…Shougo had come to know the grim fortress well from the inside and had earned a fair amount of influence among its inhabitants. But one problem remained: none of Svartulf’s servants knew exactly where within the stronghold Alvstein was kept. That secret, Svartulf guarded from all.

Shougo decided to lure Svartulf here himself and make him reveal the truth. The Dark Lord rarely visited the fortress — he could not bear to be near Alvstein’s light for long. And so, Shougo fed Svartulf’s servants a lie: that he had tortured the elf’s name from him. If Svartulf learned just who had stumbled into his grasp, he would surely come in person.

And come he did, the moment he was told. For he could not resist laying eyes on the grandson of the elven king he so despised — the one who had once possessed Alvstein before him.

But Svartulf knew all his servants by face, for he had twisted each of them into darkness with his own hands. And the moment he set eyes on Shougo, he saw him for what he was: an intruder. No one else in this fortress would have ever entertained the thought that a human might conspire with an elven prince — but Svartulf still remembered the days of his youth, when men and elves had not been enemies. And he suspected, at once, that this stranger had not come with good intentions for the master of this stronghold.

So Svartulf commanded that Shougo be brought before him.

But they did not call him Silver-Tongue for nothing.

Drawing upon every ounce of his skill, Shougo wove his words into a lifeline. He swore to Svartulf that he was no enemy. He told the truth — at least in part. He spoke of how his own people had nearly executed him, how he had pleaded for the barest scrap of mercy and bought himself a final chance to prove his worth here. He hated humans, he said, for they had cast him out.

And he offered Svartulf his service…

Until Makisima saw Svartulf with his own eyes, he had entertained the thought that perhaps the Dark Lord, too, was a prisoner of his own story, undeserving of the fate prescribed to him.

(Not that it mattered — Makisima didn’t see any other way out of this wretched book. Someone had to die. Either them, or the Dark Lord.)

But when they met, all thoughts of pity and understanding were gone in an instant.

The Dark Lord was no towering monster.

At first glance, he was an ordinary man. (Makisima recalled that the story claimed Svartulf was half-elven, but nothing in his features betrayed it.) Not handsome, not young. His eyes were cold and utterly indifferent, as if nothing in the world could stir them. His speech was measured and even. He did not deign to anger, nor even to scorn.

In short, Svartulf the Cruel was eerily similar to a high-ranking crime boss or a seasoned politician.

Perhaps, in this, the story had bent slightly to accommodate Makisima’s own mind. A caricatured, horned, or fanged brute in a black cape wouldn’t have unsettled him in the least.

But this man — who could, with a few quiet words, send a thousand to their deaths without hesitation — suddenly struck him as truly terrifying.

Or rather, it wasn’t Svartulf himself who was terrifying, but the sheer, crushing helplessness in the face of fate.

It was a new sensation for Makisima, and the moment he got the faintest taste of it, he wanted to spit it out.

In Psycho-Pass, he had been the smartest, the strongest, the most untouchable of all people (well — except for one person, the one-he’d-rather-not-think-about). He had never feared anyone or anything. He had lived on the edge, fully convinced, deep down, that nothing truly bad could ever happen to him.

And now?

Now he felt weak. Afraid. Exposed. Prey.

No matter which word he chose, it made him sick to his stomach.

The worst part was that the Dark Lord turned out not to be an idiot. Silver-Tongued or not, Makisima had always thought highly of his own powers of persuasion. But Svartulf simply listened, raising a skeptical brow, smirking now and then...

And still, Makisima thought he had convinced him. He thought Svartulf believed he wasn’t an enemy.

Until he said:

"Your sword. Let me see it."

He didn’t wait for permission. He merely moved his fingers — and in the blink of an eye, the sword was in his hands.

Oh. Magic.

(Well, that wasn’t exactly the word Makisima used in his mind, but the meaning was about the same.)

He had completely forgotten about Prince El’s sword, had carried it with him this whole time. The scabbard was plain, and no one in the fortress had paid much attention to the elegant hilt and guard. When Svartulf summoned him, he hadn’t even been disarmed — no one had considered it necessary. Svartulf was confident the man wouldn’t try anything, not with guards in the room.

And even if he did throw self-preservation to the wind and lunge at him... the Dark Lord’s magic would likely protect him.

"Elven craftsmanship," Svartulf mused, turning the sword over in his hands. "How did a weapon like this end up in the hands of a man like you?"

"I took it from Prince El," Makisima said smoothly. "Or rather, he gave it to me. He trusted me. Thought of me as a friend."

Honesty is the best lie, after all.

Svartulf smiled faintly. "See the hole in the pommel? Do you know what it’s for?"

Makisima cursed himself.

He should have put two and two together long ago.

It was true that he had never seen Alvstein before, had no idea what size it was. But still — he should have guessed.

A legendary magic stone. An elven sword meant to be wielded against the Dark Lord.

What use was all his genre-savviness if he never actually used it?

"For Alvstein?" he said dully.

Svartulf nodded, still smiling.

"Without it, the sword is nothing but a scrap of metal. Can you believe it? The elves forged this weapon specifically to destroy me. Pathetic creatures. Not a single soul among you had the spine to face me with an ordinary blade. No, you all needed your heaven-blessed miracles..." He curled his lip in disdain. "Did you really think, you insignificant little gnats, that you could steal Alvstein from me and end my life with this sword?"

"You are mistaken, my lord," Makisima said. "I would never raise this sword against you. I..."

A brilliant argument — at least, it seemed brilliant to him — suddenly came to mind.

"Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t," he said. "My hands aren’t pure enough. I’m a hardened criminal, my lord. Alvstein would burn me with its light."

"Do you expect me to believe the prince would entrust such a thing to a common brigand?" Svartulf scoffed. "El must have trusted you like a brother to give it away so easily. Enough talk, Silver-Tongue."

The Dark Lord raised his gloved hand. He didn’t touch Makisima — but it hardly mattered. An invisible force clamped around his throat, strong as an iron vice.

"Wait—!" Makisima choked out, and for once, his terror was not an act. He had only seconds left to live. "You can test me. You can see for yourself if I’m lying."

Oh, how he hated saying that.

"If I’m a friend to the elves, the light of Alvstein won’t burn me."

"Are you truly willing to sacrifice your hand just to prove your loyalty to me?" Svartulf mused.

"Better to lose a hand than my life, wouldn’t you agree?"

Svartulf regarded him with something that almost resembled amusement.

"You know, Shougo Silver-Tongue, I think this is a trick. I think you’re hoping Alvstein will help you defeat me. But I’m curious — what will a clever man like you do when he realizes that even in the noblest hands, the stone is just a stone? Aside from its little gift of eternal youth, of course."

He smiled.

"Very well. I will show you Alvstein."

…And just like that, Shougo had tricked Svartulf into revealing his greatest secret — the location of the legendary stone.

Svartulf led him through the fortress himself, through winding corridors and locked doors, into a hidden chamber where a small ornate box rested upon a pedestal…

"Take it out of the box and bring it to me," Svartulf ordered, leaning casually on the elven sword.

For the briefest moment, Makisima almost believed the stone wouldn’t hurt him.

What if — despite everything — Alvstein blazed to life in his hands? What if its divine light flooded these halls, banishing the darkness and wiping Svartulf the Cruel from the face of the earth?

After all, his psycho-pass had always been pure white.

But no.

This ridiculous fantasy relic turned out to be a far truer mirror of his soul than Sybil System’s advanced technology.

The pain was hellish.

Makisima screamed, unable to stop himself.

Some stubborn, spiteful part of him refused to drop the stone immediately. He wanted to endure at least a few seconds — to see — even as he watched, from what felt like a terrible distance, his own hand blister and blacken, smoke curling from his burning flesh. As his skin peeled back, shriveling like the casing of a boiling sausage, exposing muscle, then bone.

The stench of charred meat filled the air.