The official's mansion was exactly what Jake expected.
High stone walls reinforced with decorative sigils that hadn't seen real combat in decades. Iron gates polished to a shine meant to intimidate commoners, not threats. Guards positioned more for ceremony than defense, their armor expensive but worn loosely, their posture relaxed.
This place had never been tested.
Jake stood before the gate and took it all in—not with anger, not with hunger, but with clarity. This wasn't a battlefield. It was a stage.
He did not sneak in.
He walked forward and placed a hand on the gate.
It opened.
Not because it was forced, but because the world around it decided resistance was unnecessary.
The guards stiffened.
Not fear. Not yet.
Confusion.
They looked at one another, brows furrowed, hands hovering uncertainly near weapons that suddenly felt ornamental. There was no killing intent in the air. No pressure. No visible threat.
Just a man walking like he belonged.
"I need to speak to your employer," Jake said calmly.
The words carried—not magically, but decisively.
One of the guards scoffed. "You lost, boy?"
Another laughed. "Turn around before—"
The ground beneath them shifted.
Not violently.
Not destructively.
It settled.
Stone remembered its weight. Gravity reasserted itself with quiet authority. Nothing cracked, nothing broke—but every guard suddenly understood, on a visceral level, that the earth itself was not on their side.
The laughter died.
Jake walked past them.
None tried to stop him.
Inside, the mansion was louder than the courtyard—voices, servants, music drifting through halls layered in excess. Jake passed through locked doors that clicked open a heartbeat before his hand touched them. Not forced. Not broken.
Suggested.
By the time he reached the inner chamber, the official was already standing.
Pale.
Sweating.
"You—do you know who I am?" the man demanded, voice sharp but brittle.
"Yes," Jake said. "That's why I'm here."
He didn't advance.
He didn't threaten.
He reached into his coat and placed a stack of documents on the table between them.
Records. Financial trails. Names. Dates. Witness statements compiled not through coercion, but inevitability. Every lie documented. Every secret traced to its source.
The official stared.
"You can't use this," he said weakly. "You don't have the authority."
Jake met his eyes. "Authority is a story people agree to believe."
The man swallowed.
"I'm not here to kill you," Jake continued. "I'm not here to punish you."
The official's breath hitched. Hope flickered.
"I'm here to end you," Jake finished calmly. "As a problem."
Jake leaned forward slightly—not looming, not pressing—just enough to make his presence undeniable.
"You will confess," he said. "Publicly. Voluntarily. You will return what you stole, name those you protected, and accept whatever sentence follows."
"And if I don't?" the official whispered.
Jake straightened.
"Then you'll live," he said. "Comfortably. Safely."
The man blinked. "That's it?"
Jake shook his head. "Every lie you tell after today will unravel. Every deal will fail. Every ally will distance themselves without knowing why. You'll watch your influence rot while you breathe."
The official's knees buckled.
By morning, the city awoke to confession.
Names were spoken. Records released. Chains of corruption snapped quietly, efficiently, without spectacle. No bodies lined the streets. No screams echoed through halls.
Just consequence.
Jake stood on a rooftop as the sun rose, watching people gather below—not in panic, but in stunned disbelief.
No blood had been spilled.
And for the first time since his death, Jake felt something unfamiliar settle in his chest.
Control.
Somewhere far away, unseen but attentive, something watched.
And learned.