Chapter 03: You Are a Liar


    "Masym Rete! Why do you know him?"


    Arryn''s voice was sharp and demanding, his predatory eyes locking onto Luke’s gaze. Blood trickled down his forehead, yet Luke didn’t flinch. Instead, he returned Arryn’s stare unwaveringly and responded,


    "Because Masym Rete is a regular buyer of ours, and he is the one who ordered me to steal your divine sword."


    Arryn stayed silent for several moments, his expression inscrutable. The tension only escalated Luke''s anxiety, his mind torn between fleeing or begging for mercy. Yet a small part of him kept repeating:


    ‘Take the bait. Take the bait already.’


    Blood pooled at his feet. His vision wavered from the head injury and the remnants of intoxication clouding his mind. Consciousness flickered, and memories surfaced—


    Memories he couldn''t distinguish from Errol Wynter’s past or his own recollections of reading about him.


    ---


    Under the same roof, beneath a swaying chandelier, in a room lined with shelves brimming with alcohol—


    A man slouched in a grand chair, boots propped up on an oak table. His unkempt black hair fell over tired brown eyes, and his crimson shirt, stained with spilled booze, clung to his lean frame. His black pants, dirtied at the knees, only made his stick-thin legs look more frail. But the true mark of menace lay in his boots—scuffed, worn, and streaked with dried blood.


    Errol Wynter.


    Yet this was not the same man who had once bowed before Arryn. He looked pitiful, exhaustion weighing on his frame, but his voice carried a slurred, venomous bite as he barked at the man bowing before him at the wide-open doorway.


    "How many times do I have to say it?! Don’t bring up that bastard’s name in front of me! I don’t care if Arryn is in Lestead City or not."


    Errol’s voice slurred with frustration. The figure at the door lifted his gaze slightly and repeated the message he was sent to deliver:


    "Your sister orders you to remain hidden until Arryn departs the city. She insists you must not cross his path, Sir Errol."


    Errol''s eyes flared with rage.


    "What?!"


    He shot to his feet so abruptly that the chair scraped against the floor with a screech.


    "I run Lestead’s underground market! And she wants me to cower in hiding because of some sanctimonious prince?!"


    With a furious swing, Errol hurled the glass pitcher in his hand at the messenger. It barely missed, flying past him—


    Only to freeze mid-air.


    With a flick of a hidden hand, the pitcher hovered as if suspended by invisible strings before drifting back to the table.


    The trick hadn’t been performed by the bowing man, but by another presence lurking in the shadows of the hallway.


    Errol, now unsteady on his feet, collapsed back into his chair with a dissatisfied frown.


    "Tch. Useless. Tell my sister that Errol will be the one to kill Arryn. Now get out."


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!Errol gestured for the person bowing to leave, as applause echoed from the hallway, praising his brave words.


    The messenger rose and turned around without uttering a word. As his footsteps slowly faded into the darkness of the hallway, they abruptly disappeared—as if he had been swallowed by it.


    Errol’s smirk deepened. It wasn’t just the sound of footsteps that had disappeared.


    So had the man’s life.


    A wave of dark energy surged from the hallway. Errol grabbed a nearby bottle and took a swig as the shadow crept into the room, extinguishing the candlelight until only darkness remained.


    "Why are you here? My sister’s not in the city."


    Errol spoke between gulps, unaffected by the suffocating blackness surrounding him, having long grown accustomed to such trickery. His only focus was to end the conversation quickly.


    A whisper slithered through the blackness, gentle yet chilling.


    "I came for you."


    Errol chuckled, the shock short-lived.


    "Me? And what exactly do you want from me?"


    The whisper coiled around his ear, warm and insidious.


    "I want you to steal Arryn’s divine sword."


    ---


    A fleeting dream, far too real, made Luke regain his consciousness. He found himself lying on his back, staring at the flickering candlelight on the ceiling, and wondered,


    ‘Why isn’t any wax dripping?’


    Like a sudden jolt pulling him back to the present, a sharp sting in his forehead snapped him back to reality.


    Luke touched the spot, expecting to feel blood—but the wound was gone. Not even a scar remained. Only the crimson stains on his hands proved it had been real.


    In shock, Luke stood with great struggle. His legs trembled, but he fought to stay standing. His eyes scanned the room, searching for his tormentor.


    Arryn stood by the liquor shelves, inspecting a bottle as if Luke were of no concern.


    For a moment, Luke eyed the front door, the temptation to dash toward it and escape while he still could weighing heavily on him.


    Instead, he turned toward Arryn and took a single step forward. The movement caught Arryn''s attention, making it clear—Luke had made the right decision not to run.


    "Oh! Weak-legs, you''re finally awake!" Arryn grinned, grabbing a bottle from the shelf and hurling it toward Luke. "Catch!"


    The bottle’s arc was short—it would never reach him. Luke would have to run forward to catch it, but his legs were in no condition to move. He simply watched as the bottle crashed between them.


    Arryn maintained his smile, silently delivering a message:


    *If you can’t run to catch that bottle, how will you run from me? Don’t even think about escaping.*


    Luke clenched his fists. Arryn stepped closer, expression darkening as he unsheathed his divine sword.


    "I’m going to ask you three questions."


    Luke''s heart raced, but a faint smile tugged at his lips—one too subtle for Arryn to perceive. Satisfaction coursed through his mind as he thought,


    ‘He took the bait.’


    Arryn raised his divine sword between them, its hilt pointed downward and blade held upright. His voice resonated with unwavering authority:


    "You may answer however you like. You can lie, you can tell the truth—but I will be the one to determine whether you are truthful or a liar."


    ‘Here comes Arryn’s selfish judgment.’


    Luke understood Arryn''s words all too well, having read about them in the novel. He knew this judgment was nothing more than self-gratification.


    Arryn didn''t seek the truth. He had already decided the answers he wanted to hear. If the responses matched his expectations, he would let the person live. If not—


    Arryn’s divine sword pulsed suddenly as he asked his first question,


    “What do you know about Masym Rete and his identity?”


    Luke didn''t hesitate.


    "Enough to point my finger at Masym Rete."


    Luke couldn’t discern whether Arryn was convinced by his answer, as Arryn’s face remained obscured behind the divine sword’s white light.


    Without commenting on the first question, the divine sword pulsed again, and Arryn’s voice asked the second question,


    "Why should I keep you alive after you lose your purpose when you’ve revealed Masym Rete?"


    Luke swallowed hard and responded in a solemn tone,


    "You don’t have to. I accept any fate—so long as you kill Masym Rete."


    The sword flared a final time.


    "Why did you and Masym Rete want my divine sword?"


    Luke hesitated, unlike his previous prompt responses. His mind scrambled for the right answer—


    *Money? Fame? Power?*


    But none of them felt convincing. Then, a faint memory surfaced before his eyes, and instinctively, he spoke:


    "We stole it to kill you with your own sword. Look at me! I run the underground market of Lestead City! And you expect me to live in hiding because of a self-righteous prince like you visiting my city?"


    The moment Luke’s answer reached Arryn’s ears, the sword stood between them, and in an instant, its edge was at Luke’s throat.


    With an unwavering voice, Arryn declared,


    "Errol Wynter, you are a liar."


    [The Hero’s Journey continues...]