CHAPTER 71: THE MEETING [3]

And Alaric’s voice echoed again.

Measured. Sovereign. Unhurried.

"And... before any of you get the wrong idea about what I mean by ’chaos’—"

A brief pause.

"I’m not talking about opening dungeon gates in the capital," he said, almost scoffing. "Crude. Loud. Destructive. That kind of chaos would only harm us in the long run."

His tone sharpened.

"No. What I meant... is infighting."

The word struck like a blade dipped in venom.

"We’ll turn the greedy, influence-addicted nobles against one another," Alaric continued. "We’ll leak their deepest, darkest secrets... and frame their enemies to take the fall."

Silence fell again.

Then his voice returned—quiet, deliberate.

"One drop at a time. We’ll ignite suspicion, jealousy, and ambition... and watch as the court fractures from within."

A breath.

"A slow, festering chaos... that spreads through the Vermora Kingdom until the entire structure buckles."

"And then," he said, voice darkening slightly, "we’ll give the people what they want."

His presence pulsed beyond the curtain like thunder wrapped in velvet.

"We’ll create a movement. A visible resistance. Let the people see the corruption firsthand. Let them suffer it. Let them ache for justice."

He didn’t need to raise his voice. The weight of the words did all the work.

"And from that ache, they will rise. They will call for change. Their voices will form the rebel front."

Caldrith and the others began to understand.

Alaric continued.

"But the rebellion will not win."

A beat.

"They will be stopped—by another faction."

His voice turned colder, more calculating.

"By you."

Caldrith blinked.

Then realization struck.

It wasn’t a contradiction. It was a play. A long game. A carefully constructed illusion of justice and war—where every actor was already scripted, every line already rehearsed.

Confusion turned to awe.

Alaric resumed.

"This will create friction. And that’s exactly what we want."

"Auralyne’s rise to the throne must be resisted—publicly, painfully, convincingly. It must look like she never wanted it. Like she fought against it."

Alaric’s tone took on a strange softness—like a mentor speaking of a student’s path.

"She will refuse the throne. At first."

"Because she didn’t fight for power. She fought to protect her homeland from collapse. That’s how it must appear—pure, reluctant, sacrificial."

"Only then—when the court is in shambles and the people cry for a savior—will the noble factions who stand with us step forward."

"They will demand that she take the crown."

"They will present her not as a conqueror... but as the only one worthy of leading Velmora through the storm."

"And that," Alaric said, "is when the throne will truly belong to her."

The weight of destiny pressed on every soul present.

"Even if the Empire suspects," he added, "they won’t be able to do anything."

"Because this won’t be our will. It will be the people’s."

He chuckled—soft, dry, amused.

"And what can be done when the people demand something?"

Another silence followed.

Then came his final words—cold, calculated, and irrefutably true:

"We will merely play the humble role...

of servants to democracy."

*****

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

✶ I Reincarnated as an Extra ✶

✧ in a Reverse Harem World ✧

⊱ Eternal_Void_ ⊰

✢═─༻༺═✢═─༻༺═✢

*****

They let it sink in.

The silence that followed was long and heavy—not uncomfortable, but dense with thought.

Both Auralyne and Caldrith said nothing.

They sat still, absorbing every word.

Replaying the layers. Dissecting the weight of what they had just heard.

The brilliance of it. The inevitability.

Finally, it was Auralyne who broke the silence.

Her voice was soft. But steady.

"...But Master," she said, "what about my situation?"

Her amethyst eyes lifted—searching.

"Many people know... that I was offered to you. Sold into your service. Will they not raise suspicion? Will they not tie your name to all of this?"

Alaric chuckled.

It was faint, but rich. The sound of someone who had long since predicted this.

"I was waiting for that question," he said. "Good. That means you were truly listening. And more importantly—understanding."

Then his voice grew steady again.

"Let me elaborate."

He spoke as though weaving a tapestry—each thread deliberate.

"Let’s imagine, for a moment, that the kingdom falls. You ascend to the throne. One minute passes. One hour. One day."

A pause.

"Has anyone ever seen me do anything?"

"Anything at all?"

He let the question hang.

Caldrith and Auralyne exchanged glances, then both shook their heads.

"No," Auralyne said quietly.

"No," Caldrith echoed.

Alaric continued.

"Did the people ever know my name? When I appeared to you—was it with parades and banners?"

"They call me a phantom," he said. "An illusion. A wraith of light. Not a man."

"Orlin and Galadriel both said the word ’Illumination,’ didn’t they?"

Again, both nodded.

"Did either of them truly know who I am?"

"No," Caldrith admitted. "Not even close."

Alaric’s tone deepened—like the calm beneath a roaring tide.

"Then how would they ever trace anything back to me?"

"They can speculate, yes. Whisper, certainly. But without proof? Without even a name? What then?"

He smiled, though they couldn’t see it.

"Let’s flip the story," he said. "Let’s say I’m just a mischievous stranger who appeared at the edge of a crumbling kingdom."

"Then the kingdom falls. And you—you, Auralyne—rise."

"What will they think?"

Auralyne slowly responded, "They’ll believe... that you orchestrated it."

"Exactly," Alaric replied, pleased. "They’ll believe I manipulated everything from the shadows. That I was behind it all."

"But then," he said, voice rich with poised irony, "you, the one at the center of it... the one who was supposedly ’given’ to me—you deny it. You claim I did nothing. That I merely helped you fulfill your fate. And nothing more."

His tone dropped to a whisper.

"And that’s all it will take."

"They won’t be able to prove otherwise. They won’t be able to act. And most importantly—they won’t want to."

He leaned back into the depths of his throne.

"People don’t want the truth," he said. "They want a reason. A reason to explain the fall. A reason to sleep at night."

"And that will be their reason."

"They’ll mold it. Share it. Whisper it in taverns and halls. And slowly, that whisper will become silence. Accepted. Digested. Filed away."

"And if someone tries to speak up?" He let the question hang again.

"Nothing will happen."

"Because the story will already be finished."

The silence that followed felt different than before.

This time, it was reverence.

Auralyne looked down at her hands—her thoughts spiraling, not with doubt, but with awe.

She prided herself on her intellect. On her ability to plan, adapt, manipulate when needed.

But in front of this, her pride felt fragile. Childlike.

She was a strategist.

But he was the architect of inevitability.

In her heart, she felt the sharp realization—not of fear, but of reverent humility.

She was a toddler trying to match blades with a sovereign god.

And Caldrith?

He remained silent, eyes lowered in full submission, no longer out of loyalty—but from sheer, unquestionable respect.

-To Be Continued