Knowledge Is Power: The Last Reader

The King was silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving Sting’s face.

Finally, he spoke.

"You get to choose your burden," the King said, "or it will be chosen for you."

Sting raised an eyebrow.

"That’s profound. Did you come up with that yourself?"

"No." The King’s expression darkened. "My mother used to say it."

"Your mother?"

"My real mother. Not that step-bitch." His voice hardened. "The one who died before I was old enough to remember her."

He leaned back slightly.

"She left me a journal. That line was in it. It’s been rattling around in my head ever since I killed all those people."

Sting studied him.

"You’re having regrets?"

The King opened his mouth, then stopped.

"No."

A pause.

"Yes."

He rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I don’t know. I’m having something. I just don’t know what to call it."

The King watched him for a moment before speaking again.

"You have other friends, don’t you?"

Sting frowned.

"What makes you think that?"

"You spoke as if you did."

The King stared at him.

Sting stared back.

Then the King sighed and rubbed his temples.

"I meant another friend. Someone else who can help you. Someone who’s not—"

He gestured vaguely at Sting.

"You."

Sting’s smile widened.

"I knew another."

The King’s expression softened slightly.

"Who?"

"He just needs hope."

The King gave a humorless laugh.

"Yeah? And where do you buy that? Because I’ve been looking for years, and every shop I’ve found is sold out."

"You make it."

Sting leaned back in his chair.

"And you’ve already made plenty."

The King frowned.

"With my fist, you mean?"

"I’ve recorded all of it."

The King stared at him.

"You’ve recorded me punching people?"

"Using my Summon skill."

A long silence followed.

"That’s..." The King slowly shook his head. "That’s not weird at all. Completely normal behavior from someone I just met."

Sting didn’t seem bothered.

"Shadow records everything. It’s what he does. He’s very good at it."

"Shadow?"

"My dragon."

The King glanced around the room.

"Where is he?"

"He’s here."

"I don’t see anything."

"He’s invisible."

The King stared at him.

"Of course he is."

"He’s a Shadow Dragon. He’s made of living darkness. He can turn invisible, pass through walls, and spy on people without them ever knowing."

Sting’s expression softened.

"He’s been my best friend for three years. I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt him."

The King paused.

"That’s..."

He searched for the right word.

"Actually kind of sweet."

Sting smiled.

Sting settled into the chair across from the King’s desk. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes remained sharp.

There was something about the King that reminded him of himself.

The weight in his posture.

The uncertainty behind his eyes.

The way he carried the consequences of his own choices, even when he wasn’t sure whether those choices had been right.

Sting’s expression gradually became more serious.

"There was someone I knew," he said.

The King looked up.

"Who?"

"Anthony Murru."

"Who’s Anthony Murru?"

"He was a physician."

Sting’s voice softened.

"A good one. The kind of doctor who treated everyone equally. Nobles, commoners, beggars—if someone needed help and couldn’t afford it, Anthony helped them anyway."

The King listened quietly.

"What happened to him?"

Sting took a slow breath.

"He gave up his position to start a revolution."

The King’s eyebrows rose.

"A doctor became a revolutionary?"

"He saw how the nobles treated the common people. He saw people starving while the wealthy lived comfortably. And he saw the old King doing nothing about it."

Sting’s eyes hardened.

"So he decided someone had to do something."

The King nodded slowly.

"I understand that feeling."

"Anthony was careful. He built a network of supporters. He gathered evidence. He planned. He tried to find a way to change things without bloodshed."

Sting paused.

"And then one of his own people betrayed him."

The King’s expression darkened.

"Who?"

"A farmer."

"A farmer?"

"One who was barely surviving. He could hardly feed his family and had spent years living on the edge of starvation."

Sting’s fingers tightened slightly against the armrest.

"Anthony felt sorry for him. He gave him food. He offered him a place in the revolution. He gave him something the man hadn’t had in years."

"Hope."

Sting nodded.

"And the farmer sold him out."

"He didn’t simply betray him."

Sting’s voice became colder.

"He walked fifteen kilometers. Barefoot. Through the snow."

The King stared at him.

"Just to find the nearest noble and tell him where Anthony was hiding."

Sting looked down.

"I was there."

The King froze.

"You were there?"

"I’d been tracking Anthony for weeks. I hadn’t decided whether he was worth supporting yet."

He looked toward the window.

"I watched the farmer arrive at the noble’s estate. I watched him tell them where Anthony was hiding. I watched the soldiers go after him."

Sting’s jaw tightened.

"I could have stopped it."

"Then why didn’t you?"

"Because I needed to understand."

The King frowned.

"Understand what?"

"Why."

Sting’s voice was barely above a whisper.

"Why would someone betray the person who had been kindest to them? Why would someone destroy the only person who had ever offered them a better life?"

He looked directly at the King.

"So I watched."

The capture was quick.

Anthony Murru was dragged from his hiding place by soldiers and brought before the noble who had been hunting him for months.

Lord Vexley.

A thin, pale man with cold eyes and a smile that never quite reached them.

He sat in a throne-like chair, surrounded by armed guards, looking almost delighted by the sight before him.

"Anthony Murru," Vexley said, savoring the name. "The famous physician. The would-be revolutionary. The man who thought he could challenge the natural order."

He laughed softly.

"And now look at you."

Anthony said nothing.

His eyes were fixed on the farmer standing in the corner.

The farmer couldn’t meet his gaze.

"Yes," the farmer whispered.

His hands trembled.

"He’s the one."

Vexley glanced at him.

"The one?"

"The man who gave me food. Who helped my family. Who told me I could have something better."

The farmer swallowed.

"And I betrayed him."

Vexley smiled.

"Why?"

The farmer remained silent.

"Why would you walk fifteen kilometers barefoot through the snow just to sell out a man who helped you?"

The farmer slowly raised his head.

His eyes were wet.

"A good man without strength," he said, "is just a man waiting for evil to show mercy."

Anthony’s face changed.

"What?"

The farmer’s voice grew stronger.

"Evil doesn’t have mercy. Evil has power. It has soldiers. It has money. It has the ability to crush anyone who stands against it."

He pointed at Anthony.

"And you gave me hope."

Anthony stared at him.

"You gave me hope that things could be better. That I could be better. That my family could be free."

"And that was a bad thing?" Anthony asked quietly.

The farmer’s face twisted.

Then he screamed.

"YES!"

The word echoed through the room.

"Fighting to be free from what?!"

His voice cracked.

"Ever since you started this revolution, my goats haven’t produced milk! They’re terrified! The voltores followed you everywhere you went, and now my village is infested with them!"

Anthony stared at him in confusion.

"What are you talking about?"

"I’m talking about the price of hope!"

The farmer’s voice broke.

"You gave me hope, and it cost me everything!"

He wiped his eyes.

"My goats. My crops. My peace. I can’t sleep anymore because I’m afraid someone will come for me. I can’t live normally because I’m always looking over my shoulder!"

He pointed at Anthony again.

"And for what? So you can promise me that things will be better someday? What if that day never comes?"

Anthony said nothing.

The farmer’s anger slowly collapsed into exhaustion.

"I never asked for hope."

His voice was barely audible now.

"I never asked to believe that my life could be different."

He looked down.

"I was surviving. That’s all. I had my goats. My family. My little, simple life."

His eyes filled with tears.

"Then you came along."

He looked at Anthony.

"You told me I deserved more."

His voice trembled.

"And now I can’t even look at myself in the mirror without thinking about what I could have been."

Sting fell silent.

The room remained still.

The King stared at the floor, lost in thought.

Then a quiet voice came from the doorway.

"That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard."

Both men looked over.

Aria stood there.

She had arrived several minutes earlier, intending to speak with the King about something that had suddenly seemed very unimportant.

She stepped into the room.

"Which part?" Sting asked.

Aria hesitated.

"All of it."

She looked at Sting.

"The farmer betraying the only person who ever helped him. The physician sacrificing everything to help people who weren’t ready for it."

Her expression tightened.

"Or the fact that the farmer might actually have been right."

Sting nodded slowly.

"I didn’t tell you the worst part."

Aria frowned.

"What could possibly be worse?"

"Anthony didn’t hate him."

The King looked up.

"What?"

"Anthony understood."

Sting’s voice was quiet.

"He forgave him."

The King stared at Sting.

"How?"

"Anthony told the farmer he wasn’t angry. He told him he understood why he’d done it. He didn’t blame him."

The King shook his head.

"How could he forgive that?"

Sting looked at him.

"Because Anthony Murru was a good man."

A pause.

"And good men forgive people who don’t deserve it."

The King was silent for a long time.

Then he finally spoke.

"I think I understand now."

Sting tilted his head.

"Understand what?"

"Why you didn’t stop it."

The King leaned back.

"You needed to know whether it was worth it."

Sting said nothing.

"You needed to know whether helping people was actually worth the cost. Whether fighting for change was worth the suffering it caused."

The King lowered his gaze.

"And when you saw that farmer..."

He paused.

"You thought maybe hope really was the problem."

Sting smiled faintly.

"That’s exactly what I thought."

"For three years?"

"For three years."

Sting looked toward the window.

"I thought helping people was pointless. That hope was a poison. That the safest thing you could do was let people choose their own misery."

"And now?"

Sting looked back at him.

"Now I’m sitting across from a man who killed eighty-two percent of his nobility."

He smiled.

"And I’m starting to think I might have been wrong."

Aria stared at him.

"You think killing people is the answer?"

"No."

Sting’s answer came immediately.

"I think people need to see that evil can be beaten."

His eyes shifted toward the King.

"That power doesn’t always win."

He paused.

"That good people can win."

Aria frowned.

"Even if they have to get their hands dirty?"

Sting’s smile faded.

"Especially then."

The King was quiet for another moment.

Then he asked:

"The farmer. What happened to him?"

Something cold passed through Sting’s eyes.

"He’s dead."

The King looked at him.

"How?"

"I killed him."

The room went silent.

"Three days after Anthony was executed, I went to his village."

Sting’s voice remained calm.

"I found the farmer and killed him."

The King stared at him.

"If you understood him, why?"

"Because understanding isn’t the same as approval."

Sting met his gaze.

"I understood why he chose fear."

His expression hardened.

"But I couldn’t accept what his choice had cost."

"You didn’t blame him."

"No."

"Then why kill him?"

Sting was silent.

Finally, he answered.

"Because he was right."

The King frowned.

"What?"

"A good man without strength is just someone hoping evil will show mercy."

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!