The Hundred Reigns 249: The Workshop of Horrors (8)

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The Coils’ couple picture came out, showing a worried woman and a tense man facing the pictobox. 

Neither had wood for bones nor buttons for eyes. Simon’s sigh of relief was echoed by Magda, whereas Jym Coil let out a small noise. He sounded almost surprised by the outcome.

“Why are you making that face?” his wife asked in disbelief. “Did you think you were a puppet in disguise?”

“I would not have been surprised,” Coil replied bluntly. “My mind does not function like most people's do.”

Function. Even his vocabulary almost sounded artificial. Simon wasn’t too surprised by the result either—Bert wouldn’t have spent so much effort trying to ruin Coil if he had been one of his puppets—but the man’s odd behavior still confused him a bit. 

“Well, it’s a relief either way,” Simon said. 

“But what do we do now?” Magda replied, scowling at her husband. “If you won’t leave—”

“I will not run,” Coil said with nonchalance that bordered on obsessive madness. “I cannot be late.”

“Then keep the pictures as insurance,” Simon suggested. “Bert’s organization might survive their publication, but it would significantly disrupt his plans. This should briefly buy your safety until I deal with them.”

“Deal with them?” Magda frowned at him. “How so?”

“Very simple.” Simon smiled from ear to ear. “I’ll talk to Ludwig Bert and make him see reason.”

One way or another. 

—------------------------------

Earning himself a private audience with Ludwig Bert was as simple as going to his company’s office and asking for one. A carriage arrived to pick him up and bring him to his manor within a day’s time. His host even sent muscled Finkton men to escort Simon in a pathetic attempt to intimidate him. 

Everything about Bert’s obsession with anything Coil Futuristics-related felt so deeply petty.

This toybox is as garish as always, Simon thought as he walked inside an ornate entrance hall towards the upper floor. He had already visited it once in a previous reign and nearly died there from all the traps, but he had grown so much stronger since then that he didn’t feel frightened in the slightest. Like a killer returning to the crime scene.

The men guided him into a wood-paneled office on the first floor. This one was nowhere near as gaudy as Diamante’s, with rows of cabinets full of paperwork along the northern wall and an oil painting of the Crafter’s Tower facing the window. Bert welcomed him in his human disguise, all smiles and reeking of the Dark. Such was his confidence when welcoming an outsider into his lair that he didn’t even bother using a body double.

Of course, the woman sitting nearby may have something to do with that.

“Greetings, Mr. Belias,” a viper said with a cold smile that didn’t reach her ears. She kept a purse that no doubt held Lotan’s grimoire within arm’s reach. “I am Elsa Nightingale. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” 

She was actually truthful in this case. The Silk half of the duo had come to observe this discussion rather than the Velvet one. Simon wondered if the latter had taken a day off to torture people, or if this scheme was meant to throw Bert off. Her body language couldn’t betray any hint of her deceptiveness, since she wasn’t acting. 

“A pleasure shared,” Simon lied as he pretended to hear the subtle message. “The same goes for you, Mr. Bert.”

“Does it?” Bert smiled thinly. “Please, take a seat.”

Simon cast Heart’s Desire as he did so and peered into both of Silk and Bert’s minds. The former was the complete reverse of her sister’s desire, a monochrome yet highly detailed landscape showing her and Velvet living in lavish luxury, twin-queens of their own little empire. Simon found no deep-buried grudge nor even a hint of personal satisfaction; only cold-hearted greed tempered by emotionless rationality. Even her affection for her sister lacked the depth of Velvet’s own feelings, being more rooted in fear of her own demise and trust than any real care. 

Bert’s wish, however, was as chaotic as it was gruesome; a landscape of flayed and disemboweled humans floating on an ocean of blood that formed a macabre art picture. Bert watched it from on high in his true form, while an old man with whitening hair and a beard smiled with paternal pride before jumping into the bloody sea. His corpse fell into the gruesome mass to complete its design, and Ludwig Bert was at last satisfied. 

“H… elp…”

Mmm?

“Is something wrong?” Bert asked, his question causing Simon to return to reality.

“Nothing,” he lied. What was that? He had never heard a sound coming from a Heart’s Desire reading before, let alone a word. And that voice… it felt familiar. “I’m simply surprised you agreed to see me on such short notice.”

“I’ve actually had my eyes on you for a while, Simon Belias…” Bert’s smile stretched a bit further. “If that is indeed your true name.”

“Oh?” Simon returned his hypocritical smirk. “But it is. You only need to take a look at my immigration papers.”

“Which is what I did, and they were indeed perfect. Foolproof and bureaucratically perfect, the kind of documents only someone intimately familiar with our customs could write.” Bert folded his fingers. “I had Elsa dig things up in Magvolia, and she couldn’t find any hint that you ever existed outside of official records. We couldn’t find witnesses to your life, no living family, no acquaintance. You’re a legal ghost.” 

Of course Silk and Velvet would play a double game, propping up Coil Futuristics while assuaging Bert’s suspicions. How predictable. “What can I say? You should hire better investigators.”

“I take offense at that,” Silk quipped.

“A young man of mysterious origins and prodigious talent suddenly propping up a failing inventor out of nowhere… that’s too good of a story to be true.” Bert chuckled. “I think you’re a spy, probably from Endymion’s Imperial Intelligence, who seeks to access the Crafter’s Tower through Jym Coil.”

“Like you do?” Simon asked calmly. “Is this the moment where you suggest a partnership so we can achieve our mutual aims?”

“I’m sure we can scratch each other’s backs,” Bert replied smugly. “If not, I’ll have to ask you to kindly step out of my way. We are a long way from Endymion, and an anonymous accusation of spycraft will send you to either the closest jail or the gallows.”

Simon considered the proposal for a brief second, and then he chuckled.

Bert raised an eyebrow. “What’s so funny?”

“You know… sometimes I feel like I’m the only real person in the entire world,” Simon admitted, a slight pressure on his throat. “I try not to think that way since it always costs me, but the feeling comes and goes.” 

“What nonsense are you talking about?” Silk asked. 

“I feel like I’m watching a play I used to rehearse from the audience. I want to join the actors, and sometimes I move onto the stage wearing a mask… but I can’t get sucked into the role anymore. Part of me always feels apart,” Simon admitted, his cold gaze peering into Bert’s eyes. “Do you feel that way when you play the piano on your stage to your audience of corpses, puppet?”

First came the realization, and then the fear. Bert’s eyes widened slightly, though he wasn’t human enough for his false skin to pale. “What did you just say?”

“Do you feel that disconnection from humanity?” Simon stood up, his posture shifting from that of an unassuming assistant to the man he truly was. “Or does a part of you shiver, knowing deep down that you live in my world?”

They picked up on the body language hints that Voltobauta had noticed too a few months prior and rose from their seats, with Silk swiftly putting on her Rogue outfit. 

It didn’t matter. Simon blasted them both with Chaos Wave without warning, the telekinetic wave throwing them back against the walls with violent force alongside the desk and chairs. He then grabbed the two Weavers by their throats with Devil’s Arm before they could hit the ground. The guards opened the door to intervene, but Simon incinerated them with a glance. 

It would have been so easy to snap Silk’s and Bert’s necks with his enhanced strength, but their demise would give him no experience and little satisfaction. His Class fed on terror, not death. 

“It is becoming harder for me to care, but there is one thing that never changes.” Simon dropped his Fiendmask and revealed the shadowy outline of his Nightveiled Overlord armor underneath, like a demon shedding his human skin. “I will never stop hating you vermin.”

He activated his Brand of Pride and enslaved the two rats.

His will overwhelmed them both in the form of a smouldering dark cloud of malevolence, fueled by hatred and contempt refined through dozens of reigns. Silk was half a woman, a mangled spirit left bereft of emotions, and Bert was a tool given an ember of a soul; both of whom he had slain and proved his superiority to in the past. 

The battle was over before it even began. 

“You…” Despair and terror clouded Silk’s gaze. “The Ove—”

“Silence,” Simon ordered, Silk’s mouth forcing itself shut. “You will both kill yourselves should I die, and accept all of my brands.”

“N–yes!” Bert blurted against his will alongside his fellow Weaver, their true and false skins both burning with new Devil Brands. It suited them so well. 

“You bugs have interfered in my affairs long enough,” Simon said as he dropped them both on the floor. “You are now instruments of my will, and disobedience will spell your agony.”

“Neve—” Bert let out a wail as his Brand of Pride constrained him, his agony so great it left tears in his false skin. He struggled and resisted with all of his artificial will, yet in the end the pain broke him. 

“My power is fear itself, Bert.” Simon leaned on to better look down onto Bert and whisper words into his mind. “That terror coursing through your metal frame, that despair… Those are the strings of our partnership.”

A dagger surged out of Silk’s shadow and lunged at his throat. Velvet had stepped out of it like she did during their confrontation in Frightwall in a previous reign, but Simon was unconcerned. He absentmindedly backhanded her through the half-opened office doors and into the carousel-painted hall outside. She landed on the ashes of dead guards, no more a threat than a termite. 

“You don’t bear my brands,” Simon noted upon glancing at Velvet. “I wondered if they would transfer to you, since you share a soul with your twin.”

“This is all your fault!” Silk snapped at her sister in a moment of rare anger. “How could you miss this?!”

“We, we can salvage this!” Velvet replied as she jumped back to her feet, one dagger in each hand. “There has to be a way!”

“The Rogue can steal almost anything, even buffs, so your sister might be able to do the same with my Brands… but she can’t give them away, can you?” Simon taunted them. “She can only take.”

“There are alternatives,” Silk replied sharply as she grabbed her demonic grimoire out of her purse. 

“Like what, Lotan or Valravn? I have nothing to fear from an ill-behaved crab or Helel’s thrall.” Simon would never get tired of that look of shock. “Not that you would live long enough to try.”

He began to drain Silk through her brands, causing her to waste away in an instant. Her skin whitened more than chalk, much to Velvet’s horror. The so-called Prince of Spiders wriggled on the floor like a dying arachnid. 

“You know nothing about me, but I know everything about you.” Simon used Mindflayer through the Brand of Sloth on top of the rest, invading Silk’s thoughts with horrifying visions and causing her wail to echo through the room. “I am in your skull now, your spirit naked before my lidless gaze.”

“Stop!” Velvet shouted, fear and concern for her sister—or her own life, since they would perish together—overtaking her. She dropped her weapons and raised her hands in the air. “I surrender!”

“Good.” Simon stopped draining Silk, walking over to her sister, and then pressed his finger onto Velvet’s forehead. “This is a kinder fate than any of you deserves.”

Her whining noise of submission as the brands bound her soul soothed Simon’s soul. He knew the Overlord archetype fed on the misery of others, but he did derive satisfaction from tormenting these nuisances. A part of him enjoyed punishing sinners. 

Mayhaps that was the path he had to follow to master the Overlord Class: to reward good with kindness, and evil with cruelty. 

“I’ll be taking that now.” Simon grabbed Lotan’s grimoire, retook his human appearance, and took Bert’s seat. The chair felt incredibly comfortable. “Strip off your false skin, puppet, and stand in line with the rest.”

They obeyed in silence, with Bert leaving his skin mantle on a nearby chair to reveal his puppet body and Velvet helping her weakened sister stand. All three glared at him in united hatred. Former rivals had found a common kinship in shared humiliation. 

They would get used to it. 

“Don’t look so forlorn; I’ll let you carry on as you did before.” Simon waved his hand and caused the brands to turn invisible. Valravn shouldn’t suspect a thing. “Except you will not reveal my identity to anybody, and you will stay out of my way from now on.” 

“All this time… you were here all along…” Silk hissed, though she was still too weak to stand without her sister’s help. “The other in Telluria… a decoy?” 

“Why?” Bert clenched his fists in rage and humiliation. “Why pick him to enter the tower?”

His tone was too full of loathing for mere professional rivalry. “Why do you dislike Jym Coil so much?” Simon was genuinely curious. “It’s not just about that legal battle, is it? Are you… jealous of him?” 

Bert used every ounce of willpower to avoid answering the question, and failed utterly. “Yes…” he admitted, his voice dripping with bitterness. “I… envy him… his golden child…”

“Golden child?” Simon squinted. “Of whom?”

“My creator, Carlo of Muse…” Simon could almost taste the venom in the name. “The Crafter.”

“Jym Coil is his son?” Now that took Simon by surprise. “I thought he came here from Bujan.” 

“He is a liar!” Bert snapped angrily. “I saw him in the tower, that fleshy wonderchild! Always tinkering and shaming me with his inventions! I would have spilled his blood all over the workshop if I hadn’t been cast aside along with the trash!”

That… that made some amount of sense. If Jym Coil was indeed the Crafter’s estranged son, then it might explain both his certainty that the Class couldn’t invent anything new and his mysterious past. Muse would also have a major interest in obscuring any ties between them to prevent a hostage or blackmail situation.

However, that didn’t explain why they let Bert bully Coil for so long. Simon didn’t think Jym was the kind of person to lie about his past either, and he had toyed with the idea of being an automaton himself. Did he even know who he was?

Something felt amiss with this whole setup.  

“So if I understand correctly, the Crafter built you?” Simon asked Bert.

“He carved my body and then cast me out!” Bert snapped in his fury. “Called me defective, moaned that I couldn’t create anything useful! What was I supposed to do? I was created with miasma, bereft of a soul! I was born to kill!”

“But you do have one now.”

“Lord Valravn provided it for me. He raised me from the garbage and granted me true life. Miasma and mana working together in perfection.” Bert looked at his clawed hands. “My unworthy creator is out of my reach for now, so I have to make do with his golden child. I was so close to driving him to despair before you showed up.”

“Is that why you torment Coil? Because you need to feel superior and better than him in daddy’s eyes?” Simon sneered in contempt. “Pathetic.” 

“You human s—” Bert’s Brand of Pride restrained him before he could lunge at his new master. “I swear… the moment I slip this leash off my neck…”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard it before,” Simon replied dismissively. “You will cease your campaign against Jym Coil and recall your puppet inventors here.”

“My… puppet inventors?” Bert’s anger turned to confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m speaking of these.” Simon summoned pictures of the hidden automatons from his Inventory and showed them to the enslaved Weavers. “Your plot to replace all of the Planetary Exposition’s candidates with automatons.”

A wall of silence answered his declaration. Bert snatched the pictures out of his hand and studied them with a feverish obsession, flipping through them at a quick pace. 

“You didn’t know?” Simon asked the sisters, their ominous expressions an answer in itself. “But your organization plans to infiltrate the Crafter’s Tower through a subverted apprentice!”

“Of course we do,” Silk replied hatefully. “Why do you think we developed the Bert Trading Company in the first place?”

“I introduced you to Diamante to hedge our bets and ensure Valravn wouldn’t have exclusive access,” Velvet admitted with a dark scowl. “Bert didn’t inform us about this plot.”

“Because they’re not mine!” Bert snapped angrily. 

Simon thought he had misheard for a second. What? 

“You didn’t build them?” That didn’t make any sense. “Then whom?”

“My creator, who else?!” Bert tore apart the pictures in his impotent rage. “That old, crusty bastard has replaced me!” 

Simon sank in his chair as he put two and two together as to why the Crafter created living puppets capable of impersonating other people in the first place. The self-destruct system in the false automatons reminded him so much of the Golden Champion’s one because it was the exact same design. 

Bert was the faulty prototype, and those things were the finished product.

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