OLD-WORLD EXTRA

491  Upon Who The Blade Falls II

***

Three suspects. One traitor. A direct approach wouldn't work—the mole was too careful.

By the time they would get to him, he'd likely already have committed suicide.

They needed to find out who he was before he knew that he was caught.

So instead, Emir planned to set up a trap and wait for one of them to slip.

In no more than ten seconds, he had already returned to the tenth floor, reaching his office, where Amon was waiting.

"Did you get what we need?"

He handed him a small note with the three names written down. Emir sat on his office chair, then looked at his terminal, mentally commanding it to display their profiles.

"As I expected, we've got more than one. We'll be going ahead with plan A."

Amon looked over those names multiple times and then looked back at Emir.

"So we feed them false information?"

Emir nodded.

"The mole knows we're searching for them; making that public wouldn't hurt. What we'll do next is simple: each suspect gets a different version of the plan to find themselves, something that only they know. Whoever leaks it to Templar will reveal themselves as the soon-to-be dead bastard."

Amon raised a brow, genuinely impressed.

"You're a puppeteer alright~. And sure, each message will be delivered privately."

"Good."

Emir sent him a list.

"The details are unnecessary; the outcome is the same. One involves a delivery route for a weapon stockpile, the other is about getting the rats out, burying them in the wasteland, and the last is a surprise ambush of a convoy affiliated to a gang under Templar."

Amon nodded slowly and closed his eyes for a moment, studying each version in detail.

"Not bad... These are pretty believable. Nothing that would raise suspicion at least."

"Yeah, they get the job done. And by the way, give the rats to ------- -------."

"By nine am. We need to have this ready before your 'woe is me' speech tomorrow."

Chuckling, Amon stood up from his chair.

"Then let's catch the bastard."

...

The hour they had been waiting for came, and the tension was through the roof.

But honestly? Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary.

Well… except for one little detail.

The holy grail of any student's life had just dropped:

Classes were canceled.

Not just for today—no, the whole week was a free pass.

That was the second big announcement from the Academy.

The first? Just the usual corporate fluff.

"We take full responsibility," "deepest condolences," blah blah blah. Classic damage control.

Yet that seemed to only fan the flames.

Sector 11-A was on fire, every news channel reporting on the harrowing event, each with their own take and spin, making up theories before the death count could be even confirmed or announced.

Funerals had yet to take place, and that was likely something Amon would announce in his speech later on.

In any case, the principal wasn't currently thinking about that.

He was more interested in finding the mole than quelling the mortal masses.

Amon had funneled the plan through a chain of trusted team leaders, each link passing it down until it hit the boots on the ground.

At that point, each suspect was led to believe that they were getting direct intel from the principal himself. Exclusive info—just for them.

And believe they did. Emir's plan had succeeded, hook, line, and sinker.

Now, all they had to do was wait.

Once word reached the Templar proxies and their gangs, it would confirm which suspect was the mole. ...

For the next few hours, Amon's men kept careful watch over the sector.

His information network tracked every piece of gossip, every message that traveled through both the Academy's hidden channels and beyond.

Meanwhile, each suspect acted naturally and went about their daily routine.

Nothing the least bit unusual showed on the surface.

But then, at the eleventh hour—just before midnight—a rumor had finally surfaced.

One of the small gangs operating in the bunker had received word about Templar soldiers being carted off to the wastelands to be dumped in mass graves.

The exact details hadn't trickled down to the gang's dregs yet, but it was enough to make them stir—a spark to light the fuse. n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Once that information reached Amon, he quickly sent it to Emir and called him up on the terminal: [That confirms it, doesn't it?]

[...Yeah, no doubt about it.]

The principal nodded, a small smile playing on his lips.

[Now, what's next?]

Emir, still in his office, glanced at Lyra, who was cultivating in the training room.

"We keep up the illusion for now... When the time comes, the blade will fall. And it'll fall on him."

...

...

...

The Rite—a hall spanning half of the second and first floors, typically reserved for student interviews—had been transformed into an assembly hall.

Key professors stood atop their own pillars with no lights illuminating their platforms.

The only light in the room focused on the central pillar, where Amon stood, commanding attention.

Everything looked pretty much the same as the last time the students had seen it, but this time, there was one major difference.

Amon didn't reveal his true appearance.

Instead, he masqueraded as an old man, playing the part of a frail mortal burdened by time.

The place was packed, reporters, cameras, and drones stationed across the perimeter, each angle capturing his presence at the podium.

Now was the time for his address, and every eye was on him.

Behind him, the towering hologram display carried the Academy's insignia, and above it was a new phrase. {We'll Never Forget.}

It was written in black, reflecting the somber mood that was today.

The Academy had been shaken to its core by the major disaster, and he had to reassure them... remind them... instill into them, that the Academy was far from weak.

"Today..."

Amon cleared his throat, his voice almost fatherly.

"We stand here together, not only to mourn but to recognize the bravery of those who gave their lives for the Academy. For every student, every friend, every family that has lost someone dear, we owe a debt that we cannot repay in words alone... I know that personally."

He paused, allowing his words to sink in, while his gaze swept across the seated rows, where all the Academy staff, and many students, sat in heavy silence.

"To those families who will forever feel this loss, I extend my deepest condolences. But just know... Know that their courage, their dedication, their bravery, will be remembered."

Amon put his dominant hand on his second heart and looked up at the ceiling.

"I Vow to you now. We will not allow this tragedy to be repeated. We will take every necessary step to safeguard our halls, our future, and our unity."

He moved that same hand forward, sweeping it across the crowd until it settled on a group of Academy staff near the back.

"And the first step is to eliminate the traitors within our fold."

Soft, nearly inaudible murmurs from the crowd stilled instantly.

It was clear—things were about to get real serious.

The moment Amon's hand lowered back to a resting position, a sudden flash blinded everyone in the audience.

"There is one among us, who, by their actions, has sold their honor, endangered, and ended the lives of many others."

As the crowd opened their eyes back up, the first thing they saw was Emir roughly handling a gruff-looking man, shoving him forward with each step. The mole tried to bite and swallow his tongue multiple times, desperate for a quick exit, but it was all for naught. Emir had stuffed his mouth with a wad of tissue, breaking a few teeth in the process and ending any chance he had of suicide.

When he realized that, it quickly dawned on him—his last option, one he hadn't even considered before had become his only choice.

The problem? His brain would die, but his body would stay alive.

He'd end up a living corpse, stuck on a deathbed, with the Academy free to do whatever they wanted with him.

It was a nightmare for human rights, sure, but that kind of thing never stopped anyone.

But, unlucky for him, even that, he couldn't pull off.

There was no "kill switch" to press. Before he could even entertain the thought, the Academy's Netweavers were already on him, ten steps ahead.

They had wormed their way into his neural network, seized control, and locked his Icon down in a cage designed for rats, shutting him down completely.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Rite was silent.

Everyone there could do nothing but watch as Emir dragged the man forward while he struggled uselessly in his grip.

Amon was the same, though his eyes contained a lot more satisfaction. It was what he wanted, a fitting reminder to all who might consider similar treachery.

Then suddenly, with another blinding flash, Emir appeared above, next to Amon, shoving the man's head down, presenting it to the blade.

"I do not take this lightly." Amon stated, glancing briefly at the man beside him before turning his gaze back to the crowd.

"Let this be a message to all... This betrayal is more than just a crime—it is an attack against me, against the very foundation of the Academy." He paused, fixing the crowd with an unblinking stare, or rather it was the cameras he was looking at.

"Templar's recognition matters not. Any who harbor ill will or deception within these walls will meet the same end."

A man stepped close to Amon's left, presenting a ceremonial sword with both hands.

He took it off him and slowly unsheathed it.

Shwing...

The crowd held its breath.

Amon lifted the blade high, the light above him catching its edge, and then, with a casual swing, brought it down.

Swish!

The mole's head fell, a loud thud echoing through the hall as it hit the podium's ground. Amon gave back the sword and took one last look at the gathered crowd before stepping back from their view.

"We'll never forget."

The moment his cold and final words resounded.

A near-silent moment where the Academy claimed its victory, sending a clear and chilling message... "Bravo."

Emir clapped his hands.

Behind him, a floating shadow of death could be seen doing the same.