Ezio read The Prince the way starving men read menus.
Not for comfort.
For truth.
The paper smelled expensive—old ink, fine leather, a faint trace of dry incense. Rosa had ordered him to keep it on his person at all times, as if the book were a dagger and the world was a throat waiting for it.
He'd tried to read it the first night like a normal student.
He failed.
The words were simple, almost plain, yet each sentence pushed against something soft inside him until he felt stripped raw.
It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.
Ezio had stared at that line until dawn.
Because once, years ago, he had begged to be loved.
And it had not saved him.
Now the book asked a different question—one he hated because it felt too honest:
If love fails… what remains?
Lucifer had whispered from the mirror of his mind, voice lazy with amusement."Kiddo, welcome to adulthood. It's just disappointment with better vocabulary."
Ezio didn't answer.
He just kept reading.
And somewhere between the lines, his Machiavelli Seed—still unstable, still new—began to behave like an organ that learned to breathe.
Not power.
Not yet.
But structure.
The next morning, the estate gates opened for him without a word.
Servants moved through the halls like shadows that had learned manners. No one stared. No one greeted him. They did not acknowledge nobodies. They acknowledged function.
Ezio walked past a gallery of maps that looked like art until you noticed the details: grain routes marked with tiny black sigils, rivers annotated with toll numbers, a dozen cities circled in red ink like wounds.
A tutor's voice floated from an open chamber.
"Raise salt prices by two percent."
Another voice: "That causes riots."
The tutor's response was calm.
"Correct. Riots justify emergency taxes. Emergency taxes weaken merchants. We then buy their debt."
Ezio's steps slowed.
This wasn't cultivation.
This was… administration of suffering.
Lucifer's laughter was soft."Kiddo, these people don't swing swords. They swing hunger."
Then Ezio reached the door.
The room beyond was colder than the halls.
Not temperature.
Intent.
It smelled of ink, cold tea, and the kind of paper that came from trees that had never known poverty.
At the center sat the Machiavelli Board.
Not a board.
A world.
It filled the room like an altar. A table of black stone and pale crystal carved into continents and provinces, trade lanes etched in silver, rivers flowing with faint blue qi. City-nodes pulsed like hearts. Sects hovered above territories as drifting sigils—some bright, some flickering, some swollen with dangerous stability.
Ezio's breath caught.
He recognized names.
Not from textbooks.
From the Velvet Pavilion. From rumors. From the Shadow Exchange.
This wasn't a simulation.
It was live.
Real values.
Real routes.
Real people.
Ezio felt his Ledger ring tighten like a noose around his Illusion Seed.
His Machiavelli Seed pulsed, and in the pulse he tasted a thousand futures—cities starving, wars starting, lovers betraying, merchants collapsing.
His knees almost weakened.
Rosa stood at the far side of the world-table, hands folded behind her back as she watched students make moves.
They weren't laughing.
They weren't even excited.
They spoke in quiet voices, like priests reciting prayers.
A young man in black robes murmured: "Acquire the debt of Eastport's mills."
A woman replied: "Do it through a third party. Eastport mistrusts direct purchase."
Another added: "Plant an epidemic rumor first. It will lower the price."
Ezio's throat tightened.
A rumor about sickness…
That meant panic.
Panic meant hoarding.
Hoarding meant starvation for the poor.
Starvation meant riots.
Riots meant soldiers.
Soldiers meant contracts.
Contracts meant profit.
Ezio realized he was thinking like them already.
That terrified him more than their words.
Lucifer whispered, pleased."Kiddo's learning. Look at you—little monster in training."
Rosa finally turned her gaze on Ezio.
"You're here," she said, as if he were a tool arriving on schedule.
Ezio forced himself to walk forward.
The board's surface reflected his face faintly, warped by the glowing trade lines. He looked pale. Hungry. Awake in the wrong way.
Rosa gestured to an empty seat.
"Sit."
Ezio sat.
The chair was comfortable, which made it worse. Comfortable places made cruelty easier.
Rosa placed The Prince beside his hand without looking.
"Read me a law," she said.
Ezio blinked. "A… law?"
Rosa's eyes were calm and merciless. "From the book. Choose a line that matters."
Ezio's fingers touched the cover. He opened to the page he'd marked with a thread of black silk.
His voice came out quiet.
"Men should either be treated generously or destroyed, because they can avenge small injuries, but not great ones."
Rosa nodded. "Good. Now apply it."
Ezio's stomach tightened. "Apply it… to what?"
Rosa pointed to a glowing province on the board.
A city-node pulsed amber.
"Grayhaven," she said. "A mid-tier trade city. It produces textiles, imports grain, and sits under the protection of a minor sect that believes itself untouchable."
Ezio remembered the name.
Grayhaven's merchants came to the Pavilion. Grayhaven's nobles drank expensive wine and spoke like the world owed them softness.
Rosa's voice was precise.
"Grayhaven's governor is about to pass a tariff on foreign silk. It will cripple three neighboring towns. Those towns will respond with piracy. Piracy will cause the river guild to raise tolls. The tolls will anger the sect. The sect will threaten the governor."
Rosa looked at Ezio.
"The situation is unstable. I want you to stabilize it."
Ezio exhaled slowly.
"That sounds… reasonable."
Rosa's lips curved faintly.
"Stabilize it," she repeated, "for us."
Then she slid a thin crystal token across the table.
"Your budget. Small. You are a nobody, and nobodies don't get large budgets."
Ezio touched the token. It was warm, pulsing with stored capital—real money encoded in qi.
A live account.
He swallowed hard.
Rosa leaned closer.
"There are three ways to rule a city," she murmured. "Fear. Love. Or debt."
Lucifer whispered, delighted."Pick debt, kiddo. It's love that never stops paying."
Ezio forced his mind to stay disciplined.
He looked at Grayhaven.
Beneath the city-node, sublayers unfolded—market sectors, warehouses, debt pools, sect influence, guard loyalty, rumor susceptibility. Tiny indicators pulsed: drought pressure, migrant unrest, black market activity.
He felt sick.
This was too much power for a student.
Rosa's voice cut in softly.
"Don't moralize yet. Moralizing is what poor people do when they can't change anything."
Ezio clenched his jaw. "And what do rich people do?"
Rosa's eyes didn't blink.
"They adjust reality."
Ezio began with The Prince.
Not by reading.
By thinking in its shape.
If Grayhaven's governor passed the tariff, the city would profit short term while neighbors starved. Neighbors would retaliate. Conflict would spread. It would become messy.
Messy meant volatility.
Volatility meant profit—if you were positioned correctly.
But Rosa said "stabilize."
Which meant: make the city obedient to Machiavelli.
Not peaceful.
Obedient.
Ezio's mind sorted options.
He could:
bribe the governor
buy the guard captain
blackmail the merchant council
sabotage the vote
collapse the tariff's profit potential
redirect anger outward
The Prince whispered in his memory:
The ruler must appear virtuous while doing what is necessary.
Ezio understood the hidden lesson:
Don't look like you attacked.
Make the city blame itself.
He chose his first move.
Not arson.
Not assassins.
Something smaller.
More elegant.
He purchased a thin "whisper contract."
A rumor network.
He didn't just "spread a rumor."
He bought a mouth.
The board responded immediately: small dots lit up in Grayhaven—street vendors, tavern owners, temple assistants, dock workers, night-watchers. People who carried stories faster than any courier.
Rosa watched, expression unreadable.
Ezio selected the rumor carefully.
Not "grain shortage." Too obvious.
Not "plague." Too fast.
He chose:
"The governor's tariff is a trap. Foreign buyers will abandon Grayhaven. Merchants should move assets now."
A rumor designed to do two things:
scare merchants
shift capital out of the tariff plan
Within moments, Grayhaven's merchant confidence dipped.
Not collapse.
Just wobble.
Ezio felt it in his Machiavelli Seed—like a small thrill, a tiny alignment click.
Lucifer whispered."Kiddo just nudged a city with a sentence."
Rosa's voice was quiet.
"Why this rumor?"
Ezio answered honestly.
"It makes the merchants fight the governor for us," he said. "And it doesn't hurt the poor yet."
Rosa's eyes flicked to him.
"Yet," she repeated, as if tasting the word.
Ezio forced himself to continue.
Second move: Debt.
He opened the city's debt pool. Grayhaven's textile guild owed money to a minor bank—one that was quietly connected to Machiavelli.
Ezio purchased a portion of that debt anonymously.
Not enough to own the guild.
Enough to influence it.
Then he issued a gentle pressure: delayed repayment demanded.
The guild panicked.
They began selling stockpiles cheaper to raise cash.
Prices dipped.
Outside buyers smelled blood and offered predatory contracts.
Ezio watched the board ripple.
He felt it—real merchants sweating, real workers getting paid late.
His stomach tightened.
Lucifer murmured."That's it, kiddo. You're learning how to choke people politely."
Rosa didn't interrupt.
She let him sit in the consequences.
Then she said softly, "Continue."
Ezio needed a third move. One that didn't require violence yet. But would corner the governor.
He turned back to The Prince in his memory:
If you must injure a man, do it so he cannot retaliate.
The governor's tariff had to die… and the governor had to survive, but weakened.
So Ezio attacked the tariff without touching the governor.
He targeted the tariff's future profits.
He used his budget to buy river toll futures—contracts on shipping costs.
Then he hired a small network of "accidental disruptions."
Not arson. Not murder.
Just: a collapsed bridge support. A broken ferry chain. A minor barge crash.
Suddenly, shipping costs rose.
Tariff profit projections fell.
Merchant council confidence plummeted.
On the board, the governor-node flickered.
Rosa's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You're creating inconvenience," she said. "Not suffering."
Ezio's throat tightened. "Isn't that enough?"
Rosa's smile was thin.
"Inconvenience breeds complaints," she said. "Suffering breeds obedience."
Ezio felt something cold run through him.
He had been careful.
He had been humane.
And it meant nothing.
Rosa tapped the board lightly with one finger.
A new layer rose—Black Market Options.
Assassins.
Arsonists.
Saboteurs.
Poisoners.
"Choose one," Rosa said, voice calm. "Smallest cost. Largest effect."
Ezio's hands went slightly numb.
Lucifer whispered with cruel delight."Do it, kiddo. Stop pretending you're not hungry."
Ezio stared at the options.
He wanted to refuse.
But refusing meant what?
Going back to being powerless?
Begging love again?
Dying quietly in the gutter of someone else's story?
He remembered The Prince again:
The end justifies the means.
Ezio's jaw clenched.
He chose arson.
Not of homes.
Not of people.
Of grain.
A controlled burn of a warehouse outside Grayhaven—owned by a merchant who supported the tariff.
He paid for it through two intermediaries and a "festival accident" cover story.
On the board, flames bloomed—a small red blossom.
Grain reserves dipped.
Prices spiked.
Panic rose.
And then—
Something terrible happened.
Not a dramatic explosion.
A cascade.
Poor districts began to riot.
Guard loyalty wavered.
A priest's influence rose as people prayed.
A sect envoy was sent in "to stabilize."
And the governor's node dimmed as his authority cracked.
Ezio's mouth went dry.
He felt it in his Machiavelli Seed.
A sharp pulse.
Not pleasure.
Not exactly guilt either.
More like… the terrible clarity of competence.
He had done it.
He had harmed a real city from a table.
Rosa watched him, eyes calm.
"What did you learn?" she asked.
Ezio's voice came out hoarse.
"That… violence doesn't have to be a blade."
Rosa nodded. "Good."
Ezio swallowed hard. "People will starve."
Rosa's voice was soft, almost gentle.
"Some will," she said. "And because of that, the governor will abandon the tariff."
Ezio stared at her.
"You're making me choose cruelty," he said.
Rosa finally looked at him fully.
"No," she replied. "I'm showing you that cruelty is already chosen by the world. I'm teaching you to decide where it lands."
Ezio's stomach twisted.
Lucifer whispered, almost affectionate."Kiddo's first real move. I'm proud."
Ezio felt sick.
Rosa slid a second slate toward him.
"Now," she said, "profit from it."
Ezio stared at the slate.
Short Grayhaven's textile index.
Buy river toll futures early.
Acquire the governor's debt.
Purchase discounted textile guild shares as they collapse.
This was the part that made his skin crawl.
Destroy… then harvest.
His hands trembled.
He did it anyway.
Small positions.
Careful.
Not greed—control.
The board adjusted.
Numbers climbed.
On the edge of the board, a small indicator flashed:
GRAYHAVEN TARIFF PROPOSAL: DELAYED.
A message from the governor's council.
They would "reconsider."
They had been obedient.
Ezio exhaled shakily.
Rosa's voice was calm.
"Congratulations," she said. "You stabilized it."
Ezio stared at her.
"That's stabilization?"
Rosa's eyes were cold and precise.
"Stability," she said, "is when the right people stop moving."
When the session ended, Ezio left the room like a man exiting a confession booth.
His body felt heavy, but his mind felt sharper, colder—like a knife being honed against stone.
In the corridor outside, he stopped and pulled The Prince from his bag. His fingers opened the book to a page that seemed to find him.
The injuries should be inflicted all at once… benefits should be granted little by little.
Ezio's throat tightened.
Rosa had inflicted the lesson all at once.
Now she would grant benefits little by little.
He understood her method now.
He hated it.
And that hatred was part of the training.
Lucifer's voice drifted lazily."Kiddo, you just learned the world's real martial art. It's called starving someone politely."
Ezio closed the book.
Night fell.
The Velvet Pavilion welcomed him with warmth like a lie told sweetly.
Lanterns glowed. Music pulsed. Laughter rose.
Kayra was behind the bar when he arrived, gray eyes lifting the moment she saw him.
She studied him in silence.
"You look different," she said softly.
Ezio forced a small smile. "Long day."
Kayra leaned closer, voice low enough that only he could hear.
"Cold places change people," she murmured. "Did you do something you can't undo?"
Ezio's fingers tightened around a glass.
He could charm her.
He could lie.
He could seduce away the question.
Instead, he chose a smaller truth—one that wouldn't break her trust, but wouldn't stain her with the details.
"I learned how people get hurt without anyone touching them," he said quietly.
Kayra's ears twitched. Her eyes softened, but worry lived behind them.
"And?" she asked.
Ezio looked into her gray eyes, saw warmth, saw human fear.
He heard Machiavelli's voice like a blade in his mind.
Better to be feared than loved…
Ezio swallowed.
"I came back," he said, almost quietly. "That's what matters right now."
Kayra held his gaze for a long heartbeat, then nodded once—slow, as if accepting something she didn't like.
"Eat," she muttered, pushing a small plate toward him. "You can't become whatever you're becoming on an empty stomach."
Ezio's throat tightened unexpectedly.
He ate.
He poured drinks.
He listened to secrets.
And under the lanternlight, the Shadow Exchange moved like a living beast beneath the party.
By day, he had touched a city and made it bleed.
By night, he served warmth with clean hands.
Ezio understood the truth now:
Power didn't arrive as lightning.
It arrived as a schedule.
A book.
A board.
A thousand small choices that slowly trained you to stop flinching.
And somewhere in the world, Grayhaven burned quietly—an unseen fire that had started because a nobody at a table had decided it would.