Chapter Two – Legacy and Lies
The hallway fell silent after the American's final cries vanished into the distance, carried off by two stone-faced guards. No one dared speak.
Michael stood near the corridor entrance, arms folded, his expression unreadable. Nero, arms still tense, stood beside him — the fire in his eyes refusing to dim.
"You shouldn't have interfered," Michael said calmly, not turning his head. "It wasn't your place."
Nero scoffed. "So we let him insult our family and just smile through it?"
Michael finally looked at him. "He wasn't our problem. Not yet. Your reaction made it one."
Nero's jaw clenched. He tried to hide it, but the bitterness spilled out.
"Of course. You're the golden heir. Whatever you say is gospel. The rest of us are just shadows in your spotlight."
Michael didn't respond. He didn't have to.
Nero shook his head and stormed off down the hallway. "One day," he muttered under his breath, "you won't be the one giving the orders."
Michael watched him disappear around the corner.
From behind, a voice spoke up with forced lightness.
"Well, that went well," Ray said, arms folded as he leaned casually against a nearby pillar. Leo stood beside him, silent and thoughtful, fingers drumming against his pocket.
"He's getting worse," Leo said. "The way he's been talking lately…"
Michael nodded. "Keep an eye on him. Both of you. I don't want him doing something reckless."
Ray raised an eyebrow. "Should we put a leash on him?"
Michael didn't smile. "Just watch. Nothing more."
They started walking toward the common wing of the estate, casual now that the tension had diffused. Ray kept up his usual chatter.
"I swear he almost punched that Latin teacher last week. Said the guy was giving him 'traitor eyes'. What the hell does that even mean?"
Michael sighed. "It means he's paranoid."
Leo added, "And insecure."
Ray snorted. "Man needs therapy."
Leo glanced sideways. "In this family, therapy comes in the form of silencers and alibis."
They shared a short, dry laugh before the lunch bell rang through the halls — a sharp metallic chime that echoed across the estate-turned-academy.
---
Later – History Class
The class had already begun by the time Michael stepped in.
He entered quietly, slipping through the back door, his steps measured. He didn't bother to apologize — he never needed to. Not here. But Mr. James, a history teacher in his 30s wearing a brownish coat and glasses, didn't even glance up.
James was the only teacher who didn't flinch at the name Visalla. He treated Michael like any other student. Sometimes, worse.
"…and so Otto von Bismarck orchestrated a series of wars — with Denmark, Austria, then France — to unify the German states," James was saying, pointer resting on the large map pinned to the board. "He was a master manipulator, ruthless in ambition. A man some historians call—pure evil."
Michael raised his hand.
James didn't look surprised. "Yes, Visalla?"
"I disagree," Michael said, voice calm but clear. "Bismarck wasn't evil. He unified a fragmented land. Gave them a strong welfare system. Stability. Strength."
A few students turned to look at him, surprised he dared to challenge the lecture. James nodded, amused.
"And that justifies war, bloodshed, and deception?"
Michael replied, "Small evils often mask the greatness beneath. People love to point at blood and forget the peace that followed."
James folded his arms. "And what makes you say that?"
Michael's gaze didn't waver. "Because people always choose to remember your sins, not your service. You could build a nation — but they'll still remember the one lie you told."
The room fell silent.
Michael added, "Maybe… to create something good, Bismarck had to be willing to do bad things."
The bell rang — perfect timing. Chairs screeched as students gathered their bags and shuffled out. James looked directly at Michael.
"Visalla. My office."
---
Mr. James's Office
The office was small. Wooden shelves stacked with old books, portraits of historical figures on every wall. No security cameras. Just books, silence, and judgment.
James closed the door behind them.
"Michael," he said softly, "you said something dangerous today."
Michael sat down.
James continued, "You're not just speaking history. You're speaking… justification. For what you're doing. What your family's doing."
Michael didn't answer.
James walked around the desk slowly. "We all know the Visallas. We know what they've done. The world might smile in fear, but we know the blood, the corruption, the control. There's no legacy there. Only shadows."
Still, Michael said nothing.
James sat down across from him. "You've always been bright. From the time you were a child, I admired your mind. You're a genius, Michael. Sharp. Analytical. You could do anything — science, law, philosophy. You could help the world."
Michael looked up slowly.
James leaned in. "Leave all this. Leave the succession, the politics. You're still young. Go to the U.S., study in one of the best universities. You'll thrive there. There's a future waiting — one that doesn't end in a bullet."
Michael stood up but didn't leave yet. He stared at the door for a moment, then turned and sat back down.
"You know why I'm here, sir," he said quietly. "You know what I've seen. What I've lost. So why are you asking me to stop?"
James looked at him, eyes heavy.
"Because I have to," he said. "Because I don't want to see your name etched into a tombstone. Not like the rest of them."
Michael stood again.
He opened the office door, hand resting on the knob. For a moment, he paused — the hallway light spilling into the dark room.
He didn't turn around.
"Maybe this is my fate," he said.
And then he closed the door.
---