Only a single day had passed since my match with Mr. Schwarz, a single day since that spectacle in which the press had tried to provoke me. Yet in that short span of time, so much had already unfolded.
Rachel Gartner — the so-called "queen of the press," whose name only yesterday echoed in every publication — was cast down from her throne. She was dismissed, her beauty could not save her, nor her popularity, nor the loyal crowds of readers. The queen had lost her crown. So swiftly. So easily.
Sanctions were imposed against the press itself. Journalists, long accustomed to acting as both judges and executioners, suddenly found their mouths sealed. Their empire of words was cut down at the root — all for the provocation they had staged. But here lies the irony: all the blame was shifted onto me. Angelo Nobell.
The truth? I had not so much as lifted a finger to bring this about. They dug their own grave, demolished their own bastions — and the rubble fell upon me. In every headline, in every whispered slander, in every poisoned breath of my enemies, only one name now resounded. Mine.
And what do I say to that? It plays to my advantage. Let them hate. Let them fear. Let them see in me a demon who burns everything in his path. The harder they try to tarnish me, the taller my shadow grows.
And this morning, a new "sensation" spread like wildfire. The newspapers, like a flock of starving crows, descended upon carrion of their own making. "Angelo Nobell — a misogynist." "The Emperor who despises women." "A chess genius devoid of a human face."
I laughed. Loudly and sincerely. For all of it was nothing more than a pitiful attempt to resurrect their crumbling empire of words. They clutched at a phrase, at my cold tone, at a glance — and forged it into a weapon. Truth mattered little to them. All that mattered was to strike, to brand, to leave a scar.
"He cannot deal with women." That is what they wrote of me. Amusing. When they saw me as a hero, they called me Emperor with admiration. But now, when I crushed their queen, they seek weakness where none exists.
I did not defend myself. Never. Justification is the refuge of the weak. I only smirked, watching as the world once again wove a new myth around me. Let them believe I am a misogynist. Let them brand me a monster. I allow them to paint my portrait with the darkest shades. The darker the image — the brighter my crown shines.
I had not touched their downfall. Yet everything around already screamed: "This is the work of Angelo Nobell."
And perhaps… they are right.
A meeting awaits me — with a very interesting person:)