Kaiser felt his anger boil over, raw, ruthless, and uncompromising. The searing pain in his skull had started to recede, replaced by a cold fury.

He blinked away the lingering flashes in his vision, steadying himself as the blurs sharpened into shapes once again. The scene before him was tragic, absurd even, and he struggled briefly against the impulse to just slaughter everyone here and be done with it.

Yet the tiny lens recording his every move flashed in his mind, a reminder to control himself. Instead, Kaiser calmly reached into his pouch, producing a spare med-pek with methodical precision. He snapped it between two fingers, breaking the crystalline disc and scattering the gentle green healing dust over Martha's trembling, bloodied form.

Her screams gradually quieted into weak, choking sobs. Kaiser knelt, inspecting her quickly but carefully, noting with relief that she would survive. The wound wasn't mortal, but her left eye was severely damaged, likely beyond full repair. The dust was potent, but clearly not enough for injuries of this severity.

"You'll live," Kaiser murmured coldly, indifferent to whether she heard him. Survival was all that mattered for the Tale's completion, and he'd achieved that much, at least.

Behind him, Ivan's struggle with Kalagrim intensified. The older Liberator, mad with grief and rage, had somehow found another blade hidden within the folds of his tattered clothing. Despite his mangled fingers, Kalagrim was dangerous, skilled, and determined—more so than Kaiser would have imagined.

Ivan's clones struggled to restrain him, their blue-tinted forms darting in and out, attempting to seize another small blade or subdue the wild, desperate man. But Kalagrim fought like a cornered animal, his eyes burning with madness as he struck at Ivan again and again, pushing him back inch by inch.

"You little dog!" Kalagrim snarled through bloodied teeth, pressing the blade toward Ivan's exposed throat, forcing the boy's armor-clad arms to tremble in desperate resistance. "Loyalty to your masters will only get you killed! Look how easily they let you die!"

Ivan's eyes widened with genuine fear, sweat pouring down his forehead. His voice shook, strained by panic. "Kaiser—!"

Kaiser felt a dark surge of annoyance mixed with admiration for Ivan's stubbornness. It was time to end this farce, and in a blur of practiced precision, he moved.

He crossed the distance in a single step, sword slicing cleanly, effortlessly through Kalagrim's raised arm. The severed limb dropped to the floor with a dull, sickening thud, the dagger clattering from limp fingers. Blood spurted from the stump, and a dark spray paintied the floorboards.

Kalagrim had no time even to scream. Kaiser's foot collided brutally with his face, sending the older man sprawling across the room. The crunch of bone echoed clearly as his nose shattered, his body slamming violently against the wall. He crumpled into a limp heap, groaning and gasping through the pain.

Ivan collapsed onto the floor, panting heavily, wide-eyed. He looked down at the discarded arm, swallowing hard. "Holy… Kaiser… gods…"

"Enough," Kaiser cut him off sharply, voice tight with suppressed fury. "You're alive, and he's no longer a threat. Get up."

Ivan staggered to his feet, giving a shaky nod, his eyes still locked onto the bleeding form of Kalagrim. "T-thank you…"

Kaiser ignored the gratitude, turning instead to glare at the battered man now crumpled against the wall, sobbing weakly in agony. Kalagrim, barely conscious, stared up at Kaiser through a mask of blood, eyes filled with pain.

"Monster…" Kalagrim whispered, though it was unclear whether he meant himself or Kaiser.

Now that Kalagrim lay defeated on the ground, breathing in ragged gasps, his gaze swimming between madness and hatred, Kaiser stood quietly. He stared down at the fallen Liberator, cold crimson eyes narrowing thoughtfully. A strange calm descended upon him, a silence so profound, so deeply detached, that it bordered on the ethereal.

Monster, Kalagrim had called him. And Kaiser wondered, briefly, if perhaps he was right. Yet the label didn't bother him, nor did it stir any indignation or shame. It simply provoked curiosity, a profound intellectual amusement. If he was indeed a monster, then surely he was one forged by necessity, refined by a reality so harsh, so cruel, that only monstrous pragmatism could tame it.

Slowly, Kaiser's thoughts drifted to Ivan. The boy had been a slave when they met, a life stripped of dignity and freedom, left to rot at the edge of the world by petty, foolish men. Yet Ivan seemed indifferent, almost forgiving, of those who had captured and tormented him. It was curious, unexpected even, for Kaiser would have expected that kind of detached pragmatism only from someone of considerable intelligence and foresight, traits he did not readily attribute to Ivan.

Yet there it was, undeniably present.

Human beings were merely tools, no different from swords, axes, or pots and pans. They were instruments crafted by a forge of experience, shaped by the hammer blows of trauma and pain. It would be utter folly to discard a blade simply because it had cut your hand, or to abandon a pan because it spilled scalding oil. Such instruments, though flawed, still held value. Even an axe with a chipped edge could be sharpened again, its use restored, its purpose renewed. The wise craftsman never blamed the tool for its failings, nor threw it away in petty spite. He repaired it, refined it and made it useful again.

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But a tool that no longer served a purpose? One broken beyond repair, beyond redemption? A blade that shattered into fragments, or rusted into dust? Those, Kaiser believed, deserved nothing but abandonment. Mercy was wasted on uselessness, and pity had no place in pragmatism.

He turned his attention back to Ivan, studying the young man carefully, a slow, cold smile curling at the edge of his lips. Kaiser knew Ivan could kill, had killed even. and yet a spark of heroism lingered in his eyes, a stubborn idealism clinging to him despite the brutality he'd endured. He was not blind with self-righteousness like Elsie, nor foolishly soft-hearted. Perhaps… perhaps Ivan could learn something far more valuable than heroism.

Could Ivan be shaped into Kaiser's own image, transformed into someone who recognized the world as it truly was? A place devoid of heroes and villains, filled instead with tools, instruments, resources waiting to be wielded. Could he see people not as fragile vessels of moral worth, but as pieces in an endless game of dominion?

The possibility excited Kaiser, stirred something within him that bordered on genuine enjoyment. To teach someone his ways, his truths, felt oddly appealing. Even if the experiment failed spectacularly, Kaiser knew he'd gain insight, clarity and knowledge. And knowledge, he knew better than anyone, was worth more than gold or power or glory. Knowledge was control. It was the purest form of dominance.

Kaiser's chilling smile widened, his face transformed into something that might have belonged in nightmares, as he slowly turned to Ivan, crimson eyes burning with intensity. The boy was trembling slightly, breath uneven, clearly shaken by the violence, the madness, and the blood, but mostly, Kaiser himself.

"Ivan," Kaiser said softly, his voice calm yet cold enough to freeze the very air, "Are you alright?"

Ivan flinched slightly, snapping out of his daze. He looked up, meeting Kaiser's piercing stare with wide, uncertain eyes. "Y-yes, Kaiser," he murmured nervously, voice trembling yet resolute. "I'll… I'll manage."

Kaiser studied him for a lingering moment, savoring the raw honesty, the vulnerable strength that shone in Ivan's gaze. "Good. Now, what should we do?"

For a moment, no one spoke. The heavy air was thick with the iron tang of blood and the raw stench of panic. It was Ivan who broke the silence first, voice thin and desperate, clinging to some semblance of normalcy. "We… we should take her outside. Wait for Celestine's signal, just like you said. The others—"

But Kaiser cut him off with a cold glance, voice as sharp as broken glass. "I know that much, Ivan. What I'm asking is what to do about him?" He gestured, with a flick of his boot, to the gasping Kalagrim, who stared up at them both with naked, animalistic hatred. "What about this criminal? This murderer?"

Ivan's mouth snapped shut. For a heartbeat he looked at Kalagrim, then at the trembling, half-conscious woman—then away, shame burning bright on his cheeks. The answer wouldn't come.

But Kalagrim found his voice, hoarse and hateful. "Fuck you. You Liberators are all the same. Animals. You think you're heroes, but you only work for Sul—just another pack of dogs, serving whoever gives you a bone."

Kaiser crouched, face blank, staring at Kalagrim with cold, analytical detachment. "Is that supposed to be an insult?" he asked, genuinely curious. "You think calling me a dog will change anything?" When Kalagrim spat, opening his mouth to retort, Kaiser moved like a snake—one swift, brutal punch to the throat. Kalagrim spasmed, hurling and coughing, eyes bulging as he clutched at his neck.

Ivan's face twisted in horror. "Kaiser—what are you doing?" he hissed, but Kaiser ignored him, still staring at Kalagrim as if examining a particularly interesting insect.

"Ivan." Kaiser's tone shifted, growing cold and instructional, like a teacher drilling into a reluctant pupil. "What should we do to a man such as this?"

Ivan's answer was slow to come. "We… we take him with us," he managed, voice small but steady. "Let the Liberatorium judge him, or the mayor—someone. We're not executioners, Kaiser."

"Incorrect," Kaiser said flatly, his gaze never leaving Ivan. "He's a psychopath, Ivan. You saw it with your own eyes—he tried to murder that woman right in front of us. You think this is about judgment? About who holds the gavel? We're Liberators, Ivan. We came here to save people, to bring peace, to bring order. That is our contract, our purpose, our very reason for existing. So tell me: What do you do with rot like this? Filth that stains the world?"

Ivan's hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms. "I… I don't know! We should—he deserves a second chance. Everyone does."

Kaiser's laugh was low, humorless. "Cut the crap, Ivan. You can't pick and choose your morals. You either believe in mercy for all, or for none. What about you? Haven't you killed before?"

Ivan's face went white, a memory flickering behind his eyes. "Yes. I've killed. But I—"

Kaiser's words cut him off again, relentless as a storm. "So where's your line, then? If this woman—" He jabbed a finger at the injured Martha. "—was your sister, would that make it alright to kill him? Does your mercy end at blood, or at kin, or at pain?"

Ivan's jaw trembled. His eyes dropped to the ground, unable to meet Kaiser's burning crimson stare. He struggled for words, but they came out as a whisper. "I… I don't know."

Kaiser let the silence drag out, the weight of the question pressing down like a mountain. Then, softly—almost gently—he spoke.

"You see, Ivan, the world isn't divided into heroes and villains. There are only tools—blades, hammers, axes. You use them until they break. If an axe is chipped, you sharpen it. If a pan burns you, you still cook with it. Only when a tool is utterly useless do you cast it aside. Kalagrim here… he's still useful. He knows this village. He knows its secrets. He might still help us complete this Tale. And that is the only reason he's still breathing."

Ivan's knuckles turned white. "That's… that's not right. People aren't tools, Kaiser. We have to be better than that."

Kaiser leaned in, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "No, Ivan. You have to be effective. You have to survive. The only morality that matters in the end is success. If you want to save lives, if you want to build something lasting, then you use every tool available, no matter how broken or dirty."

Kalagrim coughed, voice still raw, but with a sick sort of admiration in his ruined smile. "I've met plenty of monsters in my time, Liberator. But you—" He spat blood. "You might be the worst of them."

Kaiser rose, dusting off his hands as if cleaning away filth. "Believe me Kalagrim, I've been called worse."

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