck my father?”

“I’m not sure, Your Majesty. I will need more time to analyze it fully.”

“Then proceed. Uncovering the Mana Sword’s secrets is a top priority.” Simon was wary of touching the weapon himself for fear it might either harm him like the Paladin Crestone or disrupt his Fiendmask. “What of the crystal ball we recovered from Patriate?”

“It appears to be a one-way communication system. The connection can only open from the Oracle’s side.”

A pity, but Simon had assumed as much. The risk that it would be used to strike at the Oracle must have been too great. “Keep monitoring it for any sign of activity, and inform me if you make any breakthroughs.” 

“As Your Majesty wishes.”

Simon cut off the mental contact and focused back on Shabram. “What else is on today’s agenda? The official, pre-kingslaying agenda?”

“Your father spent most of his ‘work hours’ dictating orders and letters to our various officials or planning military campaigns, with the occasional public audience to deliver justice and hear petitions. The afternoons were dedicated to leisure time, like hunts, banquets, Gourmand’s performances, and private executions.” Of course Balzam considered murder ‘free-time.’ “You are scheduled to have lunch with your family, during which I assume Empress Euphemia will discuss her children’s arranged marriages.”

“That reminds me, recall Norbelle to Frightwall too,” Simon decided. “I might need her soon.”

Simon was currently in a unique position to claim and consume Noble Crestones belonging to the imperial elites. Almost everyone on the High Council owed their Classes to Balzam Magnos. Trying to take Euphemia or Louis’ Crestones would likely lead to a fight Simon couldn’t win, but the others would be hard-pressed to deny him access to their own. The likes of the Commander, Summoner, or Alchemist had to have powerful Perks that Simon could assimilate. Moreover, Norbelle was the only known case of a Visionary with Darkblood power, which would give Simon insight into his own condition and how to further empower himself. 

“As Your Majesty wishes,” Shabram said before suddenly recalling something. “I almost forgot. A kish shifter prisoner was due to be presented to your father as a potential slave concubine.”

Simon scowled in disgust. He wanted nothing more than to free Eole, but letting a pretty slave girl go would be the last thing on Balzam’s mind. It would raise too many questions and break character. 

He could ask Shabram to make Eole ‘disappear’ and secretly release her somewhere else, but there was a risk she would run back to Telluria or get caught by the Cobweb rather than return to her people’s sanctuary. Voltobauta had apparently been on the lookout for a kish to capture, too. Simon doubted Eole would believe a prophet's story that came from the sitting Overlord rather than a friendly prince. She had almost deserted him in Valne when she learned the truth about his Class. 

This was a very delicate situation. Simon didn’t feel sure of himself to release her now until he could resume his true identity and put the timeline back on track. He had to keep her at his side and under surveillance for now. 

‘Balzam Magnos’ could find a use for her. One that didn’t require bedding her. 

“Have the kish perform at my meal as a singer instead, to accompany Gourmand’s performance. I’ve heard they have a wonderful singing voice.” That should do for the time being until Simon could drop this masquerade. “How far away is your son from the castle?”

“He’s in the capital.” Shabram smiled at him. “Do you wish to visit your half-brother?”

“I might as well meet him, since I have some free time today.” Simon never had a younger sibling, and he was quite curious to meet kin he wouldn’t have to constantly lie to. Moreover, his experience with Euphemia taught him he absolutely needed a backup Dungeon safehouse to teleport to. A secret location in Marthrone might fit the bill. “I’ll be sure to include something for him in the will.”

Shabram’s eyebrows furrowed. “The will?”

“My will, so to say.” Simon had finally figured out a way of smoothing things over. “Balzam Magnos is going to prepare his own succession.”

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The ambiance at the Magnos dinner table was icy. 

With Louis gone and the rest occupied abroad, the only family members present were ‘Balzam,’ Euphemia, Thalas, and Lauriane. The empress was scowling, Thalas was silent as a tomb, and Lauriane seemed tenser than usual. 

At least the food was good and the entertainment passable. Gourmand—who had grown fat on all the souls recently fed to him—was reenacting a new play of his own invention, The Tragedy of Barthandelus the Unwise, to the tune of Eole’s singing. Simon’s kish friend was sending glares to her captor, but her slave tattoos compelled her to play the harp for the people present. This robbed Simon of any pleasure he might have derived from the performance.  

Were family dinners always like this when his father was alive? If so, then Simon considered himself fortunate never to have been invited to one. Lauriane’s cold silence surprised Simon the most, since he thought she at least liked her sire. 

“Where is Simon?” Lauriane asked out of the blue. “I couldn’t find him in his room, and none of the handmaids saw him since last night.”

She was the only one who cared. “I sent him away to train at a secure location,” Simon replied as if it were no big matter. “He will return once he gains enough levels to be useful to me.”

While Euphemia scowled and Thalas bit his tongue in jealousy, Lauriane squinted at her father with skepticism. “Train?”   

“Since Louis disappointed me, I decided to expand my pool of potential successors,” Simon replied. “Since we should obtain a new Noble Crestone before long, I decided it would be easier for your half-brother to train in the associated Vassal Class to ease his inheritance.”  

“Which Noble Class?” Lauriane inquired with suspicion.

Overlord. “That is not for you to know yet, my daughter.” 

Lauriane scowled without pushing any further, and Euphemia seized what she saw as an opportunity. “You should at least disinherit Louis as Crown Prince,” she suggested. “The lack of strong punishment will encourage kingslaying.”

“True,” Simon replied, “Perhaps I should name Lauriane Crown Princess.”

That wasn’t the answer Euphemia sought, nor Lauriane herself. “I am pleased by the attention, Father, but I am a shadow of Louis.”

“Lauriane lacks the strength and influence to steer this empire,” Euphemia added. “And Dassein has no appetite for rulership.”

“Whereas your son has no aptitude for it,” Simon replied harshly, which caused Thalas to sink in his chair. 

“Our son,” Euphemia replied venomously. “Thalas will be in a better position to keep the empire in one piece should anything happen to us. Lord Paimon is searching for a husband to wed his daughter, Anna. Should we break Thalas’ engagement to Antonine–”

“No,” Simon cut in sharply. 

Euphemia scowled in frustration. “No?”

“No. I have other plans for Anna, and Thalas already has a woman too good for him.” Which certainly said something, considering the kind of opportunist Antonine was. “I am not spoiling him any further.” 

Euphemia gripped the silver cutlery so much that it bent between her fingers. Thalas eventually cleared his throat, obviously wishing to speak up, but being scared to do so without invitation. 

Simon already knew what he was about to ask, yet feigned vague curiosity, “Do you have anything to add, Thalas?”

“Father, I…” Thalas coughed. “I, uh… I woke this morning to find that the… the only exit to my bedroom led to the castle’s toilets now.”

“Yes, you always had a gift for pointing out the obvious, Thalas,” Simon replied dryly. “Yes, I changed your room’s location.”

“But… Why did you do that, Father?”

Because I hate you. “I thought that being a turd yourself, you would feel right at home.”

The crushed look in Thalas’ eyes filled Simon with immense pleasure, almost as much as Euphemia’s indignant glare and the rush of a new level. 

Level 47 Overlord Perk: Devil Brand V (Active): You can mark a willing target with the Brand of Envy, granting them the ability to change their features and polymorph into any creature of the same Type they wish. In return, you may lock them in a specific shape anytime you want. 

Huh, he must have been closer to a new level than expected after the High Council meeting. A pity Simon couldn’t gain experience for the same thing twice, or he would humiliate Thalas more often. The new brand was a little more niche than the others, though the fact that it was a polymorphic effect rather than an illusion one opened up new options. Simon made a mental note to test its limits in the near-future.

Thalas meekly stared back at his roasted chicken, while Euphemia’s fork snapped in her hand. 

“Out.” If words could kill, then the sheer venom in Euphemia’s mouth would have slain everyone in the room. “All of you, out. Even the jester and singer.”

“But Your Grace!” Gourmand protested. “I haven’t gotten to the dead wife part yet!”

“I said…” Euphemia’s face became red with rage. “Out!”

Simon scowled, then waved his hand at the people present. “Leave us.”

Everybody meekly obeyed this time, with Gourmand dragging Eole outside while Lauriane and Thalas left without a word. Simon had the clear impression that such spats were common occurrences for them. 

“What is wrong with you?!” Euphemia snarled at her ‘husband’ once they were alone. “Your eldest son gets away with a slap on the wrist after failing to murder you and successfully killing a bystander, but you constantly mistreat Thalas without reason!”

Simon had to give it to Euphemia, she at least cared for her children. Simon might have sympathized with her a bit if she hadn’t tried to have him executed before he even obtained the Overlord Class. 

“Why would I treat him any other way?” Simon snapped back, and for once that was something both he and his father would have said. Thalas was such an insecure, petty bully that Simon felt little to no sympathy for him. 

“Because he’s the only one of your children who actually loves you, you heartless bastard!” Euphemia snapped back. “Louis and your bastard hate you, Lauriane and Dassein fear you, and Norbelle doesn’t care! Thalas alone wants your affection! Our son would storm Illusea on his lonesome if you ordered him to! He works himself to the bone every day to earn a sliver of your attention, yet you’ve treated him like crap since the day he was born! Why?!”

Simon already knew the answer to that mystery. “He was born without your gifts.”

“Neither were your first three children and bastard, you asshole!” Euphemia replied angrily. “Thalas is half of you! Or is it your way to humiliate me, the same way you parade that bastard around?!”

Uh… she had a point. Why did Balzam treat Thalas so much worse than the likes of Dassein or Lauriane? Although he lacked his siblings’ gifts, he wasn’t entirely incompetent. Was Balzam’s disappointment in his lack of visionary gifts that profound? 

Euphemia took his silence for disdain and spat at her husband’s armor. Simon’s heart skipped a beat, but it thankfully wasn’t enough to dispel the Fiendmask. 

“The only reason I am happy Louis failed to kill you is because you turned him into an even worse monster than you!” Euphemia said as she stormed out of the room. “I pray you rot in the Abyss with Mardok and Gargauth!”

Simon watched her leave without a word. He knew his father’s and Euphemia’s marriage had deeply degraded—if it had ever been happy—but it had reached such a point that Simon was surprised she hadn’t beaten Louis to the punch. Balzam’s treatment of Thalas apparently played a great part in their rift.

A nagging doubt began to gnaw at Simon’s heart. Balzam had had many reigns to shape Thalas however he wished since birth. So why treat him so poorly for the sake of it? Wouldn’t it have been easier to at least avoid making an enemy of Euphemia by mistreating him?

Simon teleported back into Shabram’s office, which confirmed that Euphemia either didn’t want to or couldn’t apply her Law when an Overlord ruled in the open. 

“Your Majesty,” his spymistress said once arrived, not surprised in the slightest to see him so soon. “Are we ready to depart?”

“Not yet,” Simon replied. A question bugged him. “Did my father leave a letter for Thalas, like he left one for me?”

“Yes, I think he did. Let me check.” Shabram searched a thin file off her shelf, grabbed a sheet of paper inside it, and then handed it over to Simon. “I always found it odd he wrote one for you and him, but not the rest of his children.”

I’ll find out why soon enough, Simon replied upon checking the letter. Much like his own, it was written in an undecipherable code only an Overlord could understand. The words had been put down to paper with less care and more haste than Simon’s own posthumous message. 

Thalas,

I know I am most probably wasting my time writing this, the same I wasted so many years on you, but a small part of me still clings to the hope that you had it in you to become a true Magnos. If you are reading this letter, then know that I would have acknowledged you as my son in life. If not, then I will at least put my feelings to paper. 

All your life, I’ve tried to make a man out of you. 

I had very high hopes for you long before you were born. I still remember the first time I laid eyes on your mother, back when she was a beautiful child of thirteen who had just started having visions that led her to the lost Judge Class, unaware of her immense potential. I knew I had to claim her for myself that very moment; that she would open up the road to the Crimson Throne and give me an heir worthy of our illustrious house.

I spent years preparing laying the groundwork, discreetly and then openly supporting her revolt against Gargauth, becoming her stalwart ally and confidant, eliminating my rivals and comforting her over their losses, setting the stage for our union… until I convinced her to marry me once Eleanor was out of the picture. We were wed soon before the final battle, a week after her sixteenth birthday. The moment I deflowered her was once one of my most treasured memories. We conceived you that night, my son.

And there’s not a day that passes that I don’t regret not pulling out. 

Since the deed was done before I slew Gargauth, I could not ensure you turned out alright. Seeing you coming out without three eyes was a disappointment, but I could have found it in my heart to appreciate you if not for your intrinsic weakness. 

There is something broken with you, my boy. A birth defect I could not erase no matter how hard I tried. All of my trueborn children and Simon found the strength to kill me at least once. All of them had what it took to become the Fourth Overlord.

Except you.

You alone, out of all my children, never had the guts or the power to kill me. You alone proved utterly unworthy to earn my throne, in spite of all the advantages your lineage afforded you. 

I attempted to fix you so many times, in so many ways. I trained you, I praised you, I beat you. I gave you the best teachers and the worst. I strangled your mother before your eyes and gave you to the elves to raise. Nothing worked. Killing your father is simply beyond you. 

The breaking point was when I impregnated your fiancée, Antonine, on your wedding day (and unlike you, she wasn't faking her pleasure). I still cherish the face you made that day. I thought that would finally be it. That you would at long last live up to the Magnos name. 

And then came Simon. 

He attacked us out of nowhere—like he always does—in the form of a great archdemon, tearing apart everyone in his way. When he charged at me with Dassein still impaled on those giant bull horns of his, I thought my time had come. 

Instead… instead you pushed me out of the way at the last second and paid the ultimate price for it. After everything I had done to you, after I cuckolded and humiliated you in public, you still chose to save my life.  

Tears rained down my cheeks for the first and only time in my entire existence. 

Tears of disgust.

How could someone so weak be born of my loins? After everything I put you through, how could you miss that chance for vengeance? 

I named Antonine’s bastard child Thalas II in the hope he would be better. They thought it was my way of honoring your memory. 

It wasn’t. 

All the hopes I had of you amounting to anything vanished afterwards. At first, I tried to forcefully make room in your mother’s womb early so I could sire a better son, but Euphemia gets too emotional when I do that, because you’re her first and she doesn’t know better. I even struggle to conceive Norbelle, because whenever the time comes I often remember your conception and underperform. 

You ruined this for me. I want you to know that. You ruined this for me.

In the end, I did find a use for you. I settled on giving you the Berserker Crestone and treating you like a dog. I fed your jealousy towards your siblings so your wrath would sharpen your edge and ensure they hated you back. My hope is that you will either finally toughen up, or most probably serve as a training run for one of your worthier siblings. A sacrifice to provide them with the experience and resolve to take a shot at their old man.

I hope, nay, I pray I am wrong, but in the end… I have the sneaking suspicion that a stepping stone is the best you will ever amount to. 

And I’ll have to live with that knowledge.

With contempt, 

Your reluctant father. 

Simon reread the letter, then tore it apart in disgust. 

For the first time in his life, he actually felt pity for Thalas. 

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