Knowledge Is Power: The Last Reader

The King’s fists were already clenched before Anthony had finished speaking.

"My own true nature frightened me," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "It kept me up at night sometimes. Am I a monster trying to be a man, or a man refusing to be a monster? It doesn’t matter in the end. What matters is what I do. And what I do is kill them."

He turned to face the approaching soldiers—a dozen of them, armed and armored, marching toward the burning cottage with grim determination. Behind them came the slaves, the ones who’d been watching Anthony, ready to drag him back to his comfortable prison.

"So the plan is this," the King said. And then he started punching.

It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t strategic. It was pure, beautiful violence—the kind that came from years of suppressed fury finally finding an outlet. His fist connected with the first soldier’s face, and the man went down like a sack of flour. The second followed. The third. The fourth.

Anthony watched in horror. "Stop! You’re hurting them! Some of them are slaves! They didn’t have a choice—"

The King turned to look at him, and his eyes were cold. "Even weakness can be evil," he said, his voice flat. "We simply pity it too much to see it."

He went back to punching.

The soldiers were falling like dominoes. The slaves—the ones who’d been sent to recapture Anthony—were staring in disbelief, their weapons hanging uselessly at their sides. They’d never seen anything like this. They’d never seen anyone fight like this.

"Please," Anthony begged, grabbing at the King’s arm. "Please stop. They’re just following orders. They’re just trying to survive—"

The King shook him off with a casual shrug that sent Anthony stumbling backward. "And I’m just trying to punch things. It’s very therapeutic. You should try it sometime."

"That’s not—that’s not how this works—"

"That’s exactly how this works." The King delivered a final punch to the last standing soldier, and the man crumpled to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut. "I don’t care about wrong and right anymore. Honestly? I stopped caring a while ago. I just want to be me. And this is me."

He gestured at the pile of unconscious bodies. "This is what I do. This is who I am. And if it changes the world into something I like—" He shrugged. "That’s my right. And those who made the world what it is have no right to complain, because they did the same thing."

He smiled, and there was nothing warm in it. "Call it natural selection."

Anthony stared at him, his face pale. "This doesn’t feel right," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "This doesn’t feel—"

"Honest?" The King’s smile widened. "Sometimes honesty is hard to swallow. But that’s what it is. That’s what I am."

---

Anthony spent the next ten minutes trying to convince them not to kill anyone else.

"You can’t just—you can’t just punch everyone who disagrees with you—"

"Watch me."

"But the slaves—they were forced—"

"Were they? Or did they choose the path that was easiest? The path that kept them safe, kept them comfortable, kept them from having to take a stand?" The King shook his head. "I used to think like you, Anthony. I used to believe that everyone deserved a second chance. That everyone was just a victim of circumstance. That if I was kind enough, gentle enough, patient enough, I could save them all."

He laughed, a short, hollow sound.

"I was wrong. Some people don’t want to be saved. Some people are too weak, too scared, too comfortable to ever change. And trying to save them—" He shook his head. "Trying to save them just makes things worse."

"That’s a terrible philosophy," Anthony said. "That’s—that’s just giving up on people—"

"Sometimes giving up is the kindest thing you can do." The King’s voice was quiet now, almost gentle. "Sometimes the most merciful thing is to stop trying. To let people make their own choices and face their own consequences."

"But you’re not giving them a choice! You’re just—you’re just beating them up—"

"I’m giving them a choice. They can fight back, or they can run. They can surrender, or they can die." The King smiled. "It’s more than they ever gave anyone else."

---

Aria watched the exchange from the sidelines, her expression somewhere between amusement and horror.

"You know," she said to Sting, keeping her voice low, "this is the weirdest revolution I’ve ever been a part of."

Sting nodded. "It’s not really a revolution, though. It’s more like... a very violent therapy session."

"For whom?"

"The King, mostly. But I think we’re all getting something out of it."

"Speak for yourself. I’m just here for the punching."

"That’s the spirit."

---

Anthony was getting desperate.

"You can’t just kill everyone who disagrees with you! That’s—that’s tyranny! That’s what you’re supposed to be fighting against!"

"Actually," the King said, pausing mid-punch to consider this, "I’m fighting against people who make the world worse. If they happen to disagree with me, that’s just a bonus."

"That’s not how logic works!"

"Who said anything about logic? I’m a King. I don’t need logic. I need results."

"But—but—"

"Anthony." The King put a hand on his shoulder, his expression almost kind. "You’re trying to apply reason to a situation that doesn’t respond to reason. You’re trying to make me feel guilty for doing something that feels good. That’s not going to work."

"But—"

"When I punch someone, I feel better. When I feel better, I make better decisions. When I make better decisions, the kingdom improves. This is basic cause and effect." He patted Anthony’s shoulder. "I’m doing this for the good of the realm."

Anthony stared at him. "That’s—that’s insane."

"Insane is just a word people use when they don’t understand the big picture." The King turned and punched another soldier who was trying to sneak up behind him. "See? Big picture."

---

Aria couldn’t help herself. She started laughing.

"You’re impossible," she said to the King. "You’re absolutely impossible."

"I’m a genius," the King corrected. "There’s a difference."

"There’s no difference. You’re just doing whatever you want and pretending it’s strategy."

"It is strategy. It’s very good strategy. The best strategy. People will be studying this strategy for centuries."

"What will they call it? The ’punch everything until it stops being a problem’ approach?"

"I was thinking ’The Fist of Justice,’ actually. Has a nice ring to it."

Anthony made a strangled sound that might have been a sob. "You’re all insane. Every single one of you. This isn’t a revolution. This is—this is a circus. A very violent, very confusing circus."

"Welcome to the circus," the King said cheerfully. "We have punch and pie. Mostly punch."

---

By the time the last soldier was unconscious and the last slave had fled into the hills, Anthony had given up trying to reason with them.

"Fine," he said, his voice hollow. "Fine. Do whatever you want. I don’t care anymore."

"Good," the King said. "That’s the spirit."

"It’s not spirit. It’s exhaustion. Complete, utter exhaustion."

"That’s the first step toward acceptance. We’re making progress."

Sting stepped forward, his expression thoughtful. "What about the slaves? The ones who were supposed to drag him back?"

"What about them?"

"Some of them might want to join us. They might want to—"

"Stop." The King held up a hand. "I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say they deserve a second chance. That they’re just victims of circumstance. That they could be valuable allies if we just gave them a chance."

Sting opened his mouth, then closed it. "Yes. That’s exactly what I was going to say."

The King shook his head. "I used to think like that too. I used to believe that everyone could change. That everyone deserved a chance to be better." He paused, his expression darkening. "And then I spent twenty years watching people prove me wrong."

"That’s not fair—"

"Fairness is a luxury I can’t afford anymore." The King’s voice was flat, final. "I have a kingdom to run. A kingdom that’s been rotting from the inside for decades. I don’t have time to rehabilitate everyone who made the wrong choice. I have to make examples."

"Examples of what?"

"Of what happens when you choose the easy path. When you choose comfort over courage. When you choose safety over justice." The King’s eyes were cold. "I’m not going to save everyone, Sting. I’m not going to try. I’m just going to remove the people who are making things worse, and let the people who want to be better figure out how to do it themselves."

---

Anthony was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he spoke.

"What about me?" he asked, his voice small. "What about my follow slaves? The ones who’ve been watching me, reporting on me? They didn’t want to. They were forced. They—"

"Anthony." The King’s voice was gentle, almost kind. "I know you want to believe the best in people. I know you want to think that everyone is just a victim of circumstance. But the truth is—" He paused, searching for the right words. "The truth is that sometimes, people make choices. Bad choices. And they have to live with the consequences."

"But—"

"Your farmer. The one who sold you out. You forgave him, didn’t you?"

Anthony’s face went pale. "How did you know about—"

"Sting told me. He told me everything." The King stepped closer, his eyes never leaving Anthony’s face. "You forgave him. You understood why he did it. You didn’t blame him."

"Because he was just trying to survive—"

"And what did that get you? What did that understanding get you?" The King’s voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. "It got you years of suffering. Years of losing yourself. Years of watching your dreams die, one by one, until you didn’t even remember what you were fighting for."

Anthony opened his mouth to argue, then closed it.

"Forgiveness is a beautiful thing," the King continued. "But it’s also a weapon. A weapon that the people who hurt you can use against you. A weapon that keeps you weak, keeps you compliant, keeps you from fighting back."

He reached out and put a hand on Anthony’s shoulder.

"I’m not going to forgive anyone," he said. "I’m not going to understand. I’m not going to make excuses. I’m just going to do what needs to be done. And if that makes me a monster—" He shrugged. "So be it. At least I’ll be a monster who got things done."

---

The battle was over. The soldiers were unconscious. The slaves had fled. And Anthony was standing in the middle of the carnage, staring at the King with an expression that was equal parts horror and grudging admiration.

"I don’t know if I can do this," he said. "I don’t know if I can be like you."

"Good," the King said. "I don’t want you to be like me. I want you to be like you. The you who started a revolution. The you who believed in something better. The you who didn’t give up."

"That man is dead."

"Then resurrect him." The King’s voice was fierce, almost angry. "Find him again. Dig him up. Bring him back. Because the world needs that man. The world needs someone who believes in something better."

Anthony was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"I’ll try," he said. "I don’t know if I can—but I’ll try."

The King smiled. It wasn’t warm, but it was real. "That’s all I ask."

---

Later, as they made their way back toward the capital, the King fell into step beside Aria.

"You know," he said, "you’re going to need to get stronger if you want to be part of this team."

Aria raised an eyebrow. "Stronger? I’ve been training for months. I can hold my own—"

"You can hold your own against regular people. But the people we’re going to be fighting—" He shook his head. "They’re not regular. They’re going to be the best. The strongest. The most dangerous. And if you want to survive, you need to be better than them."

"So what do you suggest?"

The King was quiet for a moment. Then he smiled—a slow, calculating smile that made Aria’s stomach do something complicated.

"There’s a vault," he said. "The King’s Vault. It’s a dungeon. A special one. It’s designed to change your class into a royalty class."

Aria blinked. "A royalty class? Like—"

"Like Queen. Princess. Duchess. Something with power, with authority, with the ability to command a domian." He shrugged. "It’s a good class. Very useful. Very powerful."

"But isn’t that vault only meant for royalty? For people who are already—"

"Technically, yes." The King’s smile widened. "But I don’t give a shit. You’re my cute little sister now. If anyone has a problem with you going in there, they can take it up with me."

Aria stared at him. "Your cute little sister?"

"Absolutely. I’ve decided. You’re my little sister. I’m your big brother. That’s the way it is."

"You’re insane."

"Probably. But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong." He patted her head—actually patted her head—and she was too stunned to even duck. "You’re going to be a Queen someday, Aria. A good Queen. A strong Queen. A Queen who punches people who deserve it."

"What if I don’t want to be a Queen?"

The King shrugged. "Then you’ll be something else. A Duchess. A Princess. A High Priestess. Whatever you want. The vault will help you figure it out." He paused, his expression softening. "The point is, you deserve something better than what you’ve had. You deserve power. Real power. The kind that lets you protect the people you care about."

Aria was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, she nodded.

"Okay," she said. "I’ll do it. I’ll go into the vault."

The King’s smile was warm, genuine. "Good. That’s my girl."

---

It was only later that Aria realized she’d been calling him "my King" for months, and he’d started calling her "my girl" without either of them noticing.

She didn’t know how she felt about that. But it wasn’t bad. It wasn’t bad at all.

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